Page 14

Chapter

Fourteen

I stretched out on Maddie's bed, trying not to take up too much space. She’d been kind enough to drive me home to pick up my toiletries, my violin, and my music so I wouldn’t have to go home until Sunday night.

"Are you a messy sleeper?" Maddie hopped in next to me, flicking off her lamp and pulling the covers over herself. Her sheets were soft cotton. Clean and crisp despite the fact that she didn’t know she’d be having company.

"Messy? I don't pee the bed, if that's what you're wondering."

Maddie laughed. "No. I mean, are the covers all messed up and twisted when you wake up?"

I shook my head. "Nope. It pretty much looks the same as when I went to bed, besides a body imprint on the mattress."

Maddie turned to face me, propping her head on her hand. She paused for a moment, then said, "I told you, you can stay here as long as you want."

"You offered before you even knew if I was going to kick you in the middle of the night."

She sighed. "That's true friendship right there." She dropped her head on the pillow. "Are you going to tell me what prompted this?"

I chewed on my lower lip. "I thought it would be a good weekend for a sleepover." I knew that wasn’t going to cut it, but any other explanation wouldn’t move from my brain to my lips. Oh, well, I’ve been wanting to touch Rob’s abs lately, so I thought it was time for a break.

Maddie raised an eyebrow. "Did something happen with Rob?"

I blew out a breath and tucked my hand behind my head. "No.” Yes. Absolutely, yes. “I don't know what's wrong with me. I think I'm just really missing Logan." I stared up at the ceiling, at the thin stripes of light pushing through the blinds on her window.

"Okay, let's break that down. Are you missing talking with Logan, being with Logan . . . or are you just missing sex with Logan?"

I laughed out loud. Had Maddie just asked that? Sex wasn’t a taboo topic in our trio, but it was typically Crystal who brought it up. "All of the above?" It was what I was supposed to say. Part of it was true. I did miss those things, but being without him was making me more and more aware that there may be a dark underbelly to each point that I didn't want to face.

Did I miss being with Logan, or did I miss him wanting to be with me? Did I miss talking with Logan, or did I miss him needing to talk with me? Did I miss sex with Logan, or did I miss the way he looked at me? The way he desired me? How sure he was that I would be the one to make him feel good?

My heart started to race, a pit opening up inside of me.

"How is sex with Logan?" Maddie's voice was softer, more tentative.

I turned to face her, even though I could barely see the outline of her curls in the dark. "What do you mean?"

She let out a breath. "Okay, I know we joke about sex all the time, but honestly, I don't get what all the fuss is about."

My ears perked up. Talking about Maddie’s sex life sounded like way more fun than anything swirling in my brain at the moment. "Tell me more."

Maddie gave a nervous laugh. "You know I dated that guy, Colin? Right before you and Logan got together?"

"Yeah, I remember.” How could I not remember? Maddie told us that he was her first. "You said it was great. I remember being a little bit jealous."

Maddie groaned. "It was not great. At least, not what I think ‘great’ is supposed to be." She rolled onto her back, dropping her hands next to her sides. "How are we even supposed to know what great is? I mean, I read a few articles in Cosmopolitan and all of those women sounded like they freaking loved it. That it was the best experience of their lives. They listed all those hot things their boyfriends like to do?—”

"Oh, yeah. I'm pretty sure we read the same article.”

“Well, that is not what Colin did."

I pushed up, propping myself on my arm. “Umm, what did he do?”

“Like—” she paused, searching for the words. “I don’t know, thirty seconds of thrusting?”

I groaned and fell back to the bed. “Yikes.”

“That’s not what it’s supposed to be, right?” Maddie sounded so hopeful it made my heart hurt.

“Definitely not.”

Maddie shifted to her side. "You don't have to tell me what Logan does if you don't want to. But I'm just wondering what I should say next time. How do you even bring that up? For me and Colin, there was, like, no talking. He just did his thing."

I snorted. "Yeah, that's pretty much how it was with Logan at first, too."

"Was?"

"I mean, we've talked about some things . . . not everything.” Maddie was being so open with me, but she wasn’t with Colin anymore. I didn’t want to say anything that would paint Logan in a bad light.

"Because you don't want to talk to him or because he doesn't want to hear it?" Maddie asked.

I ran a hand through my hair. "I'm pretty sure this one's on me. I feel too nervous."

