Aftershock
A few weeks after Warren and I shocked our systems, I went home for Thanksgiving to face Kevin. I’d managed to see my mom several times already, but all of our visits had been on my turf. I just had too much going on at school to drop everything and come back to Scottsboro, even if it was only for one day. Or, at least, that’s what I made my mother think so that I wouldn’t be forced into facing Kevin any sooner than I absolutely had to. And she really didn’t mind making the trip downtown to spend time with me. My mother enjoyed our private girl-time in the city. But she often said it was a shame Kevin couldn’t make it. Mysteriously enough, he always had something to do, but like the true gentleman that he was, he always managed to send his best.
But seeing Kevin wasn’t the only scary thing about returning to Scottsboro. Like me, Warren would also be home for Thanksgiving break. And we’d had a falling out. We hadn’t spoken since the morning after we crossed the line. Of course, I was more afraid of losing him than of facing him. But what could I say about the way we’d left things? Was this it? Had it all come down to sex? Would sex be the one thing that was big enough to spell the end of us?
I knew something wasn’t right when I woke up that Sunday morning to find him in my desk chair, watching me with sadness in his eyes.
“What’s the matter?” I asked. Warren shrugged, attempting a smile. “Don’t you feel okay?”
“Do you remember what happened last night?”
“Of course I remember.”
“And?”
“And what?” I asked, using the blanket to cover myself as I sat up.
“And you’re not sorry?”
“Are you?”
Warren was quiet for a second. “I just thought this would feel better.”
“Oh.” I looked down at the bed.
“No, no, I didn’t mean it like that. It was great. You were great. You’re perfect, Stella. Last night was perfect. But this morning…” I glimpsed back up at him, wondering why he’d trailed off. “Do you wanna put something on so we could talk?” I looked at him strangely. Did it really matter? I was completely covered. “It would just be easier to talk about this if you were wearing clothes.”
“Fine. Do you wanna hand me that robe behind you?”
Warren turned around and grabbed the only robe in sight. “This one?”
“That’s the one.”
He got up and walked over to the bed, handing me the robe with a degree of apology that was downright hurtful—as if I were some kind of prostitute that just didn’t know enough to be ashamed. And wasn’t it just like Warren to feel bad for seeing me that way? Dirty, desecrated, his fallen angel naked on the bed the morning after, needing to cover her body.
“Thanks.” I waited for him to grant me some privacy, but he didn’t. “Are you gonna watch?”
“Stella…”
“Just turn around, Warren.”
As I dressed, I looked down at my chest, and lower, realizing everything Warren had seen, where he had touched me, what we had done. I remembered how we’d lain there afterward, in the wake of our heat, how I’d ached for somebody else. And now he wanted me covered. And still, as I tied the robe around my body, I remembered the incredible feeling of being together, the physical feeling, the one I hadn’t wanted to end. What was wrong with me?
You’re just a screwed-up whore who’s got everybody fooled but me. I suppose my stepfather had been right.
I cleared my throat loudly to signify that I was finished. Warren turned around and looked at me. Again, those apologetic eyes. “I just feel like we crossed the line,” he said.
I looked up at him incredulously. “That’s your big epiphany? We ‘crossed the line’?” Warren shrugged his shoulders and returned to his seat at my desk. “I don’t mean to make fun of you. I just don’t understand why you’re stating the obvious.”
“Because I feel like an asshole, that’s why.” The asshole and the whore, a match made in heaven.
“Why do you feel like an asshole?”
“I just don’t think you were ready for what we did.”
“Not ready? I was the one who—”
“I wasn’t talking about that kind of ready.”
“Well, what kind of ‘ready’ were you talking about, then? I wasn’t exactly a virgin before last night, Warren.”
“And you weren’t exactly experienced, either.”
“So, what are you saying? That you didn’t enjoy it?”
“I already told you I did.”
“So, what’s your problem?”
“Please don’t turn this into an argument, Stella.”
“Then, please don’t avoid my questions all day.”
“I just meant that sex is new for you.”
“Would you rather I’d already slept with a dozen guys before you?”
“No.” He looked at me sternly. “No.”
“So, what’s your point?”
“My point—if you’d let me make it—is that I don’t think you were ready for the kind of sex we had last night.”
“The kind of sex we had? Is there something I should know about here?”
Warren smiled. “You’re impossible.”
“I’m just curious, Warren. I mean, apparently, there was some different kind of sex going on here last night. And, silly me, I just thought we were two friends having a good time.”
“That’s the problem.”
“What is?”
“I just don’t think you’re ready for that.”
“Ready for what? Having a good time? Forgive me, but who are you to make rules when it comes to whom I sleep with?”
“I’m not making rules. I’m just telling you how I feel.”
“Like an asshole, I know. Because I wasn’t ready to have a good time.”
“Would you stop twisting everything, Stella?”
“Would you just say what you mean?”
“Fine.” He stood up and walked toward the bed. “I don’t want to fight, okay? It’s just that I know you and I know how you are about things, including sex. And I feel like… You said it yourself, Stella—‘two friends having a good time.’ I just don’t think you’re ready to handle that.”
