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I don’t remember whose house this is. That is probably a good sign to stop drinking, but I pour myself another, just to be sure. Half of it spills over my hand onto the counter. Another good sign.
“TORI!” Becky yells as she enters the kitchen. She is also drunk. “Guess who’s looking for you!?” she’s still yelling, but this time it’s unintentional.
My stomach lurches, definitely not drunk enough.
“It’s Michael,” she giggles as she hops onto the counter beside where I’m standing. I should probably tell her that it's wet, but it’s too late now.
“I think I’m going to be sick!” I say, also unintentionally yelling, and I take another sip of my drink. I can’t even tell what it tastes like anymore, just that it’s getting me drunk. Just like I can’t tell what song is playing in the next room, just that it's very loud.
“He’s asking everyone if they’ve seen you!” I see him through the open kitchen door. He’s hard to miss, being a head taller than everyone else. I can tell he is looking for something. Me. I finish my drink in one, hoping it gives me the confidence I’m after, and walk towards him.
“Bye then!” Becky yells to me as I walk away. It was quite rude, but she won’t remember in the morning, neither will I, probably.
Michael is beside the stairs, I think he’s about to go up them when I grab his arm. He turns to see me, but he doesn’t smile like he usually does.
“Tori? Where have you been, you disappeared?” he asks, not yelling. He leans down so I can hear him above the music. I want to push him away.
“We should dance!” He looks confused. Before he can respond I’m dragging him into the middle of the room.
It isn’t a big house, so there isn’t much space. We’re forced close together, which is good. Except Michael isn’t dancing, he’s just watching me. I'm not dancing either.
“Are you drunk?” he asks me, leaning down, not yelling.
“It’s a party!” I say as if it’s an answer.
“I should get you water.” He tries to pull to out of the dancing mass before I pull him back.
“No!” I don’t want to get sober. I can’t get sober.
“Tori,” He looks worried, staring at me like there's something wrong with me. I laugh. It’s funny because it’s true. But I’m going to fix it. Tonight. That’s why I need to be drunk. “Maybe we should go.”
“Yes!” I yell. We can leave. Go back to Michaels. I can do this. He still looks confused, but he takes my hand and leads me to the door.
It’s cold outside and Michael gives me his jacket. It smells like him. He holds my hand and leads me down the footpath. I chuckle again, sharing jackets and holding hands, it’s like we're real boyfriend-girlfriend, instead of whatever corrupt version we've made for ourselves.
I don’t know how long we've been walking but I know we're on my street now. He hasn’t said anything the whole walk. We’d agreed before that I would stay at his tonight, his parents aren’t going to be there. I feel sick again. I wrap his jacket around myself.
Michael's house is warm. It always is. I don’t know how, but even now as he unlocks the door the heat hits me. I keep the jacket on.
“Can I get you some water now?” he asks as he relocks the door once we are both inside.
I don’t answer, I’ve sobered up enough from our walk back, I can’t risk any more.
Once he turns back towards me I kiss him. It isn’t easy, with him being so tall, I have to pull him down, and I still miss slightly. We’ve kissed before, many times since the Higgs incident, and I like it, and he likes it, and it's good. It’s good, kissing Michael, because he doesn’t do anything more. He kisses me and he holds me, and he lets me set the pace of everything, and it's good.
Right now though, he pushes me back, breaking us apart. His eyes are still full of worry. And something else, anger, but I ignore that. I feel sick.
I kiss him again before he can say anything. It’s less abrupt this time. Slower. He lets me, just for a bit longer.
“You are going to end up being sick all over the landing carpet,” he says. And it’s a joke, but he can’t get himself to say it as such.
I lean back into him. His chest is solid to lean on. I don’t want to talk right now.
“let’s go to bed,” I say, I’m probably still yelling. He nods slightly but doesn’t seem happy about it.
I lead him this time. And it’s funny because it’s his house.
Michael's room is the complete opposite of mine. It’s full of things; books and toys, little bits and bobs, nicknacks that make the place scream Michael Holden. I love it.
On his bed, there are folded-up joggers and a t-shirt. They're for me, set out like they always are when I stay over. He grabs another pair from his wardrobe, “I’ll be right back.” He says, walking out towards the bathroom.
I take my top and skirt off. Putting whichever graphic-t he has given me on. It’s long enough it acts more like a dress.
A soft knock comes at the door. I’m still holding the joggers, haven’t put them on yet.
“Can I come in?” Michael’s voice comes from the now-ajar door.
“It’s your house, why are you asking.” it’s not an actual question.
“Because it would be rude to walk in before you were ready.” He says as he properly walks in, closing the door behind him and chucking his jeans across the room to the pile of dirty clothes. I could comment on it, but I don’t have any right to, Michael has seen my room.
He sits on the edge of the bed, lies back and raises his arm over his eyes. I follow him, kneeling next to his long torso on the soft checkered duvet. His vest has ridden up and I can see his belly button, I can see his underwear poking out from his shorts, I can see his toned stomach. I don’t feel anything. I look up at him, his pointed chin, his soft hair, his cracked lips. I don’t feel anything.
