One Cruel Night

Did I tell him?

It wasn’t like I paraded around the fact that I was a virgin. It wasn’t a prime conversation starter. Amy knew, obviously. But I didn’t share the information, and I didn’t know how to say it now. It wasn’t like I could just come out and be like, Hey, P.S., I’m a virgin!

He didn’t even know that I was only eighteen and here with Amy the summer after graduation. These were things I normally thought that I’d share with the guy who was my first. And yet, here I was, with an almost stranger who seemed to know my very soul yet didn’t know my age or even my last name.

Man, I was psyching myself out.

“Hey,” Penn said, offering me a wine glass. “Everything all right?”

I took the glass from him and had a long sip. “A little…nervous, to be honest.”

“Don’t be nervous,” he said with a soft laugh. He offered me his hand and helped me to my feet.

“I just…” I stumbled over the words I wanted to say. To tell him the truth. And yet, they didn’t come.

“It’s okay. You don’t have to say anything.” He took my hand. “Just come with me.”

He guided me out of the living room, down a hallway, past the elevator service we’d used to reach the top floor, and to a closed door at the end of the hall. He opened the door and turned on a lamp, revealing what was clearly his bedroom. It was decorated in neutral white and blues with a king-size bed taking up much of the space aside from a desk that was littered with papers. His notebook was on top of a pile of books on the nightstand. Otherwise, it was spotless. Unlike the bedroom I had been living in all summer long.

“I love your place.” I took another big swallow of wine and then stepped inside.

“Thanks.” He set his keys down on the dresser and then slid his suit jacket off. He draped it across the back of the chair. So casual. He wasn’t nervous at all. This was his place, and he was utterly in his element.

He clicked a button for a speaker and pulled his phone out of his pocket to play some music. The soothing voice of Ray LaMontagne eased my nerves.

“‘Such a Simple Thing’?” I guessed. “I love this song.”

“It’s my favorite of his.”

He leaned back against the chair at his desk and observed me wandering his space. I straightened my shoulders and stepped around his bed.

“I love ‘Shelter.’”

“Also a classic.”

“You have good taste in music,” I told him. “Is there anything you’re not good at?”

He chuckled. “Depends on who you ask.”

I laughed softly and kicked my heels off at the foot of the bed. I was glad to finally be out of those things. “Liar.”

“I am proficient at a number of things, but I assure you, there are plenty of people who think that I’m not great at anything.”

“Like who?” I glanced over at him with an arched eyebrow.

“My father.”

“Oh,” I whispered. “Well, I’m going to go on record and say that his opinion doesn’t matter.”

Penn scoffed. “He doesn’t agree with that either.”

“Well tonight, you’re living a different life, remember? You don’t have to live under his expectations. You can just be you.”

He tilted his head slightly and observed me. It was as if he couldn’t quite place me. As if what I’d said really struck a chord with him.

I turned away from that look and continued toward the nightstand. I plucked his notebook from where it rested and held it aloft. “Ah, the famous notebook.”

I flipped open the leather binding and opened it to the first page, but before I even read a word, Penn’s hand came down and shut the cover.

“You don’t want to look in there.”

“Oh,” I said in surprise. “Is it your diary?”

“Worse.” He took the worn leather notebook out of my hands. “Philosophical ramblings. I’d bore you to tears.”

“I doubt that.”

“You don’t want to hear my ethical diatribes. Trust me,” he said, placing the notebook back where I’d gotten it.

A part of me yearned to pick it back up and read all of his ethical diatribes. There must be something juicy and interesting in there if he didn’t want me to read it. At the same time, I knew that was ridiculous because it wasn’t as if I let other people read my work. I was way too embarrassed to put myself out there. All I’d ever wanted to be was a writer, but actually letting people read my work was another matter. The writing was so much easier than the potential criticism. Or as I always considered it…the inevitable criticism. One day, I’d get my words out there, be an author and not just a writer, but I understood why Penn wasn’t ready either.