“Handle what, Warren? Would you please friggin’ say what you mean? I’m not ready for what?”
“Sex—”
“I’ve had sex.”
“Sex with someone you’re not in love with!”
Well, there I had it. I was officially a bully. As Warren stood there staring at me, his chest pounding in the painful silence, I suddenly felt terrible. But then again, I suppose one of us had to acknowledge it sooner or later—the fact that what we’d done had meant something a lot different to him than it had to me. But it had meant something to me, too. He had to have known that.
“Warren…” I moved to hug him, but he quickly pulled away.
“Just forget it.”
“No. Because it did mean something to me. It did.”
“It’s not the same,” he said, turning to face the wall.
“You’re right.” I couldn’t lie to him. “But it doesn’t mean—”
“Look, just fuckin’ forget about it, okay?” he yelled, whirling around. “This isn’t about that!” He took a deep breath and seemed to calm down a little. “Believe me,” he said, “I learned to deal with our relationship a long time ago.”
“Then, what is this about?”
He took a few seconds to answer. When he did, he said, “Maturity.”
“Maturity?”
“I just think that what we did requires a certain level of maturity.”
“I don’t know if I follow.”
“See? That’s exactly what I’m saying.”
“Which is?”
“It takes a certain level of maturity to handle a one-night stand.”
“Really? I didn’t know it was such an advanced skill.”
“You know what I mean.”
“Honestly, I don’t think I do. I guess I’m not mature enough.”
“I didn’t say you were immature. I just think I let my own feelings get in the way last night. I should have looked out for you. I shouldn’t have let you do something you weren’t ready for.”
“God, would you stop treating me like I’m ten? I’m capable of making my own decisions, Warren. And I’m sorry I haven’t slept around as much as some of the other girls you’ve been with, but I’m not a nun. I’m ‘mature’ enough, as you put it, to handle a one-night stand, if that’s what you choose to call this.”
“Like you honestly planned to sleep with me again after last night.” I didn’t say anything. “I rest my case.”
“And which case is that, Warren? The case where I can’t make decisions for myself? Or the case you said you learned to deal with a long time ago?”
“Oh, throw that in my face. That’s very considerate of you, thanks.”
“Well, you’re the one who started it by being all sarcastic about whether I’d sleep with you again.”
“I’m the one who started it?” he mocked. “And you say you’re not immature.”
“It’s hard to be mature when we’re having such a childish argument.”
“Well, it seems our arguments are always childish, Stella. But then again, what else should I expect when, underneath everything, you’re still a little girl?”
That’s right. Just sit there trembling like a scared little girl.
“Do me a favor, Warren,” I said, “and get out.”
Warren left that day without saying another word. And in the weeks that followed, the silence had only grown thicker. He hadn’t even tried calling me once.
“You have to call him,” Emily said. “You’re the one with the upper hand.”
“How do you figure?” I asked her.
“Stella, when it comes to Warren, you always have the upper hand. Now, come on. How many times are you gonna break that poor boy’s heart?”
I didn’t want to break his heart. I didn’t want to be at odds. I hated the distance between us, but what could I do? I could do what I always did—avoid the hell out of the situation until it was right in front of me. I suppose I could’ve continued avoiding Warren straight through Thanksgiving break. Scottsboro may have been a tiny town, but it wasn’t that small. We didn’t necessarily have to see each other just because we were both home. But somewhere in the back of my mind, the holiday had been my deadline. Our fight was easier to bear that way, knowing that we always had Thanksgiving to work things out. After that, it really would have gone on too long, and I would’ve missed that one little window of opportunity I’d had to save us. But how could I save us?
I’d simply have to be honest and say what we both already knew—that if we wanted to stay friends, we really couldn’t ever have sex again. That it had been great while it was happening, but apparently neither of us could deal with the consequences. And if we could see past our morning-after fight, we’d realize that the experience still had brought us closer, that we were better off for having tested those waters because now we could go on as friends without always wondering what we were missing out on. And like Warren had once said, he would get over me. But I probably wouldn’t bring that last part up in my speech.
I’d just picked up the phone to call him when a knock sounded at my bedroom door. It was Kevin. I told him to come in and watched with anxious eyes as the doorknob made its final warning twist. And then we were in a room together, alone—for the first time since that night. Only Kevin didn’t look like Lucifer. He was just a man, the same man he had always been. I would just talk to him like nothing had ever happened—the same way I always had.
“Hey,” I greeted him from the bed, not getting up.
“Hi.” He took a few steps into the room, closing the door. My heart began to race, but I tried to keep calm. My mother was home. He’d never get away with hurting me now.
“Did you just get home from work?”
“Yeah. How about you? What time did your mom bring you back?”
“Isn’t she here?” I asked, trying to hide my panic. “Didn’t you talk to her when you came in?”
“She fell asleep on the couch. I didn’t want to wake her.”
“Oh. Doesn’t she feel all right?”
“I don’t know. I didn’t want to wake her, so I didn’t ask.”
