She fills up my glass, then fixes me with her wide brown eyes. “One thing. Just don’t kiss him.”
I give a nervous half laugh. “Um, okay … I didn’t—”
“He’s got this thing,” she says. “He can make you come just by kissing you.”
I shift again and cross my legs. It’s not the champagne this time.
“So,” says Cleo, leaning back again, the intense moment past, “what about you?”
I look down at my glass. “Nothing very exciting. There was this one guy—my ex.”
I trail off, a hot, tense feeling gathering in my chest. I swallow.
Cleo leans closer with her chin on her hand. “Yeah?” she says softly.
There’s a lump in my throat, but I push the words out. “He was kind of a dick when we broke up.”
She puts her hand on mine and smiles sympathetically. Her skin feels impossibly smooth, and her nails are perfectly manicured. “Let it out,” she says. “You’ll feel better.”
I look at her. I find it really hard to say any of this stuff. Even Gabi has to coax it out of me. But for some reason, maybe because Cleo’s a stranger and doesn’t know Kieran, I feel the words forming, ready to leave my mouth.
I start talking. I tell her everything. The stuff that only Gabi knows. While I do, the champagne flows. There’s something else as well: I have this weird urge to impress Cleo and be taken into her confidence. She has this intense way of looking at you, of making you feel like you’re the only person she’s interested in. Even though I know she probably does it to everyone, it still works. I know she’s running the show, confidently drawing out words and feelings I haven’t spoken about in forever, and casually revealing intimate details about herself to make it seem like a conversation. And every time she does, I get this thrill.
“So, that guy. Not good. But what do you think about when you masturbate?”
I choke on nothing, which she probably doesn’t find particularly normal. It makes my eyes water.
“Don’t tell me you haven’t. How do you know what you like if you’ve never done it to yourself, or imagined it?”
“No, I mean, yeah, I have, but …” I swallow and try to will my face not to turn bright red.
She fixes me with a knowing look. “Do it more. And better. Spend time on it. Use things. Not just a thirty-second fumble and you’re done.”
This is possibly the weirdest pep talk I’ve ever had. But the excitement of talking about something I never talk about, despite Gabi’s best efforts, is burning in my chest. “O-okay.” I laugh, holding up my empty glass. “I promise.”
She laughs. “Good.”
I try to focus on the clock on the wall. It’s a quarter past midnight. “I’m getting picked up soon.” I look back at Cleo and the room lurches.
She shakes her head. “No, I don’t think so.” She grabs my phone out of my bag. “What’s your stepdad’s name—Johnny?”
“Jeff. Wait, what are you doing?”
“
Jeff … am … staying … over …,
” she says as she types.
“No!” I try to snatch the phone back.
She wriggles out of my way and bats at my hand. I sway on the stool, and the room spins a bit. I reach my hand out to steady myself and accidentally put it in the ice bucket. “
No need for lift …
”
I go for the phone again, but she puts her hand on my face and pushes me back, finishing the text with the other hand. “
Thanks!
And, send.”
“He’s going to be so pissed off,” I say, but I can’t helplaughing. Sure enough, the reply comes through. He’s been waiting up; this is inconsiderate, etc. The letters are going a little blurry. Cleo bites her lip in mock worry. “Sorry.”
I get a wave of confidence (or it could be nausea) and toss the phone aside. “Whatever. He should know that lots of other people—even other teachers—don’t go to bed at nine on a Saturday.”
Cleo laughs, encouraging me to keep going with the random crap that’s falling out of my mouth.
“He’s a geek and a
I give a nervous half laugh. “Um, okay … I didn’t—”
“He’s got this thing,” she says. “He can make you come just by kissing you.”
I shift again and cross my legs. It’s not the champagne this time.
“So,” says Cleo, leaning back again, the intense moment past, “what about you?”
I look down at my glass. “Nothing very exciting. There was this one guy—my ex.”
I trail off, a hot, tense feeling gathering in my chest. I swallow.
Cleo leans closer with her chin on her hand. “Yeah?” she says softly.
There’s a lump in my throat, but I push the words out. “He was kind of a dick when we broke up.”
She puts her hand on mine and smiles sympathetically. Her skin feels impossibly smooth, and her nails are perfectly manicured. “Let it out,” she says. “You’ll feel better.”
I look at her. I find it really hard to say any of this stuff. Even Gabi has to coax it out of me. But for some reason, maybe because Cleo’s a stranger and doesn’t know Kieran, I feel the words forming, ready to leave my mouth.
I start talking. I tell her everything. The stuff that only Gabi knows. While I do, the champagne flows. There’s something else as well: I have this weird urge to impress Cleo and be taken into her confidence. She has this intense way of looking at you, of making you feel like you’re the only person she’s interested in. Even though I know she probably does it to everyone, it still works. I know she’s running the show, confidently drawing out words and feelings I haven’t spoken about in forever, and casually revealing intimate details about herself to make it seem like a conversation. And every time she does, I get this thrill.
“So, that guy. Not good. But what do you think about when you masturbate?”
I choke on nothing, which she probably doesn’t find particularly normal. It makes my eyes water.
“Don’t tell me you haven’t. How do you know what you like if you’ve never done it to yourself, or imagined it?”
“No, I mean, yeah, I have, but …” I swallow and try to will my face not to turn bright red.
She fixes me with a knowing look. “Do it more. And better. Spend time on it. Use things. Not just a thirty-second fumble and you’re done.”
This is possibly the weirdest pep talk I’ve ever had. But the excitement of talking about something I never talk about, despite Gabi’s best efforts, is burning in my chest. “O-okay.” I laugh, holding up my empty glass. “I promise.”
She laughs. “Good.”
I try to focus on the clock on the wall. It’s a quarter past midnight. “I’m getting picked up soon.” I look back at Cleo and the room lurches.
She shakes her head. “No, I don’t think so.” She grabs my phone out of my bag. “What’s your stepdad’s name—Johnny?”
“Jeff. Wait, what are you doing?”
“
Jeff … am … staying … over …,
” she says as she types.
“No!” I try to snatch the phone back.
She wriggles out of my way and bats at my hand. I sway on the stool, and the room spins a bit. I reach my hand out to steady myself and accidentally put it in the ice bucket. “
No need for lift …
”
I go for the phone again, but she puts her hand on my face and pushes me back, finishing the text with the other hand. “
Thanks!
And, send.”
“He’s going to be so pissed off,” I say, but I can’t helplaughing. Sure enough, the reply comes through. He’s been waiting up; this is inconsiderate, etc. The letters are going a little blurry. Cleo bites her lip in mock worry. “Sorry.”
I get a wave of confidence (or it could be nausea) and toss the phone aside. “Whatever. He should know that lots of other people—even other teachers—don’t go to bed at nine on a Saturday.”
Cleo laughs, encouraging me to keep going with the random crap that’s falling out of my mouth.
“He’s a geek and a
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