When in Paris... (Language of Love) (30 page)

“
A virgin?” I don’t recognize my own voice.

“
Yes a virgin,” she mumbles, staring at the floor.

“
But what about Jeff?”

Her head comes up. “What about Jeff? I didn’t have sex with him if that’s what you’re asking.”

I’m not about to tell her that her asshat of an ex used to brag about how hot she was in bed. I’d been in the vicinity when he’d been bragging to some of the guys about it. How big a douchebag does a guy have to be to tell other guys what his girlfriend is like in bed? In my estimation? A pretty damn big one. My brother says only guys with little dicks kiss and tell. After listening to Jeff, I’m sure Brett’s right.

But she did date the guy for almost a year. None of this makes sense.

I don’t know what to say as this is definitely not my area of expertise. To my knowledge, none of the girls I’ve had sex with were sluts but they definitely hadn’t been virgins.

A virgin.

I take in her pale-blonde hair, her beautiful face and that body— I shake my head in disbelief. How the hell had
she
managed to remain a virgin this long? Obviously by choice. Which makes the fact that she had sex with me…a major deal. I’m not sure how that makes me feel.

“
Look, Zach, I need to get dressed.”

In other words, get the hell out. Which I do without protest. I need some time alone to absorb what she just told me.

She barely looks at me when she brushes past and hurries to the door to let me out as if I can’t be trusted to leave on my own. We part without another word spoken.

My mind is much clearer by the time I get back to my apartment. No wonder she freaked when I told her I wasn’t looking for a girlfriend. I’m the only guy she’s ever had sex with. The only one.

A virgin.
Wow.
I’m still trying to wrap my head around
that
. I’m trying to figure out why she decided to give it to me. And the more I get used to the thought, the more it marinates, the more I like it. Which makes me what, some sort of throwback from like a century ago?

So what if she gave you her virginity
, the voice inside my head mocks.
She’s not having sex with you again. She doesn’t want to have anything to do with you now.

After a sleepless night and an hour spent picking up my cell and putting it back down, I decided I needed to talk to her face-to-face in hopes we could—I don’t know—get beyond this I guess. Come to a middle ground and find something that would work for both of us. But the minute I saw her and heard the distant tone in her voice, I knew she wasn’t going to be amenable to anything I had to say. Then she drops the virginity bombshell, knocking me literally down for the count.

But that doesn’t change how I feel about getting seriously involved with not just her but with anyone. Christ, fourteen of the fifteen minutes I spent on the phone with Ashley last night was spent trying to talk her off the edge of her emotional cliff.

I seriously don’t have the emotional fortitude to take on another female right now. Another girl who’ll be making demands on me, expecting things from me, depending on me. I’m just not up for that.

~*~*~

I didn’t expect Monday to be easy but I never expected it to be this rough, starting with the shitty weekend I’m happy is finally over.

First off, I don’t see Olivia the rest of the weekend. I don’t run into her in the cafeteria. I freely admit to crashing a sorority party in hopes of seeing her. Instead I’m hit on almost simultaneously by three of the girls living in the house. Cute, pretty and prettier but none of them raise my interest enough to even flirt.

Eventually I spot Rebecca laughing with two other girls I don’t recognize. I scour the packed room and see no sign of Olivia. I’m shit out of luck. When I turn to leave, I find myself on the receiving end of Rebecca’s Antarctic gaze.

My last thought as I headed out was,
who needs this shit
?

Now I’m going to have to see Olivia in class and I have no idea what to expect. I want to talk to her and I don’t. After what happened with Rebecca, I see I’m being painted as the bad guy. But I don’t see that what I said or did was so bad. It’s not like I knew she was a virgin—although had I known, I’m not sure that would have stopped me. And it would have been a lot worse if I’d strung her along. I mean, what did I do that was so wrong but tell her the truth? I was damned either way.

Olivia’s sitting at her desk when I enter the classroom. I can tell by the way she stiffens that she’s seen me but she doesn’t turn to look. Okay, I see this is the way it’s going to be. She doesn’t want to talk to me, that’s her deal, not mine. I’ve done enough apologizing and explaining for I don’t even know what.

Rebecca walks in a minute later, shoots me a look only slighter warmer than the icy glare from Saturday night before she takes a seat beside Olivia. Soon their heads are together as they talk quietly. Too quiet for me to hear their conversation, but the couple peeks I get from Rebecca, it’s not hard to conclude that yours truly is the topic of conversation. Olivia doesn’t glance back at me.

Not once.

Fishing my textbook out of my backpack, I drop it onto the desk where it lands with a thud.

Only then does Olivia turn—as well as everyone else in class—but now I’m the one not looking at her. I’m doing the same damn thing she’s been doing and studiously avoiding eye contact.

Right, like I need a girlfriend so I’ll have to put up with more of this crap? No. Thank. You.

C
HAPTER
T
WENTY-
O
NE

OLIVIA

Because it’s human nature to turn in the direction of loud noises, I’m convinced Zach dropped his book on purpose. It works, which really ticks me off.

After drinking in the sight of him bent over his book, my head whips back around to confront Rebecca’s steady gaze.

“I’m telling you, he was staring at you,” she insists, speaking low and forceful. And it’s not that I don’t believe her, I just wish I’d seen something in his expression that would indicate he’s feeling as crappy as I am now.

I shrug, pretending nonchalance. “Who cares?” I do, that’s who. How weak and pathetic is that?

