untitled

As soon as he walked back through her door, she knew something was up. That something had happened while he was gone. The way his shoulders were set, the strange dullness in his expression and the lope of his step all spoke volumes without saying a word.

Aisling was still in her brother’s old sweatpants and the ratty wife beater, but in the time Joe was out with his brothers at Tao she’d managed to shower and dry her hair. Her skin was freshly scrubbed and ruddy from the exfoliator she’d used and she wore nothing but mascara on her face. She felt refreshed. It was clear Joe felt anything but.

He entered the apartment and made it no further than the oversized armless chair closest to the entryway. He collapsed heavily into the chair, folding himself up into an odd position and typing furiously into his iPhone without even so much as looking at her. She did not question him, merely continued cleaning up the remnants of her dinner, sipping idly at a glass of Pinot Noir.

She did not press him because she knew he would talk to her about anything he could when he was ready. She knew Joe kept very little from her. It was a feeling that gave her a strange sense of comfort. Knowing that he was available to her so completely. Knowing that he was so real with her. Though she never said it directly, she appreciated that to no end. She hadn’t met many people—men or women—who could maintain a relationship with that kind of candor. Yet it was something that she expected of the people around her, of the people she kept close to her. It was something she rarely found. Something she valued and treasured.

Approximately fifteen minutes passed before Joe began to speak.

“That sucked,” he said simply.

She turned to face him, leaning against the counter top and looking at him over the back of the couch while she waited for him to continue.

“It was supposed to be this nice dinner thing, with me and Nick and Kevin and the girls and it was just completely miserable. They spent the entire night giving me shit at every possible second, the guys I mean, not the girls. Like every time the girls went to the bathroom—why do you girls go to the bathroom so much?!” He looked up slightly, and instead of the half-smile she’d expected, his expression seemed borderline upset.

“It’s a teenage girl thing,” she offered simply. There was no one answer she could give and she knew he didn’t really want an answer anyway.

“They were just being assholes. Which I’m so tired of; it’s why I never want to be around them anymore. So we just argued most of the time, or we didn’t talk at all. And Kevin was so busy sucking face with Danielle and Nick and Selena were in their own world, so that just left me and Taylor…”

“Taylor?” she asked.

“Swift. The singer?” she nodded, although she only had a vague idea of who the girl was, and he continued. “She hangs around us a lot. I think they’re trying to get us together actually…”

She froze, glass of wine at her lips, before slowly returning the glass to the counter and crossing her arms over her chest.

“Do you like her?”

“I should…” he trailed off. She found herself hoping he would elaborate but he was quiet.

“You should?” she asked, unable to resist the urge to know.

“She’s beautiful. And smart. And she’s so freaking nice. It’s kind of annoying really, I blow her off so much, and she just keeps forgiving me.” He sighed. “And I know she likes me. A lot.”

“Fatal mistake,” she murmured, shaking her head slowly before taking another long sip.

“What is?”

She had not expected a response. Frankly, she had not even realized she was speaking.

“Letting a guy know that you like him a lot. Giving him that much power.”

“What’s wrong with letting a guy know you like him?”

She did not recognize the tone in his voice, and when he looked up at her his eyes could barely contain the emotions raging behind them. She realized he hadn’t met her eyes all night. She wondered how long he’d been holding back from her. Wondered what he wasn’t saying. It was unlike him to hide things.

“Nothing, really,” she said, deciding to answer rather than maintain their loaded eye contact. “Not as long as you do it the right way, as long as you don’t give up too much. But she’s not doing that. You know she likes you because she keeps coming back, even when you don’t treat her the way you should.”

“Well, I’m not trying to be an ass, I’m just—I don’t feel the same way about her.”

His tone was more than just defensive; it was vaguely combative, like he was trying to provoke her. She refused to take the bait, simply continuing her thought as calmly as possible.

“I’m not saying you’re an ass. I’m saying you’re a human. I’m saying she’s given you all the power by not standing up for herself. If she really does like you, she’s on the highway to heartbreak,” she rounded the couch as she spoke, taking a seat, glass of wine in hand. “It’s not just that she let you know she likes you. It’s that she let you know she likes you so much it doesn’t matter how you treat her, she wants you so badly that she’ll keep coming back for more.” He said nothing, made no move to respond, and so she continued speaking to fill the charged silence. “…If she wants your respect, your genuine affection and interest, she has to have those things for herself. She can’t let you treat her poorly and then expect anything else to develop, or expect things to ever change. Relationships are about mutual respect. Trust. Admiration. Love. Both parties have to expect those things of each other or they will never grow between them.”

