I shrugged and said he had always been the same way. I’m a pretty horrible daughter, I said. I never really talk to my dad. But he gives me an allowance when I’m in college, that’s bad, isn’t it?
Is it? he said. You mean you think you’re enabling him, because you take the allowance but you don’t hassle him about the drinking.
I looked at Nick and he looked back up at me, with a slightly glassy, earnest expression. I realised he really was being earnest, and he really did mean to touch my hair like that, affectionately. Yeah, I said. I guess so.
But what are you supposed to do instead? he said. The whole financial dependency thing is so fucked up. Everything definitely improved for me when I stopped having to borrow money from my parents.
You like your parents, though. You get along with them.
He laughed and said, oh God, no I don’t. Are you kidding? Bear in mind these are the people who made me go on TV when I was ten wearing a fucking blazer and talking about Plato.
Did they make you do that? I said. I assumed it was your idea.
Oh no. I was very troubled at the time. Ask my psychiatrist.
Do you really see a psychiatrist, or is that part of the joke?
He made a noise like hmm, and he touched my hand sort of curiously. He was definitely still high.
No, I have these depressive episodes, he said. I’m on medication and everything.
Really?
Yeah, I was pretty sick for a while last year. And, uh. I had a bad week or two over in Edinburgh, with the pneumonia and all that. This is probably a very uninteresting thing to tell you about. But I’m feeling okay now anyway.
It’s not uninteresting, I said.
I knew Bobbi would know what to say in this situation, because she had a lot of opinions about mental health in public discourse. Out loud I said: Bobbi thinks depression is a humane response to the conditions of late capitalism. That made him smile. I asked him if he wanted to talk about being sick and he said no, not desperately. He had his fingers in my hair, at the back of my neck, and his touch made me want to be quiet.
For a little while we kissed and didn’t talk at all, except occasionally I would say something like: I want it so much. He was breathing hard then and saying things like hm, and oh, good, like he always did. He put his hand under my dress and stroked the inside of my thigh. I held his wrist on a sudden impulse and he looked at me. Is this what you want? I said. He looked confused, like I was posing a riddle which I might answer for him if he couldn’t. Well, yeah, he said. Is it … what you want? I could feel my mouth tightening, the grinding machinery of my own jaw.
You know, sometimes you don’t seem that enthusiastic, I said.
He laughed, which wasn’t really the sympathetic response I expected. He looked down, his face was a little flushed. Do I not? he said.
I felt hurt then, and said: I mean, I talk a lot about how much I want you and how much fun I’m having and it’s never really reciprocal. I feel like I don’t fulfil you a lot of the time.
He lifted his hand and started rubbing the back of his neck. Oh, he said. Okay. Well, I’m sorry.
I am trying, you know. If there are things I’m doing wrong I want you to tell me.
In a slightly pained voice he said: you’re not doing anything wrong. It’s me, you know, I’m just awkward.
That was all he said. I didn’t really know what to add, and anyway it seemed clear that no matter how unsubtly I fished for his reassurance he wasn’t going to provide it. We went on kissing and I tried not to think about it. He asked if I wanted to get on my hands and knees this time and I said sure. We undressed without watching each other. I put my face in the mattress and felt him touch my hair. He put his arm around my body and said: come here for a second. I knelt upright, I could feel his chest against my back, and when I turned my head his mouth touched the rim of my ear. Frances, I want you so badly, he said. I closed my eyes. The words seemed to go past my mind, like they went straight into my body and stayed there. When I spoke, my voice sounded low and sultry. Will you die if you can’t have me? I said. And he said: yes.
When he was inside me, I felt as though I had forgotten how to breathe. He had his hands around my waist. I kept asking him to do it harder, although it hurt a little when he did. He said things like, are you sure that doesn’t hurt? I told him I wanted it to hurt, but I don’t know whether I really did. And all Nick said was, okay. After a while it felt so good that I couldn’t see clearly any more, and I wasn’t sure if I could pronounce whole sentences. I kept saying, please, please, though I didn’t know what I was asking him for. He held a finger to my lips as if to tell me to be quiet and I took it into my mouth, until he touched the back of my throat. I heard him say oh, no, don’t. But it was already too late, he came. He was sweating, and he kept saying: fuck, I’m so sorry. Fuck. I was shivering badly. I felt that I had no understanding of what was happening between us.