“Oh, right,” I said, laughing lightly at my own stupidity. “Duh.” Kevin smiled and took a couple steps closer toward the bed.
“Have you lost weight?”
“A little.” The truth was that I’d already gained back about half of what I’d lost. Though it didn’t bother me a bit. It meant that Kevin no longer had a hold on how much I could eat and keep down. So, in a way, it gave me the feeling that he no longer had a hold on me.
“You look terrific.” Sure, he would think so.
“Thanks.”
“Stand up.”
“What? Why?”
“I want you to come here for a second.” He watched as I remained still, glued to the bed, eyeing him suspiciously. “Do you really think I would hurt you, Stella?” I didn’t answer. “Stella, please come here.”
I rose from the bed with unsteady legs and approached him with caution, shrinking back when he lifted his hands, but it was only to wipe his eyes. He stood there wiping his eyes for a while as I waited, and then, out of the blue, he threw his arms around me and proceeded to cry about the night that had never happened. He said he’d never meant to hurt me or my mother. He said he’d gotten carried away, that he’d been confused, that it would never happen again. He said it would kill my mother to ever know what we’d done. He said he’d been having trouble sleeping since that night and just really wanted to clear the air. He never once said that he was sorry.
But I didn’t feel sorry, either, at least not for him. This blubbering, terrified coward acting as if the entire thing were all an honest mistake that we’d made. I suppose I just wanted him gone, for the whole thing to really be over. I thought it was the one thing we truly did have in common—wanting that night to be over, wanting to get as far away from it as possible, to think of it only as some sort of sadistic dream. So I put my arms around him, reluctantly, but to show that I could move forward, that I was as willing as he was to let the whole thing live in the past.
“Everything’s going to be fine,” I said. “Let’s just forget about it.”
Kevin pulled me closer and I wanted to break away, but was afraid to spoil the moment, this one chance we had to put that dreadful memory behind us and be normal. Or as close to normal as we could possibly get by living in secrecy and shame.
But maybe it was all an act. Maybe men like Kevin aren’t capable of shame. Men who turn moments of reconciliation into field trips for their wandering hands. I jerked away as soon as I realized what he was up to. But of course, Kevin tried to make it seem like I imagined it.
“Relax,” he said calmly. “Like I said, I’m not gonna hurt you. I just came in to make sure we were okay.”
“We’re fine,” I said, trembling.
“I’m glad. I’ve been looking forward to seeing you. I just wanted to clear the air about what happened so we could enjoy Thanksgiving tomorrow. Let’s make a deal never to mention it again. Okay?”
“Okay. Listen, I’ve got a call I need to make, so…”
“Sure,” Kevin said, turning to go. “I guess I’ll just see you at dinner.” In the doorway, he paused to smile. “You know, I’m glad you were able to be an adult about this.” And with a satisfied nod, he closed the door.
I started dialing as soon as I was alone again. I knew that Warren and I still had some things to resolve, but suddenly they didn’t seem so huge anymore. I just wanted to hear his voice, to be with him—away from all of this. The rest we could work out later. That is, if he was willing to work things out at all. But this was Warren. He’d never really let our friendship go, no matter what came along to screw it up. Even if the screwing was literal.
“Hello?”
“Hey,” I said. “Do you have plans for tonight?”
“Aren’t we supposed to be on bad terms or something?”
“Or something.” There was silence on the other end of the phone. Was he going to bring up our argument, the fact that I’d thrown him out of my room, that I could have called sooner, that I’d been a total bitch?
“What time?” he asked finally. I smiled so hard it shocked my face.
“Well, what are you doing for dinner?”
“Dinner?”
“Yeah.”
“I’m going on a date.”
“Oh,” I said, trying not to sound disappointed. “With who?”
“With you…as friends.”
“Friends,” I echoed, liking the ring.
“The best.”
“Always.”
“So, friend, where the hell have you been hiding yourself?” he asked.
And that was how Warren and I got over the aftershock of our one night of passion and moved on with our young adult lives. As friends.
As for Kevin, he never tried anything funny after that “innocent” hug in my room and after a while, acting like nothing had ever happened became easy. In many ways, it really did seem as if the whole sweaty struggle on my bed had been nothing more than a vicious nightmare. That’s how far I’d forced the memory, into a dark and distant cave where nightmares never died, but weren’t close enough to fear. Though I did start having nightmares of another kind, dreams about car wrecks, plane crashes, or anything else that might kill me. Sometimes I dreamed of being held at knifepoint or gunpoint by a faceless aggressor. Sometimes I was strangled. And it didn’t matter that I never saw my assailant, the pilot, the driver of the other car. I guess I always knew who it was. And although I said their source was school stress, occasionally lending blame to violent TV images, I knew it was something more, that these dreams were merely an outlet for the terror I’d never released, for the secret that had burned its own little hole in my soul, for the part of me that wanted to die the night that Kevin attacked me, and for the part of me that wanted to kill. Violence, threats, suspicion and death wove their way through my dreams for more than a year, beginning after that strange embrace in my room and fading out just in time for me to enjoy the rest of college—and its limitless hookup possibilities—without being afraid of the dark.