“I don’t know, Liv, I’ve had some time to think about it and I don’t think he’s that bad a guy. I didn’t see him flirting with anyone at the party, and when he left, he was alone.”

She doesn’t have to tell me that he had ample opportunity; that girls were throwing themselves at him all night. She doesn’t have to. I know.

Before Rebecca can continue to argue her point,
mademoiselle
Dubois starts class. I’m glad for the reprieve but since this is our first day back since the trip, all we talk about is Paris. There’s no getting away from the memories.

It’s a seventy-five minute chorus of,
When we were in Paris
and on and on. The sights we saw, the things we did, and everything reminds me of Zach.

How many girls can say they lost their virginity in Paris? How many can say that’s where they fell so hard for a guy it’s hard to get back up?

I should at least be happy the trip was memorable, certainly one I’ll never forget. And the trip changed me. The girl who came back isn’t the same girl who left over a week ago.

When I told April what happened between us, she sagely replied, “If he’s too stupid to see how great you are, it’s better you find someone else.” And I don’t think she was just talking about me. My gut tells me that something is going on with her that involves Troy but when I asked if anything was wrong, she gave me one of her too-bright smiles and blithely waved the question off.

I don’t see any conceivable way Zach and I can go back to the way things were before Paris. It would just be too hard. Which is why staying as far away from him is the sanest thing I can do. I just
have
to forget him, that’s all there is to it.

With a renewed sense of purpose, I join in the discussion, making sure to stick to safe topics like the group excursions and centuries-old landmarks. No more thinking about Zach. No thinking about sex. And absolutely no thinking about sex with Zach.

~*~*~

The next two weeks go by both fast and slow. Slow when I have too much time to think. My mind helplessly goes back to my time in Paris, which of course means Zach’s in my thoughts constantly. Naturally, French class is its own particular brand of torture. But I manage to make it through by avoiding all eye contact, even though there are definitely times I
feel
his gaze boring into me. And during those times, fighting the urge not to return that look in spades has me white-knuckling my chair to prevent myself from giving in to my weakness.

The second class is over, I race for the door like I’m training for the next Olympic triathlon. The play helps take my mind off Zach. Rehearsals are blessedly tiring, requiring all my concentration, but I’m confident I’ve nailed my portrayal of Caroline. All in all, the play has really come together, everyone working in accord and Miss Ramsay couldn’t be more pleased with our individual and collective performances.

In three weeks, I’ll be going home for Thanksgiving and the Friday after that is opening night. I’ve already spoken to my mom and her and my dad say they’ll be there as well as April and Rebecca.

Apart from the play and classes, I refuse to stay cooped up in my room, knowing all I’ll do is mope. It’s a good thing too because April and Rebecca won’t stand for that. So on weekends, I paste a smile on my face and I go out: shopping, dinners, movies, and even a couple of parties.

The latter of which is where I am tonight. I haven’t run into Zach outside of class, unless I count the time I cut my shopping short when I spotted him coming into the grocery store.

Whew, that had been a close one.

So far, I’ve attended one Halloween sorority-hosted party, which was last Saturday. This is the first fraternity one I’ve gone to.

Tonight April has a date with a blond on the swim team she’s admitted to having only lukewarm feelings for—I don’t know why she bothers—so I’m here with Rebecca. She’s friendly with a bunch of the guys that live in the house.

“What are you drinking?” Rebecca asks, already moving toward the kitchen at the rear of the house.

“A wine cooler if they have any.” I’ve never acquired a taste for beer, which on some party campuses would be enough to get a person kicked out of college.

Nodding, she holds up her index finger in the universal
gimme a minute
sign. She immediately disappears down the hall, lost in the throng of bodies. The place is packed to capacity.

“Olivia.”

I turn in the direction of the male voice shouting my name above the loud music and raucous laughter of drunken college students. I’m standing in the hall right outside the main living area and immediately spot Dave from my Lit class waving at me from across the room. At least two dozen people turn, following the direction of his gaze. Thanks, just what I need. His eyes light up when mine meet his and he begins shouldering his way toward me.

“Hey, Dave,” I say once he’s standing in front of me.

“Hey. I’ve never seen you at any of these mixers,” he says, pointedly glancing around, his sweep including the writhing bodies and the guy guzzling beer from a hose attached to a keg.

I laugh. “I’m trying to get out more.”

Smiling, his eyes peruse me appreciatively. “Lucky us.”

I’m pretty sure he’s about to come on to me and although he seems like a great guy, I’m not at all attracted to him.

“Well it was nice seeing you. I’ve got to find my friend. She’s lost somewhere in this madness.” I try to cushion the blow with a smile.

After a pause, he nods. “Cool, I’ll check back with you later then.”

“Right, later,” I say and start heading in the direction I saw Rebecca disappear.

“Olivia?”

Again, I turn at the sound of my name. Standing behind me is a guy I don’t recognize. Not as tall as Zach, he’s probably just six feet or so and has the kind of bleach-blond good looks most girls would find attractive. He definitely has a killer smile, one he’s currently trying to dazzle me with.

“Olivia Montgomery?” His dark-blond brows lift in query.

“Um, yes,” I reply with some trepidation, hoping my reputation—such that it may be—is not preceding me. If he propositions me, I’m not sure I won’t dump the entire contents of the keg over his head.

“Scott Carver.” He sticks out his hand and I hesitantly take it because that’s the mannerly thing to do. His grip is gentle yet firm, his hands dry and large. All very well and good. With his name, however, I draw a blank.

“Our brothers work together,” he prompts, clearly seeing the confusion on my face.