Page 82 of Fade into You
I get her out of the foyer and up the stairs to her room. She’s crying the whole time. I wait to say anything or ask any questions until her door is closed behind us and we’re sitting on her bed. This is what I’ve been waiting for. The breakdown. And I’m going to be here for her. She’s going to tell me exactly what the hell has been going on with her. She’s going to admit that she’s not okay and she’ll confide in me about whatever she’s doing to hurt herself, so I can help her finally get better.
“What is it, Kayla? You can tell me.”
“I cheated on Dade,” she wails. I touch her arm and she reaches for my hand. “I’m shit! I’m garbage, Bird. I can’t even believe I did this to him. I—I—” But she can’t finish because her voice breaks off into sobs.
“Well, hold on. What—what do you mean by ‘cheated’?”
“I had sex with Emmanuel at that stupid after-party, and I don’t even know why. I don’t know what’s wrong with me.” Shelets herself fall down against her mountain of pillows, looking so small, smaller than even the tiniest little-kid version of herself I used to know a lot better than this one.
“Oh. Oh, Kayla.” I reach out and rub her back as she cries. “Kayla, you’re not garbage, okay?”
“I hate myself,” she whispers.
“Don’t say that.”
She turns her head to look at me, and I feel as if she’s just drifting away. Miles away.
“Kayla, was it, I mean w-were you…”
“Spit it out, Bird.” The comment is nasty but I let it slide.
“Was it consensual? Were you, um, sober?”
“I was sober enough. I don’t know why I did it, I just did!”
I breathe a deep breath of relief, glad she wasn’t hurt inthatway. When she sits up, it looks like she is going to pass out. But she’s stopped crying.
“Are you okay?”
“No. I’m not okay. I wasted my first time on someone I don’t even care about.”
“Well, maybe you like him more than you thought?” I try. “I mean, you used to like him a lot.”
“I liked his attention. But after, ugh.” She shudders. “I felt so sick. God,duringI felt sick. I didn’t even like it. Is it supposed to feel like that?”
“Like—like what?”
“Like… it really hurt. I mean, did it hurt when you…?”
“Yeah,” I tell her. “The first time, it did.” But what I don’t tell her is that when the person is someone youdocare about, all theways it doesn’t hurt just matter more. And when it’s someone you love—and when they love you back—there are no words for any of it because it’s more than any pain or pleasure or fear or joy all combined together.
“Okay, well, at least it’s not just me.” She sniffles and tries to laugh for a second before looking like she might cry again. “I thought maybe I was being punished or something.”
“Of course not,” I tell her.
“I felt horrible the whole time. I haven’t stopped feeling horrible for weeks now. Or sick. I just wish I could erase it.”
“I know. But it’ll be okay.”
“Do you think I’m bad?” she asks, and she looks into my eyes like my answer is a matter of life and death.
“No, I don’t think you’re bad.” I pause because I want to make sure what I say next is separate. “I think you didn’t mean to hurt Dade.”
“I didn’t! I swear I didn’t,” she says like she’s pleading with herself.
“But I think you meant to hurt yourself.”
“What?”
