“Why are you waiting?” Her question isn’t condescending or calculated, merely quiet and curious.

“I don’t…date.”

A lilting little laugh fills the silence. “One has nothing to do with the other.”

No, it doesn’t. Still, “Sex complicates everything, and I decided a long time ago I wasn’t lookin’ for any. Complications, I mean.”

“That sounds a tad dramatic.” I don’t see her eye roll, but I can hear it.

“It’s the truth.”

“Well it doesn’t have to be complicated. It is what you make it.”

“Someone always gets hurt.”

“Who gets hurt? The other person? I thought guys didn’t care about feelings—are you telling me you’re sensitive?”

“I just know from experience—everything is one-sided and the other person loses out.” My statement is vague, slightly ominous, and only makes a bit of sense.

“Are you even talking about yourself?” Charlie gives her head a shake. “I’m so confused.”

That makes two of us.

I choose to be honest. “No, I guess I’m not talkin’ about myself.”

“Who then?”

“My parents.” I let out a puff of air.

Charlie is silent a few heartbeats before leaning back against the swing’s bench. “Ah, I see.”

I want to ask, What do you see? But I’m afraid she’ll actually fucking tell me what she sees when she looks at me, and the last thing I want or need is a psych eval from a pretty girl in the middle of the night on a Friday.

That’s not why I brought her out onto this porch.

“Love fucks it all up.”

The swing slowly sways back and forth, only its rusty chain breaking the silence. Then, “So. You’re one of those, eh?”

I detect a chuckle tacked on to the end of her sentence. Charlie is amused.

“One of what?”

“You have to be in love to have sex with someone. You want to feel something for them. Is that it?” The way she says it oozes skepticism, as if the notion is impossible. She’s put me in a box, stuck that box on a shelf, and labeled it Guys who fuck whomever. Anyone with a pulse, like some of my teammates.

“No, but I’d like to have a relationship before stickin’ my dick inside them. Otherwise it’s just weird.”

“Stickin’ muh dee-uk,” Charlie repeats with a laugh, full on this time, loud and boisterous and sounding fucking glorious. “You and that Southern accent of yours have a way of making everything sound so eloquent.”

My lips press into a thin line. “I appreciate the sarcasm. Truly.”

“Don’t be a pooh. I like it,” she says somewhat shyly. “The accent, I mean. I’m a bit rusty with the teasing.”

I don’t want to say it out loud, but most girls do love the accent. Fucking love it. Eat that shit up, in fact, driving me batshit loco with their demands: Say something Southern, Triple J! Say y’all! Say fixin’ to!

Drives me fuckin’ nutso.

Charlie here isn’t immune to it, isn’t the exception; she’s the rule. Same as all the others, really.

I have nothing more to say as she rocks the swing with the toe of her shoe, though she’s the shorter one between us. I watch her leg—her calf in the tight, dark, denim skinny jeans. The toe of her leather boot pressing into the wooden floor, releasing. Pushing. Releasing. Pushing.

Controlling our movements, allowing us the chance to talk.

My eyes stray up her leg. Knee. The hand resting there.

Gold bracelets, gold ring circling. Long, delicate fingers. Nails painted a soft pink.

She taps one finger, and I blink, eyes finally reaching hers again.

Charlie is biting down on her lower lip, barely concealing her smile, head doing that little shake as if to say, I don’t even know what to do with you right now.

“I still don’t believe it.”

She’s back on the virgin subject again—though I don’t think we ever left it.

“How did we get on this topic?” I ask, for lack of anything else to say.

“You blurted it out.” Pause. “You’re worse than any girl I’ve ever met who wanted to tell someone a secret.”

“I am not.”

“Yeah, ’fraid so. You just couldn’t keep that information to yourself, could ya?”

“Sorry. Don’t know why I fuckin’ said it.” Other than I’m a moron.

Charlie thinks, forehead wrinkling in concentration. “Is it hard?”

I almost choke on the beer I just took a swig of. “Excuse me?”

“Not doing it—has it been hard?”

Ummmm…yes it’s been hard.

My dick. Not having a place to put it. Waiting.

Hard.

“Sure.”

She waits for more but there is none. “Care to expound on that?”

“No.”

With a side glance, she gets more comfortable on the swing, leaning back and letting her legs dangle. “It’s not easy for girls either.” Charlie examines her fingernails. “I’m not a virgin, but sometimes wanking off with my own fingers just doesn’t cut it, know what I mean?”

This time I do choke on my beer, bubbles lodging in my esophagus and causing me to cough just to clear the airway. I cover my soaking mouth with the inside of my elbow, shooting her a menacing glare.

How fucking dare she bring up masturbating?

“Care to expound on that?” I ask, once I can breathe again.

“No.” I can see her cheeky grin in the dark, white teeth shining under the dim porch light. “No I do not.”

“Then why did you bring it up?”

“Oh relax, it’s not like I gave you any of the dirty details, like how many fingers I use—or don’t use.”

“What?”

“You should see the look on your face.”

I lean back and huff out a sigh. “Whatever. I’m sure it looks like the one you gave me when I said the V word.”

“Virgin. When you said you were a VIRGIN.” Jesus Christ, she’s practically shouting it. “There it is again.” She laughs, pointing at my face until I swat her finger away with my hand, clamping my fist around her index. Place it back on her lap and cover her palm with the flat of mine.

“Could you not?”

“Pfft. It’s not like anyone would believe me anyway. Jackson Jennings Junior, a virgin? As if.” She doesn’t try to move away or withdraw her hand. “Besides, no one is paying any attention—I could shout it from the rooftops and not a single person would look up.”

She’s got a valid point; the students around here are so fucking full of themselves, their social media feeds, and their own business that they probably wouldn’t notice some girl screaming at the top of her lungs on the top deck of a house.

They’d film it on their phone, though, thinking she was going to jump.

Sick.

“Still, if you could keep your voice down, that would be great.”

“You’re not embarrassed, are you?”

I wasn’t, no—not until I brought it up. It’s the one secret I have, if you don’t count how shitty my life was growing up with two parents who resented each other. A mother who resented me, a father who only cared about winning.