“No, it’s fine.”
“Okay, well...” She sighs and her disappointment is palpable. “Just a reminder about Micha’s dance. It’s in two weeks. Mark your calendar, okay?”
“Got it, Mom, wouldn’t miss it. Tell the kids I’ll see them tomorrow morning, okay?”
“Go to the infirmary if you don’t feel better.”
“I will.”
I won’t.
Pretty sure the infirmary doesn’t have a cure for massive regret.
“Love you.”
“Love you, too,” I say and hang up the phone. I drop it on the bedside table. My eyes fall on the box of condoms halfway out of the drawer, and then to the torn wrapper on the floor. I slam the drawer and snatch the wrapper up, tucking it deep into my trash bin.
Seriously, what have I done?
It’s not that I think he’ll tell anyone—god forbid. He’d probably slit his throat before he admitted to even being able to stand my presence, let alone sleeping with me. It’s just the fucking mind games.
That, and the fact that I lost my virginity to a complete douchebag. My ‘precious womanly flower’ has never been worth much to me. I don’t necessarily subscribe to some puritan concept of anyone’s first time needing to be perfectly planned with the love of their life. But not getting dicked down by the guy who’s spent the last six months making me miserable would have been a nice start to the sexually active era of my life.
Hamilton can have sex with any girl at this school. Most, if not all, would be more than willing. Reagan alone can probably satisfy his urges. But he keeps coming back for me, over and over, and now things have gone absolutely too far. That was an act that couldn’t b
e undone. He doesn’t like me, and I don’t like him.
So, what is this?
That’s the part that keeps hanging me up.
Even though I’m not sick, I do feel feverish. Lethargic. Fragile. Doomed to an eternity of shame. All the usual side effects of regret, I guess. I do what I always do when I need to clear my mind.
I head to the pool.
There are open hours on the weekend, so after leaving my belongings in the captain’s office, I dive into the water and let the monotony of swimming laps ease my spinning mind.
As usual, exercising helps. The dull ache in my belly grows less obtrusive as my arms and legs begin to burn from the exertion. I get into the rhythm of the stroke, gaining confidence with each push off the wall. I know who I am, what I’m good at, and what I want to do.
I’m not just some dumb girl who lost her virginity to the school asshole. That was never my destiny. And denying my own agency in this isn’t useful, isn’t fair, and isn’t me.
I admit it.
I wanted it.
Is that so bad?
The truth is that I can handle my side of this. But what about his? What does Hamilton really want? Every move he makes is about power and control. But he had power over me long before we started getting hot and heavy. So how does this factor in? What is his endgame?
I climb out of the pool, trailing rivulets of water behind me, and enter the office. If Hamilton wanted control last night, then I’m not sure he succeeded. He looked pretty out of it when he came inside of me. And he didn’t look particularly happy with himself when he fled.
I promise myself while showering to just let it go. Forget about it. We can do that, right? Forget this ever happened?
That resolve comes crashing down when I walk out of the tiny bathroom and see him sitting at the desk, broad shoulders hunched over the calendar. He glances back, eyes always assessing, then resumes his work.
“What are you doing here?” he asks, shifting uncomfortably. “I thought you went home on Sundays.”
How does he know that?