That afternoon, I’m sitting at my desk, doing actual homework, when there’s a knock on my partly-open door, and I glance over.
Margaret’s standing there.
“Hey,” I say, sitting up straighter.
“Hey,” she says. “Can I come in?”
I just nod, and she walks into the tiny room, then sits cross-legged on my unmade twin bed and holds a green box out to me.
“There were girl scouts by the library, I guess it’s cookie season,” she says as I take the Thin Mints. “Also, I’m sorry I was such a bitch.”
I look at the box in my hands, then back at her.
“But I swear to God I didn’t report you,” she says quickly, sitting up straighter. “I…”
She trails off, looks out my window.
“I know,” I tell her. “It was my dad.”
Margaret looks back at me, eyes wide, mouth open.
“We’re not speaking any more,” I say, carefully tearing the cardboard strip from the end of the box.
“Your dad tried to get your scholarship pulled?” she says, still goggling. “Holy shit.”
Since talking to my dad, I’ve gone back and forth on whether I think he knew I could be punished.
“Yup,” I say, matter-of-factly.
“Sending those emails was really fucked up of me,” she says, quickly, like she’s nervous and in a rush. “I don’t know what I was thinking. I mean, I do, I was thinking that it was pretty weird and creepy of some professor to sleep with you when you were literally in his class.”
I pull apart the plastic sleeve and shoot her a look.
“But I obviously should have just talked to you instead of… doing that shit,” she says. “I’m sorry. I’m really sorry. Really.”
I crunch into a Thin Mint and look at the cookie for a long moment, thinking.
“I should have trusted you. I don’t know why I didn’t,” she finishes.
“Probably because you’re an obnoxious know-it-all who thinks she’s God’s gift to men,” I say, a small shower of crumbs escaping my mouth.
There’s a long, long pause before she speaks.
“Are you trying to say I’m not God’s gift to men, or…”
“You asshole,” I laugh, and she grins at me. “Also, morally bankrupt? What the fuck, Margaret.”
She hides her face in her hands. I almost tell her that she also has to apologize to Caleb, since he’s the one she told was morally bankrupt in the first place, but I still haven’t worked up the nerve to go talk to him yet because I think he’s probably still pretty mad at me, and I’m still a little bit mad at him, and it’s all still a mess.
“I’m sorry,” she says again, through her hands.
“I haven’t forgiven you yet,” I tell her, eating another cookie.
“I deserve it,” she says, and then looks up at me. “Oh, I have another apology. Wait here.”
I wait, still eating cookies, and in fifteen seconds she’s in my room again, holding something behind her back.
“I hope it’s another box,” I say.
She just grins wider, then pulls the thing out from behind her back.
It’s a dildo.
I think. Actually, I’m only about sixty percent sure it’s a dildo, because while it’s definitely phallic, it’s also tapered and green, the design on it pink and swirling in a series of dots to a somewhat fanciful tip.
I stare for a long moment.
Then I finally ask, “Is that a tentacle dildo?”
“Yep!” she says, holding it up proudly. “It’s brand new from the store’s new hentai collection. It’s got a suction cup on the bottom so you can attach it to the shower wall or your chair or whatever and go to town. Also, it’s still shrink-wrapped.”
I take it from her. It’s surprisingly heavy.
“Thanks, I hate it,” I deadpan, and Margaret laughs.* * *Monday night, I finally work up the courage and go to Caleb’s house. I pulled up his name in my phone a hundred times that day and nearly called, but every single time I chickened out, and I can’t bring myself to text a ‘let’s talk about forgiving each other and also maybe whether we can move on from this’ message.
So I’m here. I’m walking up his sidewalk, onto his front porch. I’ve still got the key to his house, but this is not a let myself in scenario so I knock.
And I wait.
And I knock again, and wait again, and repeat that at least four more times.
Then I wait. I wait for a really, really long time, and I listen for signs that he’s in there and knows it’s me and is avoiding the door, but I don’t hear a single thing.
Finally, I sit down on his porch steps, the concrete cold beneath my butt.
Me: He’s not there.
Margaret: Where is he? It’s not like he has a job.
Margaret: Sorry.
Victoria: The man still needs to run errands. Maybe he’s at Target.
Harper: Maybe he’s hiking the AT again.
Me: It’s January.
Harper: He probably has a lot of psychic pain to work through.