I care about Michael. A lot. More than I ever thought I could care about anyone. Yet still I can’t feel the things I should feel about him. What is wrong with me?
I lean down and kiss him. He smiles into it this time. I can do this. I lift my knee and move it across him to straddle his hips. He sits up slightly. Were still kissing. I don’t know what to do next.
Michael pulls back, I don’t chase him although I think maybe I should. He keeps our foreheads pressed together, and starts talking about something, someone, Peter? Is that whose house we were at? I feel dizzy. I’m not drunk anymore but I’m definitely not sober.
“Come on,” I hear him say, only because he moved as well, so I’m forced out of my head. He shuffles out from underneath me, mostly anyway, and gets under the duvet, trying to bring me with him.
“No,” I say before I realise I do.
“Hm?” he stares at me confused. I don’t know what I’m doing.
“We can't go to sleep yet”
“Why not?” I don’t know what to say. “we can watch a movie if you want, but…”
I don’t respond as he rambles on, looking around for his laptop. Instead, I grab the bottom of the shirt-dress I’m wearing and lift it over my head.
Or at least I try to, Michael moves forward and pulls it back down before I can get it past my shoulders.
“Whoa, Tori, what the fuck?!” he looks panicked, and I don’t know why. He’s the one who actually feels this way, not me.
“We have to…”
“Have to what? What are you talking about?”
“you know”
“No… I don’t know” But I can tell by looking at him that he does know what I mean, he just wants me to say it.
“We haven’t… had sex yet. We have to have sex.” The word feels foreign to me. Which is stupid. I’m not some child learning about reproduction and periods for the first time in year six. I’m nearly eighteen for fucks sake. I should be able to talk about sex without feeling so out of place. I should be able to think about having sex with my kind of boyfriend without wanting to rip my skin off.
But I don’t.
I can’t.
And it’s ridiculous.
“Tori,” Michael's voice is soft, he’s looking at me with those stupid pitiful, worried eyes again. I shove against his chest
“Stop looking at me like that!”
But he doesn’t. He takes my shaking hands, when did they start shaking? And he pulls me forward so that I’m sitting next to him. He doesn’t say anything. He moves me, gently, to lie down under the covers. He wraps his long arms around me. Holds me.
I want to protest, to kick and roll out of his capture. But it’s warm. And I’m so tired. Fingers start to comb through my hair. Soft. I close my eyes.
I wake up the same way I fell asleep, fingers running through my hair, dragging against my scalp. It feels nice. I feel horrible.
“Mornin’,” Michael's rough voice hits me. He’s trying to keep it soft and quiet but it’s not working. I groan back at him not opening my eyes, he chuckles at me, “I brought you water,” another groan. “and tea,” I peel my eyes open to glare at him, he laughs again. “and lemonade.” Finally.
I try sitting up, it doesn’t go well. My arm gives way underneath me as nausea fills my head. Michael laughs again. Dick.
“I’m going to be sick,” I say as I finally do sit up, propped against the pillows against the headboard.
“drink this. Small sips.” I take the glass from him and do as he says. The water hits the inside of my mouth and I frown at Michael.
“Lemonade after water.” He says past the mug that hides his smug smile. I try to roll my eyes, but it does nothing to help my current state.
We sit here for the next while, sipping at our drinks, not talking. He passes me two paracetamol at some point, I appreciate it. We do eventually get up, and go down to the kitchen to get something to eat. I find the joggers I threw away yesterday and put them on, they’re a lot bigger on me than they would be on Michael, but I roll the cuffs a few times and patter down the stairs after him. He makes me toast and himself another cup of tea. It’s nice.
“So,” his voice breaks out. It feels out of place. He looks uncomfortable, staring into my eyes from where he's leaning by the countertop, to where I sit at the small round table.
He doesn’t say anything more.
“So?” I prompt, voice muffled by a mouth half-full of toast.
“Yesterday,” he tries again, “what was that about?”
I look away quickly, down at the now empty plate in front of me. I wish I could say I didn’t know what he was talking about, that I was so unbelievably drunk that everything from last night was hazy and unclear. It wouldn’t even be untrue for the most part. I was unbelievably dunk. I don’t remember most of last night. But still, I knew exactly what he was talking about.
I had been thinking about it for months. Planning it for weeks. Becky knew about it. Encouraged it. Maybe that should have been my first red flag.
She’d been teasing me for weeks. After I told her about Michael inviting me to his skating competition. And about how we would have to stay overnight in a hotel for it.
“Ooooh!” She had squealed, “Tori’s going to lose her V-card!”
“What? No, I’m not” I had protested. I don’t know why the thought of it disgusted me so much. Why it still does? “What does that have to do with anything anyway? Michael and I aren’t even together like that.”
“Sure. Come on Tori, you’re not that naïve. You’re going to spend a night, in a hotel room, alone, with a boy who likes you. And you don’t think he’ll make a move?”
