The Sexpert

I take a second to eye her. “You’re pretty popular at Le Man, aren’t you?” I ask.

She points at me in an accusing way. Which is ironic. “Why are you asking so many questions? Who are you supposed to be? Nancy Drew?”

And for whatever reason I feel myself getting hot. “Yeah. That’s it. That’s it, Eden. You nailed it. I’m Nancy friggin’ Drew.” I say it with a fair amount of snark. Having the girl I’m into both blow me off and be responsible for making my friend lose his mind is starting to catch up to me a little bit and my naturally relaxed Southern charm is eluding me just at present. “And I’m on the case of the Girl with the Concealed Identity. But you know what, cupcake?” She stiffens at the word. Good. “I feel like I’m pretty damn close to cracking it wide open.”

“Well,” she says, now turning and eyeing the handholds that lead back down, “good luck with that. Hope you don’t get a magnifying glass stuck up your ass looking for clues.”

“Why would I get a—?”

“Whatever!”

She steps toward the hand grips, but then stops. She sort of stutteringly edges forward, then steps back.

“You’re afraid of heights, aren’t you?” I ask.

“Wow! You are really are fuckin’ Nancy Drew! Figure that one out all by yourself?”

“Then why would you try to run away by scaling a climbing wall?”

“I make bad choices!”

Two more people land where we’re standing, and walk past.

“Nice climb, Eden.”

“Thanks, Lucy. Thanks, Peter.”

They high-five her and begin their descent. Jesus. Everybody really does like her.

She storms past me.

“Where do you think you’re going?” I say.

“I dunno! To see if there’s another way down!”

She marches to the back corner of the top of the wall where there’s a small, enclosed space that has a sign reading, “Yoga Studio.” I follow her. Obviously.

“Hey, I’m not kidding. I need you to talk to me,” I say as I follow her in.

And she—turns isn’t the right word. Whirls? Whips? Pounces?—around. Whatever it is, it gives off the distinct impression of a cornered animal ready to fight for survival.

“What?” she groans out. “What do you want?”

A couple thoughts run through my mind in response to that question, but I decide that right now’s probably not the time to say them. Shit. I’m so fuckin’ bummed. I was really into this girl. I think. No, I know I was. More than I’ve been into a girl in a long time. She seemed like somebody who would be…well…fun to be around. But when I considered that she might be into adventure, this wasn’t what I was thinking of.

I decide to just ask the question.

“Are you the Sexpert? And don’t say no because I know you are.”

She gets a half-caught, half-righteously indignant look on her face and says, “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“No? Really? No idea?”

“No. I don’t. And honestly, I’m offended by the accusation.”

“Well, I’m sorry if you’re offended, but my best and oldest friend is being fucked over by someone, and even if he’s putting an insanely disproportionate amount of import on the thing… he’s still my best and oldest friend. And y’know what? I like you. Like, I really like you. But even so, I can’t let you fuck my friend over. So, please, just tell me. Just come clean and tell me… Is it you? Why’d you do it?”

She huffs and when she does, her chest lifts up and down. If she wants to convince me it’s not her, a heaving bosom, thinly veiled by a sexy tank top, is not getting the job done.

“I had you all wrong,” she says.

“What? Sorry? Come again?”

“Yeah. I bet you’d like that.”

“What?” And then I realize… Ooooh. ‘Come again.’ Got it.

She goes on. “I thought you were a good guy. But you’re not. You’re just like every other rich, privileged asshole in the world who’s out only for themselves and to get what they want.”

“What are you…?”

“You think I’m the Sexpert? Like really?”

I take a breath and then nod.

“So why didn’t you say something before? I mean, it couldn’t have been just so you could coerce me up to your stupid penthouse so you could get off before you go running to your friend and try to ruin my life, could it? Oh, nooooo. No waaaayyyyy.”

“I didn’t—”

“What? Is that your thing? You come on girls’ backs and then fuck them over? Is that, like, some weird, creepy fetish you have? Because it is. It’s creepy, Andrew. It’s creepy. You’re a creep.”

“I feel like you’re changing the subject.”

She starts walking toward me now. Going on the offense. “So, riddle me this, Batman—”

“I thought I was Nancy Drew.”

“Shut up! Let me…”

But that’s all she gets out before she trips over a discarded yoga block thing sitting in the middle of the room and goes collapsing to the floor.