I pull my gaze up from the carpet. Connor Mattingly. Double bass guy. Nice enough guy, completely age-appropriate guy.
“Hello.” I toss back my head and laugh. At absolutely nothing at all.
“I don’t think I’ve ever seen you at a party.”
“I haven’t seen you either.” I laugh again. Sweet, inoffensive Connor is the kind of guy I should have dated. The kind of guy who could have loved me. “Come here,” I whisper, crooking a finger at him, even though he’s standing right next to me. “I want to talk to you.”
He gives me a quizzical look, like why would I want to talk to him when I’ve gone out of my way to avoid him in the past. Still, I take his shoulder and steer him into the hallway. Down, down, down the hall we go, until I find an unoccupied room.
I close the door, set my drink down on a table, and push my hair out of my face. “You got your braces off.”
“Yeah.” Alcohol’s reddened his cheeks. “Months ago.”
Then I lean in and smash my lips to his. He returns the kiss at first, his hands coming around my neck, and I’m thinking, I was wrong; he’s not a good guy. His fingers fumble around in my hair, and his mouth is sloppy, as though he is trying to retrieve something he lost inside mine. His body is soft—well, most parts of it—probably because he’s so young. He hasn’t grown into it yet.
We stumble backward, and I push him onto whoever’s bed this is.
“Adina—”
I reach for the belt of his jeans. I hope he has a condom. Because I don’t. I crave the feeling of hands gripping my hips, fingers pulling my hair, weight on top of me.
But then he groans and breaks away.
“Whoa.” He holds his hands in front of him, a barrier between us. “Um. This is . . .”
“What? You don’t like it? You seemed to be enjoying it just fine.”
“I’m sort of . . . seeing someone. We went out once last week and I really like her, and I don’t want to screw it up, okay?”
“Who?” I drag the back of my hand over my mouth, smearing my lipstick, erasing him.
“Gina. You know Gina? She plays violin.”
“Right. Gina.” I do not know Gina.
“Plus, I’m a little drunk, and I think you’re a lot drunk, and—”
“I get it, okay? You don’t need to give me a whole dictionary of excuses.”
The room tilts and flips over. I’m on the ceiling now. I fold my hand over the bedpost, trying to keep from crashing to the floor.
“I’m sorry,” Connor says. There’s red all over his mouth. He doesn’t seem to notice, and I decide not to tell him.
“It’s whatever. I thought you liked me. My sister said . . .”
He flushes deeper. “I—I do. Or I did, but . . . we barely know each other. And you’ve always seemed sort of . . . distant. Gina’s, well, I think she likes me too.” He fixes his hair back into place, redoes his belt buckle. “Look, do you want to talk instead? You seem like you could use a friend right now.”
No. I can’t use a fucking friend. That wasn’t what I wanted.
I leave.
Guys used to want me just for sex, and now they don’t even want that.
A pretty girl like you should have a boyfriend. Fuck that. For years I have been stared at and told over and over that I am such a pretty girl. Like nothing else about me matters. I used to love it, even the looks from guys who were too old to have been looking at me. Now I am nauseated. That is not all I am.
A body. A face. A pair of legs. Hips. Breasts. Lips. Someone to stare at. Fantasize about. No one cares about the music, only that the girl with the viola under her chin is beautiful. That is all I was to Eitan; I know that now. Even Boris Bialik, who is probably triple my age, said it after my showcase performance.
The reality, I fear, is that it is all I am.