It seemed normal. I was the star player in my year. Of course, the new coach wanted to spend extra time developing my talent.
At first, it was just football. Then advice on school, friends, girls.
Then, one day, the advice came with a demonstration.
She wanted to show me how to kiss a girl.
How to touch a girl.
How a girl should touch me.
It was important, for my development as a man and an athlete. We worked with our bodies, didn't we?
Wouldn't it help me on the field, if I knew what to do with my body here?
It never occurred to me to say no. Or ask her to stop. Or draw a line somewhere.
Who turns down help from their coach?
What kind of man turns down an attractive woman? Especially one way out of his league?
At the time, it didn't seem all that fucked up. It was against the rules, sure, but what good are rules in the face of love?
That was how I saw it, how she sold it. We had a forbidden love affair.
I couldn't tell anyone.
Who would believe me?
Who would see it as wrong?
I kept it secret for a long time. Then one day, I was pissed at a party, and a friend was challenging me. He didn't believe I had any experience.
It was usual teenage boy talk. None of them had the experience they claimed. I could have shrugged or made up a story or said I had nothing to prove.
Instead, I told him.
I was drunk enough he believed me.
But he wasn't concerned, he didn't call it wrong; he didn't threaten to tell my parents.
He was in awe. How lucky, a gorgeous older woman wanted me. Why couldn't he find that?
Most men say the same when posed with a hypothetical.
A hot older teacher? Of course! Lucky guy.
The friend told someone else and soon it was hot gossip at school.
Then someone told Ty.
He was old enough to know better, to see it for what it was.
I still don't know how he did it, but he stopped her. Somehow, he stopped her.
Or maybe she was done with me. Ready to move on to her next victim.
I don't know. I should have said something. Come forward. Stopped her forever.
But I couldn't. I couldn't be a victim. I couldn't be a topic of debate—
Was he a lucky kid? Or was he raped?
Did he make it all up?
Why would someone like her want someone like him?
I can't even think it.
Ty meant well, bringing her up, reminding me how much it fucked with my head—
But to compare me to her?
Am I that far gone?
Am I really that much of a mess?
After I finish work, I push my fucked-up thoughts aside, and prepare for battle: Planning Ty and Indigo's party with Sienna.
We're supposed to do it here, at the office, in the conference room with glass walls and witnesses.
At ten to four, she texts.
Sienna: Can we meet here? My dress is still drying. And I can't be seen in the one I wore Friday. (The horror). Would it kill Ty to go someplace I can wear jeans?
Probably. Ty loves the propriety. For the status and for the extra thrill when he drags his fiancée to a secluded corner.
Tonight, we're meeting at a bright, airy restaurant.
One without secluded corners.
Because he doesn't trust me any longer?
Or because he likes the fucking restaurant?
I don't know. I don't know if I trust myself.
Cam: Fuck Ty. Wear the jeans.
Sienna: I like the dress. Come over. I have coffee and cheap vodka.
Cam: You really know how to convince a guy.
Sienna: It's good coffee.
Coffee at Sienna's flat. It's not a big deal. We're planning a party. We need a place to talk without interruptions.
I can handle going to her place.
I have some self-control.
Not a lot.
But some.
Chapter Eleven
Cam
Sienna opens on the second knock. "A suit, again?"
"Always."
"Did you really wear shorts yesterday?"
"I don't know. Is there proof?"
She smiles and motions come in.
I nod of course as if it's not a big deal. As if I visit women's flats to plan parties every weekend.
When did I last visit a woman's home?
Hotels are better.
No intimacy.
No closeness. No view into someone's life.
I step into the hallway. Close the door behind me. Look around the space.
The same hardwood floor, high ceilings, and stainless steel of Ty's flat. The same sliding glass door. The same railing on the balcony.
Even the sliver of view—the deep blue of the river, sandwiched between two tall buildings.
Everything else different.
The room is bright, vibrant, alive.
Pure Sienna.
A red couch. A wall adorned in star decals. A white desk in the corner covered in sharpie scribbles.
"Indigo's work." Sienna moves closer to the desk. "Mostly Amy Winehouse lyrics." She traces a line of purple lyrics. "Her favorite."
"You don't like her?"
She motions a little. "I like the jazzy vibe, but she's a little… self-destructive, you know?"
Of course, but Sienna doesn't. She really doesn't understand Amy Winehouse's impulse to destroy her life, her relationship, herself.
Sienna is a healthy, functional person.
I'm not.
How could I begin to explain it?
Sometimes you hate yourself so deeply you're driven to destroy yourself.
It's alcohol and sex for me.
Other people cut themselves or starve themselves or drug themselves.
Or do stupid shit that burns every bridge around them.
Sienna's eyes flit to me.
She asked a question.
I didn't answer. "Your sister doesn't mind?"
"I think she likes the pain. After Ty left the first time, she was miserable, but she couldn't admit it to herself. She couldn't admit she missed him."
And she hated herself for it.
Sienna doesn't see it. It's completely beyond her understanding.
And I don't know how to explain it. Not with words and not with musical choices.
I need to get the fuck away from this subject.
I turn to Sienna. "Play something you like."
"There's no way you'll like what I like."
"I watched Ninety Day Fiancée."
"And you hated it!"
"I still watched it."
She smiles.
My shoulders ease. My stomach settles. I'm not here to dwell in my fucked-up choices. I'm here to plan my best friend's bachelor party.
What's it matter that I can't stop staring at her long legs? Or picturing her shorts on the floor? Or envisioning her coming on my hand?
I have self-control.
I do.
"Okay. Fine. But I'm playing the entire album." She shakes her head no way you'll like it, but she stills picks something on her cell.
A peppy pop song fills the room. "Lily Allen?"
She nods.
"You two love your British pop stars."
Her laugh is soft. "Is that why you recognize her?"
"I don't live under a rock."
"So you do know who Billie Eilish is?" She laughs. "Ty can never remember. Indie is always explaining it to him. The pop star with the green hair, with the song—"