“No. I don’t. Michael’s not like that.”
“All boys are like that.”
And I know, and I knew then, that it was ridiculous. But a part of me also knew she was right. Sure, Michael and I had never put a label on the relationship we have, but we had an understanding that it wasn’t strictly platonic either. And I knew Michael did feel that way about me.
I had felt guilty, I still do, that I didn’t feel the same way back. I didn’t even realise that I should have been feeling that way until Becky brought it up. But since then I couldn’t stop thinking about it. About how I didn’t feel that way. About Michael. About anyone. And how that’s really fucking weird.
Everybody thinks about sex. Everybody wants to have sex. It’s normal. It’s human. So what the fuck is wrong with me?
“Tori?”
“Sorry,” I mumble, I feel so small. I hate this feeling.
“I’m not asking you to be sorry.” He snaps. I can tell he's getting frustrated. Probably has been frustrated the whole night. After I acted so stupid last night. After I got so drunk. After I all but ditched him at Peter's party.
I don’t say anything. What could I say? Sorry for basically assaulting you last night. I got myself completely wasted so that I could have sex with you because I feel guilty that every time I think about being physically intimate with another person it makes me want to kill myself. And I’m scared that if and when you do want to have sex with me, and I can't put out, that you’ll leave me.
Yeah, maybe not the best thing to say.
“You said,” He pushes again, “ that we had to have sex.”
“I know what I said” I still can’t look at him. My eyes sting. I can’t remember the last time I cried. That’s probably not healthy, but that’s not really the point right now.
“Then, what? What did you mean?”
“Michael-”
“Tori!”
“Can we not right now?”
“No. I want to know. I need to know what’s going on with you.”
I push the stool I was sitting out from under me as I stand up, it tips over and bangs against the floor as I yell “There’s something wrong with me! Okay?”
Tears won’t stop dripping from my eyes. My face feels red and blotchy. I hate myself.
“What?” he says, confused. The frustration hasn’t gone completely, but just for a moment, something else pushes through.
“I-” I don’t know what I’m saying. My throat feels wet, and my voice feels dry. “I don’t feel things the way I should. I don’t feel things about people like other people do. Like, like I’m broken.”
“I don’t… I don’t understand. What does this have to do with last night?”
I sigh, defeated. Why can't he just understand? Why can’t I just be normal?
“I can’t have sex with you Michael.”
He stares at me, neither of us has moved, neither seems to be planning to.
“I’m not asking you to,”
I can’t help but laugh, he’s still not getting it.
“Not yet. But you’ve thought about it. I know you have. And you will eventually. I wanted to try and get it over with before-”
“sex isn’t something you “get over with” ” He interrupts me.
“Well yeah, I fucking realised that last night didn’t I! But my point still stands. You shouldn't have to be trapped in a relationship where you aren't getting what you want from it."
"No." I had seen Michael when he was angry before. More than once. And I would never admit it to him, but it scared me. "No, Tori. No."
I didn't say anything. Michael tried to calm himself down. It didn't work
"You- you do not get to tell me what I want out of this."
"Michael-"
"No! Do you know what I want, Tori? What I really want.” His eyes had gone darker, staring at me. The tears hadn’t stopped but I could see Michael wasn’t fairing up much better. “I want to pass all my A-levels, but that probably isn’t going to happen. I want to move to Finland. I want to have a threesome with the 80-year-old married couple at the end of my street, just to see what it's like. I want to go to the Olympics. And I want to win. And I want you to be there when it happens.
"I want to get a shitty apartment in London. I want to get an even shittier 9-5 job that I hate. And I want to come home from that shitty job to that shitty apartment and to see you there. And I want you to tell me how crap your day was. Then I want us to get cheap pizza for dinner to make us both feel better.
"I want to visit Charlie and Nick every Saturday. And then go to your parents on Sundays for dinner. And I want you to complain the whole drive there because you don't want to deal with your mum, and that your dad's cooking is dreadful, but really, we both will know how much you need to go every week because you're so scared that Olly will grow up without you.
"I want us to get a cat. And I want you to hate the cat. But you won't hate the cat, you’ll only want to hate the car but really you'll love the cat. And I'll want to name it Mittens, and you'll want to give some old man name like Burt. And then we'll squish them together and call the cat Burtens. And then we’ll just end up calling him Buttons.
"I want us to have so much lemonade in the fridge that there's no room for milk. I want you to make me tea when I'm sick even though your tea tastes like piss. And yes, okay, sometimes, I do want to have sex with you, Tori. But I know that you don't. So we won't. Ever. And you don't get to decide if I'm okay with that. I am telling you now that I am. Okay?
I don’t know what to say.
I stand here, staring at him. He stares back at me.
“Okay?” He repeats, softer now.
And honestly, I still don’t believe him. But I think maybe I could. In time.
“Okay,” I say back.
I walk forward into his solid chest. His arms wrap around me.
Maybe I am broken. Maybe there is something wrong with me.
Or maybe not.
Right here and now, I don’t really care.