"Yes, exactly. Like, what is he going to do if I tell him that's not what feels good?"

"Oh my gosh. Seriously.”

Maddie sat up, gesticulating with her hands. “He was, like, jamming his thumb down there. Like kneading bread dough or something. I felt like he was either tenderizing meat or doing an autopsy."

That made me laugh so hard, I got the hiccups.

Maddie continued. "At least I knew what an orgasm was supposed to sound like because of When Harry Met Sally, so I just did that."

I gasped for air. "You did that exactly like her?"

Maddie chortled. "I mean, as close as I could manage. I just wanted him to stop."

I wiped tears from my eyes. "Oh my gosh, Maddie. I'm so sorry. Logan has never been that bad." I clutched my stomach, dragging air into my lungs.

Maddie flopped back down to her pillow. "So you actually, you know . . . get there?"

I sighed. "I know how to get there. I don't necessarily get there with Logan.” The admission popped out of me. “Not because of him,” I amended. “I think that's a me problem."

"Why is it a ‘you’ problem? Isn’t it his job to figure it out?"

I pondered that a moment, wondering how much I wanted to share. "There are some things that happened when I was a kid, and now it's really hard for me to just relax."

Maddie let out a slow breath. It didn’t take her long to connect the dots. When a female friend says “some things that happened,” we all know what that means, even if we don’t have the details. "Oh, Sharla. I'm so sorry."

"No, it's fine.” It wasn’t fine. It was very not fine. “It was a long time ago. It's just I haven't quite figured that out yet, which is why I don't talk to Logan about it because I don't even know what I want or how my body should work. You know?"

We lay there in silence for a moment, thinking.

“I want to know what good sex is like,” Maddie said finally.

I didn’t answer because the words I wanted to say lodged in my throat. Maybe it happens when you can talk about anything. Logan and I were supposed to have that. But clearly, there were a lot of things I wasn’t saying.

“It’ll happen.” I reached out and rubbed her shoulder, then turned toward the wall and pretended to settle in for sleep.

_____

On Sunday, I trudged through the slushy snow, violin case in hand, toward the arts centre. The glass and steel structure looked cold and uninviting against the grey November sky. I stepped into the quiet lobby, my footsteps echoing on the polished concrete floor, and waved to a couple of violinists I recognized in the hallway as I made my way downstairs to the practice rooms.

Having time away from the house and Rob was a good thing. Especially since all I could think about since our conversation was sex. The not having it. The wondering if I was too broken to ever make it good.

I emailed Logan, telling him everything I missed about him and informing him I’d be at Maddie’s for the weekend. It was a bit over the top and more than once, I’d checked to see if there was any way to take it back and rewrite my message. Hopefully he wouldn’t look at it in public.

Inside the cramped room, I unpacked my violin, tightened the bow, and began slowly warming up with scales. The motions were familiar and comforting, like slipping on a favourite old sweatshirt. I flipped through some sheet music I hadn't played in ages, pieces from high school that used to be my go-to's when I needed an escape. My eyes landed on Tchaikovsky's Violin Concerto in D Major. A rush of memories washed over me.

Ms. Petrova, my violin teacher back then, had insisted I learn it, even though it was far above my skill level at the time. “This piece has fire and passion,” she'd said in her thick Russian accent. "Like you. You will grow into it." I'd rolled my eyes but was so secretly flattered, I practiced for months, determined to master the challenging techniques and lightning-fast passages.

Now, as I started the familiar opening melody, the notes danced off the strings, my fingers finding the positions like no time had passed. Pieces like this were my personal rubric. Time stamps to judge my skill by. I’d improved so much, and it was good to remember that when I was surrounded by musicians who I felt far exceeded my level of musicianship.

I thought I would only play one section, but I couldn’t stop. The music dragged me along, its hand fisted in my shirt, drowning me in memories. As I launched into the frenetic, emotional second movement, something cracked open inside me.

This song. I’d forgotten. I’d started it before that summer. The emotions I’d stuffed down at Maddie’s the night before resurfaced with a vengeance. Hot tears pricked my eyes, then blurred my vision so completely, I couldn’t see the notes.

Fragments of those awful nights at my Grandma's house flickered through my mind—the sound of the door creaking open, the shadow crossing the floor, my cousin's heavy breathing. His hand sliding into my underwear. I squeezed my eyes shut out of habit, trying to block it out, but the music wouldn’t let me. It opened a door I refused to, and suddenly I was caught in the torrent of memory.

