The Wild One by Gemma Burgess Page B

way … it was so fun.
    We were in the dark, which made me so much more confident. And Joe kept complimenting my body, and was so funny and silly and sweet that I was smiling and laughing the whole time. It was so different from my first time with Eric that it was like having a different kind of sex altogether.
    Urgh, sex with Eric. That entire experience is like bile in my memory. Not just because it was so cold and strange and awful—and it was, truly, it was awful, and I knew I was being used, even as I hoped with all my heart that he liked me, I knew I was being used—but because of what happened afterward. Abortion.
    Even the word makes me feel bad.
    If this was some lame after-school special, you know, or some lame TV show made by old men in suits who have never experienced anything but want to tell everyone else what to do, then the abortion would be a huge mistake that ruins my life. That’s the only narrative that unwanted pregnancy is allowed to have. But this is reality. I talked it over with Pia and Angie so many times, and they really helped me get to the point where I can say: I will not be damaged by that experience forever.
    I am still me.
    No matter what happens, I will always be me.
    And last night I felt so comfortable with Joe, and he knew exactly what he was doing, and that little fire deep in my gut just got bigger and stronger and brighter until—
    â€œI totally came.”
    â€œWHAT?”
    Shit. Did I just say that out loud?
    Angie and Madeleine are shrieking when Pia stumbles in with swollen, bloodshot eyes. She’s still wearing her clothes from yesterday and has bed hair to rival mine.
    Immediately, there’s a collective gasp of shock.
    We just stare at her.
    She ignores us, going straight to the refrigerator.
    â€œAidan is in San Francisco,” says Angie, finally, in a very quiet voice. “Where have you been? And with who?”
    â€œWhom,” corrects Madeleine.
    â€œWhatever.”
    Without answering, Pia pulls out the almond milk. “Who the fuck is lactose intolerant this week?”
    â€œWas it Ray? It was Ray, right?” Angie is furious.
    â€œWho is Ray?” whispers Madeleine.
    â€œThat ancient restaurant asshole,” says Angie. “Not her boyfriend.”
    â€œI don’t want to talk about it.” Pia rests her forehead against the cool refrigerator, as though she doesn’t quite have the strength to hold herself up anymore.
    â€œI cannot believe you cheated on Aidan.”
    Pia grabs a bottle of Coca-Cola. “Don’t fucking judge me, Angela.”
    â€œDon’t fucking call me Angela.”
    Pia ignores her and takes a swig of Coke.
    â€œAre you going to tell him?” asks Angie, raising her voice. “Are you going to tell Aidan that you cheated on him? Remember Aidan, your boyfriend ? The guy who loves you and thinks you love him?”
    â€œMy boyfriend has moved to a different city, on the other side of the fucking country.” Pia finally turns to face us. “He canceled three out of the last four weekends home, and he refuses to agree on a date for moving back … Would you call that a healthy relationship? We’re on death row. If he gave a shit about me, he’d be here!”
    We’re all quiet. When she says it like that, it sounds kind of terrible.
    Pia sighs. “I just wanted a little me time.”
    â€œA little me time with some cock!” shouts Angie, throwing her half-empty coffee cup in the sink so hard it cracks. “Aidan would never hurt you.”
    Pia’s eyes widen. “ Excuse me? I’m not taking advice from someone whose entire experience of a real relationship is six minutes on a fucking boat pier.”
    â€œGo fuck yourself, Pia.”
    Angie storms out to the deck. A second later I hear the familiar sound of her lighting a cigarette.
    Pia slams the refrigerator door shut, and all my Aunt Jo’s old serving trays that we