You First: A Joe Goldberg Prequel (You, #0)(78)

“So is this like…are you into older women? Did you get expelled because you seduced some sexy math teacher?”

Girls are insane, they really are, and I laughed. “No, Vail. It’s just about you.”

And then we started walking. You said you knew I was younger, but seventeen is…You beamed. “Just don’t call the cops on me, okay?”

And then it was your turn. What a moment, what a win. I wasn’t even scared to hear about Harris Wesley Walker IV—you just called me your boyfriend—and what a relief, the way you laughed.

“You mean that picture of me and Dubs? He’s one of Cynthia’s boy toys, and I was mostly begging him not to mess with her head. But he is pretty funny; you’ll meet him if…”

I wrapped my arm around you. No if. Just us.

We walked and talked and wandered into one of those midtown Irish bars where nobody knows your name and never will. You were excited to watch me flash my fake ID.

I did hit a nerve when I teased you about being a pervert, but then I fixed it.

“I don’t think you’re a pervert. I think your impending quarter-life crisis made you realize that life was passing you by, that you needed to do something different, which is why you posted that ad on Craigslist and convinced yourself that I was a twentysomething.”

You murmured in that sheepish please-stop way. “Interesting theory, Dr. Goldberg. Very Judd Hirsch in Ordinary People meets Robin Williams in Good Will Hunting. I like it.”

I knew I was right. I also knew to leave it the fuck alone.

And then you elbowed me. “Only you would get a fake ID with your real name.”

“Hey,” I said. “If it ain’t broke, don’t fix it.”

We toasted to my coming out of the age closet, which almost got us kicked out of the bar.

Yes, Vail, it’s another one for the Moleskine. We survived our first fight. I brought you home to SoHo and you put on your raspberry beret and we had makeup sex with Pop Rocks in the good way. On my CD player, not my dick. And we had yet another first!

I sucked on your tiny extra toe. And then you gushed. Best orgasm ever.

We’re on a roll. Best week of my life. And you’re right. Life should never be all good, so it’s kind of perfect that I wake up in heaven every day only to go to hell.

I still can’t fucking believe it, Vail. I can’t believe how far I’ll go for you, for us. I can’t believe I work at the Virgin Fucking Megastore in Times Fucking Square.

I love you so much that I put on a red shirt and talk to people about NSYNC. Dick thinks I’m insane for working here, for dating you. She has all the power, Jailbait. You gave up your job and your home for this chick, this chick who’s old enough to be your mother. Not true, and sad that Dick doesn’t get it. We good guys go to hell for love. I needed a job, and you wanted an employee discount, and speak of the devil…it’s you. Breezing into the loud, dumb madness.

I smile. “Welcome to hell. How may I assist you?”

You plop your booty on the counter by the register. Two Woody Allen DVDs and a book, Fast Food Nation. You lower your voice. “Don’t worry, babe. Barry has some feelers out. You won’t be here long.”

I don’t have a care in the world and I know you and Barry won’t let me die in this plastic fucking hellhole. “I like your beret. Where’d you get it?”

“Isn’t it great? My boyfriend gave it to me…. He also made me the best mixtape….”

“He sounds like a keeper.”

You hold up Fast Food Nation. “Wanna go to McDonald’s?”

I love being in hell with you, navigating the human bumper cars, holding the door for you as we approach the golden arches. We get burgers and fries and a side of nuggets, and I tell you that you’re insane—you like Sweet ’N Sour sauce and you hate Tangy Barbeque—and you tell me that I’m insane—I got a strawberry milkshake.

“At least I have a reason to be insane.”

You dip a fry in Sweet ’N Sour. “What do you mean, babe?”

I rant about the new woman in my life, my evil boss Petra, about capitalism. You laugh, and I pause. “Yes, my dear.”

“Nothing, just sometimes, Joe…Sometimes I’m like…there is no way this guy is seventeen. He’s a grumpy old man.”

“And sometimes I think there’s no way you’re twenty-five, but I digress.”

You ask if I’m almost done ranting, and I give you a nugget. You smile. “Go on.”

“No self-respecting bookstore has neon fucking signs. People are lazy, so lazy that they want the bookstore and the T-shirt store and the junk store to be in the same place, and Petra…”

You elbow me and giggle. “I love her for you.”

“You’re just happy that she’s into girls.”

“Well, yeah, babe. I mean, I don’t miss Virginia, but you…Never mind.”

I know you well enough to wipe my hands and avoid another misunderstanding. “Vail…”

You turn a little red and close your Fast Food Nation. “Okay. The thing is…”

You need a second, so I give you a second. For a girl, you’re not that good at talking, but this is how we are now. Open and honest. Direct. “Okay,” you say. “I know what I mean when I tell you that there is no way you’re seventeen.”