From: condorboy

To: yikes!izzy

Date: Sunday, September 25—5:35 PM

Subject: Re: dust

Dear Isabel,

It surprises me that you believe in heaven. You always struck me as the non-believing type. But I guess I should stop being surprised every time you do something surprising, since that seems to be the norm more than anything else. Like this sudden wave of nostalgia. Do I detect a tone of sentimentality? I will never figure you out.

So, I took your advice. I asked Emily out. I regretted it almost immediately. She started freaking out about how she’s had a crush on me since freshman year, and she has the perfect idea of what we should do on our first date, like she’s been planning it for the past three years, and I can plan our second date, and then she can plan our third date, and isn’t that just the perfect plan?, and I have the sneaking suspicion she’s already planned our wedding and named our babies.

I was hoping I was wrong about her, but I don’t think I am. At first glance, she seems like someone who might be interesting. But you look a little closer and realize she’s concocted her outfit based on what she can find at the Hot Topic in the Kitsap Mall and what she sees in music videos. And the stuff that comes out of her mouth is like a commercial on that radio station you have programmed in your car but never listen to, the one that calls itself “alternative” but never plays anything but the same ten horrible songs and the occasional Nirvana classic. The entire evening consisted of her saying “Do you like ______? I totally like ______.” Then I would give her a blank look and she’d say, “Yeah, you’re right, it’s totally stupid.” I would try to tune her out and just focus on her lips, and then I’d realize I was objectifying her and my mom’s voice would come in loud and clear: “Connor, why are you leading this poor girl on?”

Emily took me to this little hidden beach by her house that has a great view of Seattle, and I have to admit it was a pretty awesome spot. Except it was like fifty degrees and drizzling, and she was determined to have a picnic, but the baguette was soggy and the cheese was so hard we almost couldn’t cut it. She presented me with a pipe and said, “I have weed,” like I should be proud of her or something, but when I told her I don’t really like weed, she was like, “Yeah, me neither,” but I could tell she was disappointed, like that was supposed to be her ace in the hole, like she was counting on the weed to make the date a success, and because that didn’t work, she was out of ideas. And I just couldn’t handle that look on her face, the one where you can just tell she’s beating herself up inside, so I panicked—I didn’t know what to do, and what’s the best solution to hanging out with a girl you don’t like who likes you and is now feeling bad about herself? Kiss her, of course. What the hell is wrong with me?

And now I feel like a terrible person because even though I don’t really like her, even though I would be perfectly happy never talking to her again, I can separate that from the kissing, I can think of her as just lips that I want to keep kissing and a body that I want to keep touching. Why did I ever think I was any better than this? Because my mom thought she raised me to be something better? Well, obviously it didn’t work and I’m just an asshole like all the other men in the world.

At least I was sort of honest. After we kissed for a while, she sighed and whispered, “This is nice,” and it sort of made me cringe. So I did what you said and told her I’m not really looking for a relationship right now and is that okay with her, and she said, “Sure, fine, whatever you want,” but it felt like she was lying, almost like she was begging somehow, like really what she was saying was, “I’ll pretend to be okay with whatever you want because I don’t think I deserve any better.” And even though I knew that was the truth, I kissed her again, and I kept kissing her, and I didn’t stop her when she took her shirt off, and I didn’t stop her when she started taking my pants off. And even though it was freezing and raining, I let her get on top of me; I looked away when she pulled the condom out of her pocket. It was too easy to close my eyes and pretend she was someone else.

So what’s your great advice now, Isabel? What am I supposed to do when I know the girl is lying, when yes really means no? Is it my responsibility to decipher this code where words don’t really mean what they’re supposed to mean? What do I do now that I’ve had sex with this girl I don’t even like? Is it even possible for me to not hurt her?

I don’t believe you, Isabel. Maybe you’re right that there are some people who just want something physical, but I don’t think you’re one of them. You can pretend all you want that you’re a tough chick who would use a guy for his body, but I think really you’re a closet romantic, and something like this would hurt you really bad. You act like you’re invincible, but I know deep down you want someone to hold your hand and buy you flowers and look you in the eye and tell you you’re his soul mate. You want someone who will love every piece of you, even the pieces you can’t love yourself. You at least want Trevor to call you his girlfriend, right? You said it yourself. Maybe you say all these things because you’re trying to convince yourself you’re okay with the way things are between you and him. But really you’re not. Deep down, you know he’s not what you want. Deep down, you know you deserve better. What’s making you settle for him? Don’t you realize you could probably get any guy you wanted? Don’t you realize you’ve probably left a trail of guys wherever you’ve gone who are madly in love with you and would give you anything you want?

Connor