“So that’s why you let Big Blonde into your pants so quickly. Because you were showing him that you have respect for yourself?”

The words were biting, harsh. She recoiled. Where had they come from?

“Big Blonde?”

“The listening party.”

“Brett,” she thought aloud. For a few moments she breathed slowly, steadily, trying to remain level, trying to decide how to respond. “I did not let Brett into my pants. And if I had, that would have been my choice.”

“You left with him.” His eyes were sharp and they remained fixed on her as he spoke each word deliberately.

“Yes, I did. I even brought him back to this apartment. We had another drink. And I kissed him for a while. And then he went home.” It was taking everything in her to continue speaking calmly. She shook her head as if to scold herself. “I don’t even know why I’m bothering to explain myself to you. This is none of your business.”

“None of my business?”

“Joe, you’re my friend, but you’re not my boyfriend. And you have no say in what I choose to do with my body. Especially not if you’re going to judge me.”

“I just think, for someone who was just talking so much about respect, that it’s disrespectful to yourself to allow men…”

“What makes you think I ‘allowed’ him to do anything?” she asked incredulously. “What makes you think I didn’t want that as badly—or worse—than he did?! I’d been eyeing him for weeks. I was attracted to him. I WANTED to kiss him, to be with him. And I enjoyed every moment of it. I enjoyed all three dates we had after that night, and I enjoyed every intimate moment we shared.” She took a sick satisfaction from the look of pain that twisted across his face with every sentence she spoke.

“I knew you had sex with him.” He spit the words at her. She felt the churning of anger in her stomach become more aggressive.

“I did not have sex with him. Sex and physical intimacy are not mutually exclusive. Maybe someday, when you grow up, you’ll understand that.”

He ignored her last comment which only incensed her more.

“What about the guy you left the bar with last night? The one Meg was expecting to see this morning? Did you have sex with him?”

“That’s none of your—“

“I knew it.” He leapt out of his seat.

“I did NOT have sex with him!” she exclaimed.

She rose as well, stepping closer to him; they were nearly nose to nose. She didn’t know why she was explaining herself to him. Why she even cared. She knew he didn’t agree with her lifestyle. She didn’t agree with his.

“Then why?”

“We kissed by the bathrooms for a while, and when I left he offered to walk me home. He left me at my front stoop. It’s called being a GENTLEMAN, something you clearly know very little about.”

“I know very little about being a gentleman? I’m waiting until I get married!”

“That has nothing to do with being a gentleman.”

“It has everything to do with being a gentleman.”

“So I suppose that my behavior has everything to do with being a whore, then.”

“Well, I don’t think it speaks very highly of you.”

She recoiled at his statement, stepping backwards until her calves hit the couch behind her. She couldn’t yell anymore. Her voice felt strangled as she clutched at her stomach. And there he stood looking so tall, so broad, so sure of himself in front of her. She was so hurt she almost couldn’t bring herself to respond. And he didn’t seem to notice.

“I don’t understand you, Joe.” Her voice sounded as strained as she felt. “You trade on your sexuality every day of your life. That is what pop-stars do, that is your career. And yet, you sit on a moral high horse because you choose not to physically act on that with a woman? How is selling your sexuality on stage—for a profit—any better than me choosing to privately indulge in my own sexuality for pleasure?”

“It’s not that simple,” he said softly, shoulders slumping as though the air had been taken out of him.

“Wiser words have never been spoken.”

The argument died there, on their lips. Joe sat back down on the chair and she returned to the couch. The air was thick with words unspoken. She did not know where to begin, how to continue without things becoming heated. She wanted, desperately, to understand him. And she wanted him to understand her. But she knew that they would probably never see eye to eye. That she would probably never agree with him. And she did not want to put a wedge between them. She was not yet sure if they could actively disagree and still come to some sense of understanding. Was not yet sure if Joe had the capacity to distinguish between those two things. So few people did anymore, it seemed.

So she remained silent, swirling the wine at the bottom of her glass, wondering why things had gotten so out of hand. Wondering why she’d even bothered to go there with him. What did it matter if he disagreed with her sexual practices? And what did it matter if she disagreed with his?

She rose, abandoning the dregs of her glass of wine, and headed to her bedroom. Moments later she returned, bearing sheets and pillows which she left in a neat pile at the foot of the couch. Joe said nothing. He simply looked down at his hands, the sound of his breathing filling the room. She wanted to reach out, to run a hand through his hair, to assure him that everything was all right. But it wasn’t that easy, and she didn’t want to give him the impression that it was.