At turns hilarious and gut-wrenching, this is a tremendously fun slow burn

party, you found me passed out on Chris’s bed. In my head, you went down on me, climbed on top of me. I
don’t remember having sex with Emma that night. I remember having sex with you.”
“Can you hear yourself?” I stare at him, mouth agape. Inside my rib cage, my heart is a barreling
thunder at the words went down on me. I never went down on him – but she did? “Do you hear the bullshit
meter screaming in the background? You’re telling me that the night you had sex with Emma, you thought it
was me?”
Elliot groans, raking a hand through his hair. “I realize how insane it sounds. Even at the time, I couldn’t
piece the night together, and I’ve had eleven years to try to make sense of it. I was so drunk, Mace. I
remember waking up to the feel of your mouth on me. I remember touching your hair, talking to you,
encouraging. And when I look back, I still see your face when she climbed on me.”
He shakes his head, squeezing his eyes closed, and when he says this, I remember what Brandon started
to say, something about how Elliot wouldn’t.
“I woke up,” he continued, “and had a moment of blistering embarrassment because Chris’s bedroom
door was open and a few people were walking around cleaning shit up. I was all alone with my dick hanging
out. I texted you asking where you’d gone. Two days I went along with things, thinking I’d had drunk sex
with my girlfriend at a party. I thought you were embarrassed or angry at me for being so wasted, and
that’s why you hadn’t called.”
Is this his truth – some quiet, heartbreaking mistake? Part of me aches for this version of things, wanting
to believe it so badly that it makes my teeth clench. The other part of me wants to scream that this tiny
whimper of a drunken misunderstanding unraveled everything. It should have been something intentional,
something enormous. Something worthy of what came after.
“If you’d have let me explain…” he says quietly, looking at me in bewilderment. “I called you over, and
over —”
“I know you did.”
I was aware that Elliot called several times a day, for months. I never checked my old email account
afterward, but if I had, there would probably be scores of unread messages there, too.
I knew his regret was enormous.
But that wasn’t ever the problem.

---

“I fucked up,” he says, “but Macy, even as bad as that is – and I know it was bad – was it really worth
this?” He gestures between us. “Was it really enough to make you just… drop me? After everything? To not
talk to me – ever again?”
I stare at him, plucking words from the masses and arranging and rearranging them into sentences. The
Emma thing feels so small now. It was just the first domino. “We had this deep, unbreakable trust, you know
– and you broke that, you did – but it’s not just that. It’s… it’s me. It’s been me, too.”
“You don’t think I deserved the chance to explain?” he asks, misunderstanding my incoherence,
restrained emotion making his voice tight.
I can tell he’s waiting for an answer. And the answer is yes, of course he deserved a chance to explain. Of
course he did. In an alternate reality, he would have called me later that day, and I would have answered.
“I loved you,” he says. “I have always loved you. There was never anyone but you for me, you knew that.”
I fumble through my words: “It was a really bad… it was a bad night —”
“I know it was bad, Mace.” His voice is growing harder, nearly disbelieving. “We were each other’s first
love, first sex, first everything. But come on. That’s a knockdown, drag-out fight. That isn’t… disappearing
for a decade.”
“It wasn’t just that.” My heart and mouth seem to agree that we cannot, in fact, do this right now.
Metal screeches against asphalt in my ears. I close my eyes, shaking my head to clear it.
“Do you have any idea what it’s been like?” he asks, getting more frustrated now in the face of my
inarticulate fluster. “Every day, I woke up and wondered if that would be the day I’d see you again. And if I
did, how would it go? I missed you, so much. I’m twenty nine, and I’ve never loved another woman.” He
stares at me, unblinking. “And every woman I’ve been with knows it, unfortunately for them.”
I open my mouth to speak, but nothing comes out. He stares at me, bewildered.
“You want to know what Rachel meant about how fucked-up I was? Well, here’s one example: the first
person to go down on me after you left had to sit there while I broke down like a fucking maniac,” he says,
“trying to explain why I didn’t want her to give me head.”
“I’m sorry.” I cover my face, breathing in, breathing out. Item twenty-seven on Mom’s list was to remind
me to breathe. In and out, ten times, when I’m stressed.