How I’d tried to tell my doctor what happened weeks afterward when the nightmares and panic attacks got too bad to hide. She referred me to a therapist who insisted on looping in my parents.

That excruciating conversation was seared into my brain. Stuttering out the terrible details to my mom and dad. Their shocked faces. The way doubt and pity crept into their expressions.

I did my best to package it away, throw myself into violin and school and pretend to be the old Sharla. But there were cracks then. Just like there were now. After all my patching, they still showed.

Logan being gone exposed them more than usual. I hated sleeping alone. Hated how insecure I felt, always wondering if he was thinking about me. Or if he wished he had a girlfriend who was more . . . free. Who could be one of those women in Cosmopolitan. More go with the flow. More like him.

I couldn't hold it in any longer. Any of it. The fear, the worry, the guilt, the aching loneliness, the shame of being so pathetically attached, and the overwhelm of keeping up appearances like everything was fine. Would I ever feel whole? Or at least less broken?

I played something brand new. Notes that made no musical sense, that didn’t follow a melody. I let the grief and anger pour out through my fingers and bow, filling the small room with heartwrenching strains and the sound of my own choked breaths and sniffles.

When my arms ached, and the tears ran dry, I ended in an inelegant screech as I lifted the bow with a shaking hand. I took a few deep breaths, trying to regain my composure.

Well. That was . . . something I’d never done before. I wiped my face with my sleeve. Maybe that was what it meant to be a true artist. To have something inside of you that was so massive, the only way to let it out, to describe it or communicate it, was through music.

I laughed at myself. How melodramatic. If the orchestra thing didn’t work out, maybe I had a future doing poetry readings or posing on MySpace. I carefully packed up my instrument, feeling raw and wrung out but lighter. Like I'd released a pressure valve, just a little.

As I emerged from the practice room, I nearly collided with Caleb.

"Whoa, girl!" He grinned, then eyed my blotchy face with concern. "You okay?"

"Yeah, no, I'm good," I lied, averting my gaze.

Caleb held up a hand for a high five. “Music, amiright?”

I laughed. And this was what it was like to have artist friends. They understood parts of your brain that nobody else did. I gave him a one-armed hug instead of a hand slap. “You practicing?”

He glanced down the hall. “Nope. Just picking up chicks.”

I snorted. “Sorry, I’m probably ruining your opportunities.”

“I wasn’t going to say anything, but . . .” He gave me a look, then smiled. “You could be my wingwoman.”

“What would that look like?”

“Uh, basically asking me pre-approved questions so I can answer loudly and impress anyone who walks by.”

“Hmm. As fun as that sounds . . . ”

He ran a hand through his red hair. “You don’t happen to have a kitten or a baby I could borrow?”

I nudged his arm. “See you tomorrow?”

“Yup.” He tried to ruffle my hair, but I stepped away too quickly. What was it with guys wanting to touch my hair now that it was short?

“Bye!” I waved and walked down the hall, my mind already hovering over the worries I'd tried to exorcise through music. The best way I could describe it was that I was higher up. Not drowning, but not fully escaping them either.

As I walked across the chilly campus back to the house, I wondered about him. Not Logan. Him. My cousin who was two years older than me. Who I had to see at family reunions in the summer.

I never stayed overnight where he was, but his family only lived a few hours away. Thank the heavens he wasn’t at home anymore. I didn’t actually give a shit where he was or what he was doing, but I did wonder sometimes. Wishing I would’ve done more. Said more. Forced my parents to do something other than tell me it would be okay.

The walk home seemed to take forever, my mind replaying the devastating memories on a sickening loop. When I finally reached the house, Rob's door was firmly shut. A huge relief. I couldn't even imagine trying to act normal around him right now. Hopefully he’d already used the washroom. When was that part coming in?

In the kitchen, I made myself a sandwich and retreated to my room. I ate mechanically, not tasting a thing, then curled up under the covers without even changing out of my clothes.

I stared ahead at the dark wall, chewing my lip. Being back in my bed—our bed—peeled back another layer from my thoughts. Those cracks in my armour were more visible with Logan gone . . . and Rob had seen them.

Had Logan?

I’d never told him what happened. He’d never asked. Even when he felt me flinch away or when I had to take time to breathe. I gave him the basics.

Rob had straight up asked in the kitchen.

I lied to him.

But he asked.