The One That Got Away Read Online Free Page B

fried pickles and beer, and neither, apparently, did he. The people behind us kicked our seats, yelling at us to get a room. But he was cute when, standing under the glare of the theater marquee an hour and a half later, he asked—pretending I hadn’t just practically jumped him—whether I wanted to go track down an ice cream truck.
    “Not really,” I said, winding my fingers into his. Already wanting him so badly.
    His smile promised me everything. “Well, come on, then.”
    The sex was unbelievable. More than in just the physical sense, although it was certainly that. There was just this sense of sweetness, almost innocence, to it that I hadn’t experienced with anyone before, and haven’t since. We stayed up until seven o’clock in the morning, talking when we weren’t making love; I remember feeling a bizarre sense of pride that I was compelling enough to make him forgo his self-imposed Saturday night bedtime. I was positive that such lapses in discipline were extremely rare for him.
    After discovering we were both originally from Virginia—he from the northern suburbs outside D.C., I from the far southwestern corner, pinched between North Carolina and West Virginia (“That accent is so cute I could listen to you read the federal tax code,” he said)—we shared everything about our childhoods and our families, even the stuff you normally wait for a while before unloading. I told him that my mother had died of breast cancer two years before, and waited for him to either smother me in a big, sorrowful hug, eager to show me how sensitive he was, or stiffen with anxiety that I was about to start spewing forth a geyser of Feelings. Those were the two reactions that my personal tragedy had always elicited from guys in the past.
    But he just rubbed my knuckles gently with his thumb, and asked me questions. How long had she been sick (ten years, going into remission twice). Had anyone else in my family had the disease(my grandmother, who died of it before I was born). Did I do the self-exams like I was supposed to (yes, with the unfailing consistency that other people reserve for prayer). They were the kinds of questions you would only ask if you actually cared about the answers.
    The only sign, the entire time, that anything might possibly be less than perfect came at the very end, when I woke to the soft clink of his belt buckle as he quietly dressed.
    “Why are you going?” I mumbled, reaching for him. “It’s still early.”
    “It’s almost ten,” he said, pulling on his T-shirt. “I have a paper to finish up for tomorrow.”
    “Oh yeah…schoolwork,” I teased. I had quickly come to enjoy ribbing him about the fact that I was older than he was. His smile was a little remote, but when he leaned over my bed to kiss me goodbye, his lips lingered on mine for so long that I slid my hands down to his hips, trying to pull him back into bed with me.
    He gently dislodged them, whispering, “I really have to go. I’ll talk to you later.” I noticed that he was frowning slightly as he kissed me one last time—with irritation, guilt, or whatever else I’ll never know—but at the time I just assumed he was thinking about the paper he still had to write. Either way, I wasn’t concerned. I’ve never been the sort of person who can fall in love quickly, or easily, but as I sunk happily back into sleep that morning, I was most of the way there.
    And he was…nowhere. I never heard from him again, not even a drunken late-night booty text. After a long, silent week had gone by, I cornered Danny and asked him—my pride around my ankles—if he knew anything. He shook his head, looking so sorry for me that I immediately regretted having asked.
    “Is this the kind of thing he usually does?” I asked, trying to sound sardonically amused.
    “No,” said Danny. “Not at all.”
    He plainly didn’t know whether the fact that his friend didn’t
typically
treat women like disposable toys made his having done it to