jagged and empurpled and the point of each tear bore a hard, black knob. Everything seemed to have congealed or clotted in a businesslike way, however, so Rachel simply dressed herself again, brushed out her hair, and smoothed her cheeks with white, shaking hands.
She had no idea what she would say to Harry when she encountered him. Part of her was appalled and suspicious, so sure she’d made a mistake that humiliation had already begun to set in. Another part of her set aside the indistinct memory of Harry, grunting and grinning as he detected and quickly dismantled her virginity and then later, when they had rocked to an abrupt halt, turning his back. It was so tempting to think of Harry instead as he had been before last night and as he might be from here on in—a promising boy for whom she longed.
As she left the bathroom, Rachel smelled coffee and heard the sound of the television turned low. She was so nervous that she found it difficult to smile. But only Paul was there to see her enter the room, pale and hesitant. He sat up, shoved a ratty blanket off the couch so she could sit down.
“Don’t talk,” he said. “Save your strength.” He poured her a cup of coffee, built a nest of cushions around her, and opened a window so that the cold October air flowed through the stale indoors like surf.
He told Rachel that Harry had gone out and wouldn’t be back until much later in the day. She felt herself slip, then, into a posture of resignation and recognized the beginnings of remorse. But a part of her was unconvinced, well stocked with explanations and pardons. A part of her wanted very badly to believe that her infatuation with Harry would not leave her scarred.
She changed into her sweater and then sat with Paul for a while, sipping coffee and nibbling plain toast, until they felt equal to the long walk back to campus. They went slowly, stopping often, for they were both in several types of pain and had no reason to hurry. It made them feel better to walk and to be together. They talked, laughed from time to time, and singly wondered why it was taking them so long to get down to the business of sharing their secrets. As they crossed the campus green, Rachel finally led Paul to an empty bench in the sun and told him what had happened.
“No kidding, Rachel? Really? Golly. And I thought you two were playing cribbage all night. Well, I’ll be damned. Just when you think you know somebody, something like this—”
“Shut up, you ass, and let me finish.” Rachel picked up a red maple leaf from the grass and slowly dissected it. “You think you know me so well, but you didn’t know I was a virgin, did you?” She had expected surprise, even shock, but she was instantly dismayed to see the effect that this had on Paul. He sat back as if he’d been sucker-punched, put a hand to his mouth like a woman. But he didn’t say anything. He simply looked at her.
“I know you told me not to come crying to you if things went wrong with Harry,” she sighed. “And I won’t. But I want you to tell me honestly whether I would be foolish to expect him to … I don’t know … phone me later. Or come looking for me.”
Paul took his hand away from his mouth. “I told you that I’d introduce you to Harry but nothing more. No matchmaking and no handholding. If I tell you that you were a one-night stand, you’ll deny it. You’ll even be angry with me for saying so. And if I tell you that Harry will call, I’ll hate myself for postponing the inevitable. Because Harry won’t call, Rachel.” He got angrily to his feet. “He’ll walk right past you in class tomorrow. If you corner him, he’ll be civil and smug and call you by the wrong name. But don’t take my word for it. See for yourself.”
As Rachel watched Paul walk away, she wondered why he was so angry. Perhaps he was feeling some vicarious strains of her own doubt, fear, hope, and confusion. It wasn’t until two weeks later that Rachel finally
She had no idea what she would say to Harry when she encountered him. Part of her was appalled and suspicious, so sure she’d made a mistake that humiliation had already begun to set in. Another part of her set aside the indistinct memory of Harry, grunting and grinning as he detected and quickly dismantled her virginity and then later, when they had rocked to an abrupt halt, turning his back. It was so tempting to think of Harry instead as he had been before last night and as he might be from here on in—a promising boy for whom she longed.
As she left the bathroom, Rachel smelled coffee and heard the sound of the television turned low. She was so nervous that she found it difficult to smile. But only Paul was there to see her enter the room, pale and hesitant. He sat up, shoved a ratty blanket off the couch so she could sit down.
“Don’t talk,” he said. “Save your strength.” He poured her a cup of coffee, built a nest of cushions around her, and opened a window so that the cold October air flowed through the stale indoors like surf.
He told Rachel that Harry had gone out and wouldn’t be back until much later in the day. She felt herself slip, then, into a posture of resignation and recognized the beginnings of remorse. But a part of her was unconvinced, well stocked with explanations and pardons. A part of her wanted very badly to believe that her infatuation with Harry would not leave her scarred.
She changed into her sweater and then sat with Paul for a while, sipping coffee and nibbling plain toast, until they felt equal to the long walk back to campus. They went slowly, stopping often, for they were both in several types of pain and had no reason to hurry. It made them feel better to walk and to be together. They talked, laughed from time to time, and singly wondered why it was taking them so long to get down to the business of sharing their secrets. As they crossed the campus green, Rachel finally led Paul to an empty bench in the sun and told him what had happened.
“No kidding, Rachel? Really? Golly. And I thought you two were playing cribbage all night. Well, I’ll be damned. Just when you think you know somebody, something like this—”
“Shut up, you ass, and let me finish.” Rachel picked up a red maple leaf from the grass and slowly dissected it. “You think you know me so well, but you didn’t know I was a virgin, did you?” She had expected surprise, even shock, but she was instantly dismayed to see the effect that this had on Paul. He sat back as if he’d been sucker-punched, put a hand to his mouth like a woman. But he didn’t say anything. He simply looked at her.
“I know you told me not to come crying to you if things went wrong with Harry,” she sighed. “And I won’t. But I want you to tell me honestly whether I would be foolish to expect him to … I don’t know … phone me later. Or come looking for me.”
Paul took his hand away from his mouth. “I told you that I’d introduce you to Harry but nothing more. No matchmaking and no handholding. If I tell you that you were a one-night stand, you’ll deny it. You’ll even be angry with me for saying so. And if I tell you that Harry will call, I’ll hate myself for postponing the inevitable. Because Harry won’t call, Rachel.” He got angrily to his feet. “He’ll walk right past you in class tomorrow. If you corner him, he’ll be civil and smug and call you by the wrong name. But don’t take my word for it. See for yourself.”
As Rachel watched Paul walk away, she wondered why he was so angry. Perhaps he was feeling some vicarious strains of her own doubt, fear, hope, and confusion. It wasn’t until two weeks later that Rachel finally
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