unsure of herself. I hoped there would be a next time.
"What's wrong," I asked casually, while I looked out at the airport. I glanced sideways at her. She was biting her lip.
She saw me looking at her. She closed her mouth. I smiled at her. "Am I a problem, Millie? Are you sorry I came?"
She frowned then, opened her mouth, closed it again without saying anything. Then, "Damn it. I don't know! I hate this! I feel like I'm being a jerk and being pressured and I don't know what you want."
She seemed ready to cry.
I held up my hand. "What do you want?"
She turned and stared out the window. "I'm not sure."
"Well... why don't we try to find out? Are you glad or sorry I'm here?"
"Yes."
"Oh. Some of both. Better than completely sorry, I suppose." I felt a little less like crying myself. "Why do you feel pressured? And to do what?"
She shook her head, almost angrily. "It's not right! If we were sleeping together, maybe I could justify you spending the money to fly out here. But we're not. Since you did spend the money, it's almost as if I have to sleep with you to balance things out."
"And you don't want to do that, do you?"
She shook her head.
I couldn't help ask, "Not ever?"
She narrowed her eyes. "See? Even you think that's how things are supposed to be."
I blushed. "No. I'm sorry. I don't expect that. I would be lying if I said I wouldn't like to, but I don't expect it. I flew out here to go to this party with you. I'm not trying to pressure you into anything."
"Well, the pressure is there. It's situational."
"Hmmm. Seems like you've spent more time thinking about sleeping with me than I have. I find that very encouraging."
She glared at me. "Give me a break."
"Well, you give me one. Try to assume responsibility for only your own actions. All you've done is agree to go to a party with me. It seems like you're taking responsibility for my actions, too. I'm an adult—at least, I'm able to vote. I know I'm younger than you, but that doesn't make you obligated to 'take care of me.' "
She frowned again. "I can't help how I feel."
"Well," I said, "Do you want me to go away? I'm sure I can find things to do for the weekend in Oklahoma City. Where are the cabs?"
"Is that what you want?"
I blew out my breath abruptly. "What I want is to be with someone who wants me to be there! I've spent enough time with people who didn't want me with them. I don't like it."
This stopped her for a moment. After looking blindly out at the runway she said, "Okay. Let's go."
I hung back. "Where?"
She grabbed my arm, the one with the bag, and pulled me along. "To the party, damn it!" She linked her arm in mine on the stairway. "And yes, I do want you to be here. And stop smiling!"
Because of the timing, we got dinner on the road and went straight to the party. I felt a strange sense of déjà vu as we walked up the sidewalk to the house. Football players wearing letter sweaters or letter jackets stood outside the front door, drinking beer. Fewer of these smoked, but then, you'd expect that of collegiate-level athletes. Still, their presence and the throbbing of music from inside the house made me think of last Saturday's party.
Millie introduced me to the host, a graduate student in anthropology named Paul something. I shook hands.
"So," he asked. "What's your major?" He looked at my clothes and face. "Let me guess. Art history, freshman."
I shook my head. "Sorry. I'm from out of town. No major. No grade level."
"Oh." He sounded disappointed. "Where from?"
"New York City."
"Oh. You related to Millie?"
Millie, who'd been talking to someone else during this conversation, overheard the last bit. "No. He's my date." She said it firmly.
Paul something blinked. "Yes, ma'am. I just thought he seemed like a younger cousin or something."
Millie shook her finger under his nose. "You sexist pig! If he were three years older than me you wouldn't say anything. What a load of hypocritical bullshit!"
Paul took a step back. "Okay!
"What's wrong," I asked casually, while I looked out at the airport. I glanced sideways at her. She was biting her lip.
She saw me looking at her. She closed her mouth. I smiled at her. "Am I a problem, Millie? Are you sorry I came?"
She frowned then, opened her mouth, closed it again without saying anything. Then, "Damn it. I don't know! I hate this! I feel like I'm being a jerk and being pressured and I don't know what you want."
She seemed ready to cry.
I held up my hand. "What do you want?"
She turned and stared out the window. "I'm not sure."
"Well... why don't we try to find out? Are you glad or sorry I'm here?"
"Yes."
"Oh. Some of both. Better than completely sorry, I suppose." I felt a little less like crying myself. "Why do you feel pressured? And to do what?"
She shook her head, almost angrily. "It's not right! If we were sleeping together, maybe I could justify you spending the money to fly out here. But we're not. Since you did spend the money, it's almost as if I have to sleep with you to balance things out."
"And you don't want to do that, do you?"
She shook her head.
I couldn't help ask, "Not ever?"
She narrowed her eyes. "See? Even you think that's how things are supposed to be."
I blushed. "No. I'm sorry. I don't expect that. I would be lying if I said I wouldn't like to, but I don't expect it. I flew out here to go to this party with you. I'm not trying to pressure you into anything."
"Well, the pressure is there. It's situational."
"Hmmm. Seems like you've spent more time thinking about sleeping with me than I have. I find that very encouraging."
She glared at me. "Give me a break."
"Well, you give me one. Try to assume responsibility for only your own actions. All you've done is agree to go to a party with me. It seems like you're taking responsibility for my actions, too. I'm an adult—at least, I'm able to vote. I know I'm younger than you, but that doesn't make you obligated to 'take care of me.' "
She frowned again. "I can't help how I feel."
"Well," I said, "Do you want me to go away? I'm sure I can find things to do for the weekend in Oklahoma City. Where are the cabs?"
"Is that what you want?"
I blew out my breath abruptly. "What I want is to be with someone who wants me to be there! I've spent enough time with people who didn't want me with them. I don't like it."
This stopped her for a moment. After looking blindly out at the runway she said, "Okay. Let's go."
I hung back. "Where?"
She grabbed my arm, the one with the bag, and pulled me along. "To the party, damn it!" She linked her arm in mine on the stairway. "And yes, I do want you to be here. And stop smiling!"
Because of the timing, we got dinner on the road and went straight to the party. I felt a strange sense of déjà vu as we walked up the sidewalk to the house. Football players wearing letter sweaters or letter jackets stood outside the front door, drinking beer. Fewer of these smoked, but then, you'd expect that of collegiate-level athletes. Still, their presence and the throbbing of music from inside the house made me think of last Saturday's party.
Millie introduced me to the host, a graduate student in anthropology named Paul something. I shook hands.
"So," he asked. "What's your major?" He looked at my clothes and face. "Let me guess. Art history, freshman."
I shook my head. "Sorry. I'm from out of town. No major. No grade level."
"Oh." He sounded disappointed. "Where from?"
"New York City."
"Oh. You related to Millie?"
Millie, who'd been talking to someone else during this conversation, overheard the last bit. "No. He's my date." She said it firmly.
Paul something blinked. "Yes, ma'am. I just thought he seemed like a younger cousin or something."
Millie shook her finger under his nose. "You sexist pig! If he were three years older than me you wouldn't say anything. What a load of hypocritical bullshit!"
Paul took a step back. "Okay!
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