Page 132 of Summer and the City (The Carrie Diaries 2)

Miranda was right. This is terrible. Why didn’t I get this over with a long time ago? At least I’d know what to expect.

“Okay,” he murmurs. He lies on top of me. He wriggles around a bit. Then he wriggles some more.

“Has it happened?” I’m confused. Boy, Miranda wasn’t kidding. It really is nothing.

“No. I—” He breaks off. “Look. I’m going to need you to help me a little.”

Help him? What is he talking about? No one told me “help” was part of the program.

Why can’t he just do it?

And there we are, naked. Naked in our skins. But naked mostly in our emotions. I wasn’t prepared for this. The raw, unfortunate intimacy.

“Could you just—?” he asks.

“Sure,” I say.

I do my best, but it isn’t enough. Then he tries. Then it seems he’s finally ready. He gets on top of me. Okay, let’s go, buddy, I think. He makes a few thrusting motions. He puts his hand down there to help himself.

“Is it supposed to be like this?” I ask.

“What do you think?” he says.

“I don’t know.”

“What do you mean, you don’t know?”

“I’ve never done it before.”

“What!” He draws back in shock.

“Don’t be mad at me,” I plead, clinging to his leg as he leaps off the bed. “I never met the right guy before. There has to be a first time for everyone, right?”

“Not with me.” He darts around the room, snatching up my things.

“What are you doing?”

“You need to get dressed.”

“Why?”

He pulls at his hair. “Carrie, you cannot stay here. We cannot do this. I’m not that guy.”

“Why not?” I ask, my obstinance turning to panic.

“Because I’m not.” He stops, takes a breath, gets ahold of himself. “I’m an adult. And you’re a kid—”

“I’m not a kid. I’m eighteen.”

“I thought you were a sophomore in college.” More horror.

“Oops,” I say, trying to make a joke of it.

His jaw drops. “Are you insane?”

“No, I don’t think so. I mean, the last time I checked I seemed to be fairly normal—” Then I lose it. “It’s me, isn’t it? You don’t want me. That’s why you couldn’t do it. You couldn’t get it up. Because—” As soon as the words are out of my mouth, I realize this is just about the worst thing you can say to a guy. Ever. Because I can promise you, he’s none too happy about it himself.

“I can’t do this,” he wails, more to himself than to me. “I cannot do this. What am I doing? What’s happened to my life?”