Page 36 of The Breakaway

I snorted. "Yeah, that's pretty much how it was with Logan at first, too."

"Was?"

"I mean, we've talked about some things . . . not everything.” Maddie was being so open with me, but she wasn’t with Colin anymore. I didn’t want to say anything that would paint Logan in a bad light.

"Because you don't want to talk to him or because he doesn't want to hear it?" Maddie asked.

I ran a hand through my hair. "I'm pretty sure this one's on me. I feel too nervous."

"Yes, exactly. Like, what is he going to do if I tell him that's not what feels good?"

"Oh my gosh. Seriously.”

Maddie sat up, gesticulating with her hands. “He was, like, jamming his thumb down there. Like kneading bread dough or something. I felt like he was either tenderizing meat or doing an autopsy."

That made me laugh so hard, I got the hiccups.

Maddie continued. "At least I knew what an orgasm was supposed to sound like because of When Harry Met Sally, so I just did that."

I gasped for air. "You did that exactly like her?"

Maddie chortled. "I mean, as close as I could manage. I just wanted him to stop."

I wiped tears from my eyes. "Oh my gosh, Maddie. I'm so sorry. Logan has never been that bad." I clutched my stomach, dragging air into my lungs.

Maddie flopped back down to her pillow. "So you actually, you know . . . get there?"

I sighed. "I knowhowto get there. I don't necessarily get there with Logan.” The admission popped out of me. “Not because of him,” I amended. “I think that's a me problem."

"Why is it a ‘you’ problem? Isn’t it his job to figure it out?"

I pondered that a moment, wondering how much I wanted to share. "There are some things that happened when I was a kid, and now it's really hard for me to just relax."

Maddie let out a slow breath. It didn’t take her long to connect the dots. When a female friend says “some things that happened,” we all know what that means, even if we don’t have the details. "Oh, Sharla. I'm so sorry."

"No, it's fine.” It wasn’t fine. It was very not fine. “It was a long time ago. It's just I haven't quite figured that out yet, which is why I don't talk to Logan about it because I don't even know what I want or how my body should work. You know?"

We lay there in silence for a moment, thinking.

“I want to know what good sex is like,” Maddie said finally.

I didn’t answer because the words I wanted to say lodged in my throat.Maybe it happens when you can talk about anything.Logan and I were supposed to have that. But clearly, there were a lot of things I wasn’t saying.

“It’ll happen.” I reached out and rubbed her shoulder, then turned toward the wall and pretended to settle in for sleep.

_____

On Sunday, I trudged through the slushy snow, violin case in hand, toward the arts centre. The glass and steel structure looked cold and uninviting against the grey November sky. I stepped into the quiet lobby, my footsteps echoing on the polished concrete floor, and waved to a couple of violinists I recognized in the hallway as I made my way downstairs to the practice rooms.

Having time away from the house and Rob was a good thing. Especially since all I could think about since our conversation was sex. The not having it. The wondering if I was too broken to ever make it good.

I emailed Logan, telling him everything I missed about him and informing him I’d be at Maddie’s for the weekend. It was a bit over the top and more than once, I’d checked to see if there was any way to take it back and rewrite my message. Hopefully he wouldn’t look at it in public.

Inside the cramped room, I unpacked my violin, tightened the bow, and began slowly warming up with scales. The motions were familiar and comforting, like slipping on a favourite old sweatshirt. I flipped through some sheet music I hadn't played in ages, pieces from high school that used to be my go-to's when I needed an escape. My eyes landed on Tchaikovsky's Violin Concerto in D Major. A rush of memories washed over me.

Ms. Petrova, my violin teacher back then, had insisted I learn it, even though it was far above my skill level at the time. “This piece has fire and passion,” she'd said in her thick Russian accent. "Like you. You will grow into it." I'd rolled my eyes but was so secretly flattered, I practiced for months, determined to master the challenging techniques and lightning-fast passages.

Now, as I started the familiar opening melody, the notes danced off the strings, my fingers finding the positions like no time had passed. Pieces like this were my personal rubric. Time stamps to judge my skill by. I’d improved so much, and it was good to remember that when I was surrounded by musicians who I felt far exceeded my level of musicianship.

---