control. No matter how much she wanted to get “it” over with, she couldn’t get past the idea that your first time should be something special, with someone special.
Someone like Scott.
She wanted to see Scott again. She wanted to see him before she did anything stupid, anything with anyone else.
“Childish, childish, childish,” she chided herself that Fourth of July morning, trying on her three bathing suits twelve times each to see which one flattered her enough to make an impression. Hair up or hair down? Make-up or no?
By the time she got down to the party, Scott was already in the pool playing some combination of chicken and water polo, a game Miranda typically only watched. On his shoulders was Kimberly, the newest associate at Avery’s firm. They laughed and swatted at the ball. When the action stopped, she ran her fingers through his hair and didn’t remove herself from his shoulders. He kissed her calf, making a show of licking the beads of water from her leg.
Miranda stayed until the evening’s music started, then called Tommy and met him at a beach party with his friends from work. When the couples started to pair off from around the bonfire, instead of protesting Miranda went willingly. At least the setting for her first time was romantic, but sand and condoms don’t mix. Instead of being a magical experience, it was more like a quick rubbing with some sandpaper. But Tommy seemed pleased, and he didn’t stop calling. In fact, he called more. The summer continued on with more nights on the sand, in the backseat of his car, and very quietly in her bedroom at the apartment while Danielle slept. Miranda registered for fall classes. Tommy, it turned out, didn’t take classes any more. Miranda would come home from her afternoon Classics course and find Tommy waiting for her on the front steps, a six-pack in a paper bag next to him, two or three already empty. She would let him make sloppy love to her in her room quickly before Danielle came home, then protest his offers of dinner because of her homework. After a few weeks, she started going to the library after class, and Tommy soon got the hint.
When she next saw Scott at Thanksgiving, there was no sign of Kimberly, but Miranda didn’t really want to know anything about that. Surely, there would soon be a Caitlin or a Zoey or an Emily to take her place. Instead she hung back, watching him watch football, watching him help Avery get the bird to the table, watching him just be Scott. She learned that year that sometimes it is better to live in your head than in the real world, that it is better to let your dreams stay dreams instead of trying to make them come true.
Before she could sink too far into her reverie, the email alert on her phone went off. It was the account she used for Blocked Poet. Ambrose Q. Reed. “Call me,” he wrote, “now. I don’t care what time; I don’t sleep.”
“Well neither do I, Ambrose Q. Reed,” she said aloud. She dialed the phone number at the end of the email.
“Blocked Poet,” he said. “We must talk.”
Before she could offer any greeting in return, Ambrose started a stream of consciousness riff on SEO, product placement, link backs, and hardcover printing. “You got that,” he finished.
“No,” she said, “but I trust that you do.”
“No, no, no, that won’t do. You must understand this one basic thing. Your pieces drive traffic. People link them, like them, share them, would buy them printed on coffee cups to send to their grannies. There is potential here to completely create a brand. Will this be sustainable for three years? Yes. Five years? Maybe. Ten years? No. But there is no reason not to try. Do you have a lawyer?”
“My parents are lawyers.”
“Good, that’ll do. But what about Scotty-boy? You mentioned him. Lawyer, right? How do you know him?”
“A friend, not a lawyer anymore, he just said to contact you.”
“Then kiss him,” Ambrose Q. Reed said. “He just made you
Someone like Scott.
She wanted to see Scott again. She wanted to see him before she did anything stupid, anything with anyone else.
“Childish, childish, childish,” she chided herself that Fourth of July morning, trying on her three bathing suits twelve times each to see which one flattered her enough to make an impression. Hair up or hair down? Make-up or no?
By the time she got down to the party, Scott was already in the pool playing some combination of chicken and water polo, a game Miranda typically only watched. On his shoulders was Kimberly, the newest associate at Avery’s firm. They laughed and swatted at the ball. When the action stopped, she ran her fingers through his hair and didn’t remove herself from his shoulders. He kissed her calf, making a show of licking the beads of water from her leg.
Miranda stayed until the evening’s music started, then called Tommy and met him at a beach party with his friends from work. When the couples started to pair off from around the bonfire, instead of protesting Miranda went willingly. At least the setting for her first time was romantic, but sand and condoms don’t mix. Instead of being a magical experience, it was more like a quick rubbing with some sandpaper. But Tommy seemed pleased, and he didn’t stop calling. In fact, he called more. The summer continued on with more nights on the sand, in the backseat of his car, and very quietly in her bedroom at the apartment while Danielle slept. Miranda registered for fall classes. Tommy, it turned out, didn’t take classes any more. Miranda would come home from her afternoon Classics course and find Tommy waiting for her on the front steps, a six-pack in a paper bag next to him, two or three already empty. She would let him make sloppy love to her in her room quickly before Danielle came home, then protest his offers of dinner because of her homework. After a few weeks, she started going to the library after class, and Tommy soon got the hint.
When she next saw Scott at Thanksgiving, there was no sign of Kimberly, but Miranda didn’t really want to know anything about that. Surely, there would soon be a Caitlin or a Zoey or an Emily to take her place. Instead she hung back, watching him watch football, watching him help Avery get the bird to the table, watching him just be Scott. She learned that year that sometimes it is better to live in your head than in the real world, that it is better to let your dreams stay dreams instead of trying to make them come true.
Before she could sink too far into her reverie, the email alert on her phone went off. It was the account she used for Blocked Poet. Ambrose Q. Reed. “Call me,” he wrote, “now. I don’t care what time; I don’t sleep.”
“Well neither do I, Ambrose Q. Reed,” she said aloud. She dialed the phone number at the end of the email.
“Blocked Poet,” he said. “We must talk.”
Before she could offer any greeting in return, Ambrose started a stream of consciousness riff on SEO, product placement, link backs, and hardcover printing. “You got that,” he finished.
“No,” she said, “but I trust that you do.”
“No, no, no, that won’t do. You must understand this one basic thing. Your pieces drive traffic. People link them, like them, share them, would buy them printed on coffee cups to send to their grannies. There is potential here to completely create a brand. Will this be sustainable for three years? Yes. Five years? Maybe. Ten years? No. But there is no reason not to try. Do you have a lawyer?”
“My parents are lawyers.”
“Good, that’ll do. But what about Scotty-boy? You mentioned him. Lawyer, right? How do you know him?”
“A friend, not a lawyer anymore, he just said to contact you.”
“Then kiss him,” Ambrose Q. Reed said. “He just made you
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