Eric doesn’t turn, but I’m sure the words are sinking in. He speaks into his headset, telling his “soldiers” he needs two minutes, and then mutes the microphone. “Yeah. Those talks are always really scarring.”
We aren’t looking at each other. He’s staring at the postgame stats, probably analyzing how his team could’ve done better, and I’m shifting from the worn yellowed stains in the corners of the room to outside the window where life isn’t awkward. “What did he say to you?”
“Why do you care?”
“I want to know what he would’ve told me.”
Eric taps buttons that have zero effect on the menu screen. “He said he didn’t think about feelings when he was our age. Grandpa encouraged him to just have fun when he was ready, and to always make sure to wear a condom so he didn’t have to grow up too soon like some of his friends did. And he would’ve said you’re making him proud if you actually feel ready.”
Eric echoing Dad’s words is not the same.
I miss my dad.
Eric switches his microphone back on and turns away like he regrets ever talking to me. I shouldn’t have forced him to remember Dad when he was distracted; the grieving need their peace whenever they can get it. He resumes playing, instructing his team like the alpha he is. Like Dad was whenever he played basketball and baseball and football, and anything else he did.
I pull a shirt out of my dresser that smells like concentrated dish soap. That’s what happens when you share your clothes with a brother who rubs everything against cologne samples. Before I leave, I tell him, “I’m spending the night at Genevieve’s. Tell Mom I’m at Brendan’s playing some new game or something.”
These words knock him out of his zone. He looks at me for a second before remembering he’s totally disinterested in my life, and goes back to playing.
I’m torn walking to Genevieve’s.
I’m overthinking everything. Why am I not running? If I really want this, I should be running, or at least jogging, in the interest of saving some energy. But if I don’t want to do this, I should be dragging my feet and flipping around to go home before I reach her door. Maybe I’m playing it cool by just walking there, not too eager, not thinking too highly of this completely monumental rite of passage to manhood. Here I am, a lanky kid with a chipped tooth and first chest hairs, and somebody wants to do this with me. And not just anyone. It’s Genevieve: my artist girlfriend who laughs at all my unfunny jokes and doesn’t abandon me during anything-but-fun times.
I step into this corner store, Sherman’s Deli, and pick up a little something for her since it feels like a dick move to take a girl’s virginity without some kind of present. Skinny-Dave says flowers are the perfect deflowering gift, so if that’s what he thinks, it’s gotta be the wrong move.
As I approach Genevieve’s door and knock, I look down at my crotch and say, “You better do what you were made to do. So help me God, I will ruin you if you don’t. I will absolutely massacre you. Okay, Aaron, stop talking to your dick. And yourself.”
Genevieve opens the door in a sleeveless yellow shirt and bedroom eyes. “Good conversation with your dick?”
“Not nearly as deep as I would’ve liked it to be.” I lean forward and kiss her. “I’m a little early so if you need a few more minutes with your other boyfriend I can wait out here.”
“Get in here before we break up again.”
“You wouldn’t dare.”
She starts closing the door.
“Wait, wait.” I reach into my pocket and pull out a pack of Skittles.
“You’re the best.”
I shrug. “It seemed weird to come empty-handed.”
Genevieve grabs my hand and drags me inside. The apartment smells of the huckleberry candles her mother gave her and also of hot paint, probably Genevieve mixing up a shade she couldn’t find inside of a Home Depot.
After my dad passed, I spent a lot of time on that living room couch crying into Genevieve’s lap. She promised things would eventually be okay. Her promise actually carried weight since she lost a parent too—versus my friends, who consoled me with pats on the back and awkward glances.
Genevieve is the reason things got better.
Colorful paintings line the hallway walls. There are canvases of alive gardens, circuses where clowns watch ordinary people do tricks, glowing cities below a deep black sea, clay towers melting underneath a harsh sun, and so much more. Her father doesn’t say much about her art, but her mother always bragged about how Genevieve painted rainbows in their proper order before she was old enough to spell her own name.
Creepy china dolls crowd a mail-littered table with a dish for keys. A brochure with Genevieve’s name catches my eye. “What’s this?” I ask, looking at the cabin on the cover.
“Nothing.”
“Nothing is nothing, Gen.” I open the booklet. “An art resort in New Orleans?”
“Yeah. It’s a three-week stay out in the woods working on art with zero distractions. I thought it could be a good space for me to maybe finally finish something but . . .” Genevieve gives me this sad smile and I hate myself.
“But you couldn’t trust your dumb-idiot boyfriend to be alone.” I hand her the brochure. “I’m done holding you back. If you don’t go, make sure it’s because you want to have sex all summer.”
Genevieve flings the brochure back on the table. “I should probably make sure it’s worth staying for first, right?” She winks and walks deeper down the hall, vanishing into the living room.