A cackle bursts from me. “Ohmygod, Mom, yes. I know how sex works. I’m a virgin, but not exactly by choice, and I’m definitely not a child.”
“But you’re marrying an older and more experienced man, Jolene. Certainly you can see how I feel like it’s my duty to at least have an honest conversation with you about… expectations, I suppose you could say.”
I blow out a breath, because honestly, thisisa topic that’s been on my mind pretty much constantly since things happened with Westley yesterday. I look at my door, which is closed—Wes and Dad are on the porch, drinking coffee and talking. Hopefully Dad hasn’t said anything too embarrassing.
I scrub my spiky hair. “My thoughts on that are actually pretty complicated.” I stand up, go to my desk, and fiddle with a mechanical pencil, because I don’t think I can look at Mom while I say this stuff. “I thought about talking to Bethany about this, but…she’s a virgin too, so I don’t really have anyone Icantalk to that can give me sound advice.” I look at Mom, my expression tangled up between hard and earnest and pleading. “I need you to try to be not just my mother, for a second.”
She picks at a loose thread on the quilt of my bed. “I’ll do my best, honey.”
“I don’t want to die a virgin,” I whisper.
“Jolene—”
“Just listen, for a second, please.” I click the pencil until the lead is almost an inch long, then push it back in. “It’s not why I’m doing this. It’s really, really not. There really is a connection between us, an emotional one that I can’t explain. But then, it also is a part of why I’m doing it. Because…if not for this thing with Wes, Iwilldie a virgin. I’ll die never knowing what it’s like to be…wanted.” I hold up my hands to forestall any protests from her. “I know, Iknow—you and Dad love me with everything you’ve got. I know. But it’s not the same and you know it. I want something more than you and Dad can give me, and that doesn’t reflect on you, it’s just reality.”
I swallow hard, let out a shaky, nervous breath.
“Mom, I…I want…that. With him. Yeah, there is an element of it that has to do with the fact of my years-long crush on him, I’m not going to try and deny that. But now suddenly he’s real and he’s in my life, and…I’m scared. I don’t want him to feel…obligated. And I also don’t want to feel pressured. And…god, it’s so complicated, Mom. And I just…I don’t know how to navigate it. And the fact that I’m sickdoesenter the equation. It has to. I don’t have much time left, and that just hangs over everything. It colors everything I do, everything I think, everything I want, and I’m worried he’s just going along with this out of pity for the poor sad cancer girl from TikTok, but he’s too nice to say anything.” I close my eyes, keep going. “And then…there’s a very real part of me that doesn’t care if that’s why he’s doing this. Like, it’s a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity because it’shim. But for me, it stops being aboutwho he isand it starts being about the time I have left and what I want to do with it. And part of me is just like, this guy clearly likes you, so just run with it. It’s the only chance I’m going to get to…to get carried away with a guy. To do any of the stuff that other girls my age are doing, that’s just part of life and growing up and everything I feel like I’ve missed out on. But just the fact that I’m going to die soon means I have to think things through differently.”
Mom comes up behind me, takes the pencil from my fingers and sets it on my desk. Turns me to face her and holds my cheeks. “Jo, my love. Listen. It’s my job as your parent to protect you. To keep you safe. To give you the best life I can.” Her voice cracks. “You being sick has…it’s made me sometimes feel like I can’t do that. So the chances I get, I maybe sometimes go a little overboard. I know that. And your dad and I having to face the reality that—that you…” she trails off, closing her eyes, inhaling deeply and holding it. Lets it out, slowly. “That God is going to take you home soon. It’s the most impossible thing in the world. In a way, I don’t think wecancome to grips with it.”
I sniffle. “God, Mom. Come on.”
“I’m sorry, but I have to say this. Iwantyou to have happiness. God knows you’ve had little enough in your life, and I hate that more than I can say. And yeah, this whole situation with Westley is sudden and confusing and strange and it worries us. It’s so much, so suddenly. And part of me wants to just let you go off and do this like I would if you were a normal nineteen-year-old girl. And then there’s the reality that despite your illness, youarea normal nineteen-year-old girl. With normal needs and desires and instincts and all that. So in that sense, I understand that even if I wanted to stop you, I couldn’t. You’re old enough to make your own decisions. You’re not a child. But the desire to protect you is still there, as strong as ever.” She moves her hands to the outside of my shoulders. “I want you to be sure this is what you want. Marriage is not a joke. It’s not a game. It’s real, and it’s important. And you’re not just risking your heart and your future in this, but his, too.”
“I know,” I whisper. “I think in a way, I’m more worried about him than me.”
“Sounds about right for you,” she says, with a quiet laugh. “But as far as…um, sex. It’s a part of romantic relationships, certainly, and obviously a part of marriage. Usually relationships are developed over, um, a bit more time than you and Wes have had, and likely will have.” She closes her eyes as she says this, endeavoring and failing to keep her voice even as she says it. Gamely, she continues. “But. I just want you to…to keep your wits about you. To trust your instincts. If something seems wrong, listen to yourself. And if it feels right, listen to that too. Don’t be pressured into it. It should be mutual. It should be beautiful. Take your time. Don’t rush into it, either.” She huffs, nervous, uncomfortable. “Don’t rush. Savor the time you spend with him. Remember the beautiful moments. Be you, and be vulnerable—ifyou feel safe and comfortable. And…expect him to be vulnerable too; and just some real talk here, honey—vulnerability can be difficult for men, so you may have to coax it out of him.”
In a way, this is the most ridiculously uncomfortable conversation I’ve ever had in my life. But also…the realest, the most needed.
She pulls me into a hug. “Jolene, my darling. If we have done anything like raise you right, then you’ll know what’s right and when. If we raised you right, then we have to trust you to make this decision for yourself. If you feel this is right and good and necessary, then…okay. Just…” She squeezes me tightly. “Just remember, if you need us, we’ll be on a plane faster than you can say boo.”
“I know, Mom.” I squeeze her back. “I love you.” I pull back and touch my forehead to hers. “I’ll be okay. I promise.”
“I know.” She pulls back. “So, what’s the plan again?”
“We’re going to road trip back to LA. He has some work obligations that he can’t avoid, but then he’s going to rearrange his schedule. Put things on hold, whatever he has to do to get some uninterrupted time alone with me.” My heart skips as I say this—uninterrupted time alone with Wes.Squeeeee! “We’re going to make arrangements for a wedding. Soon, small, and private. Just you guys, Auntie Mace and Beth, and…well, honestly I don’t even know who would be there for him. I mean, I know like from Wikipedia that his parents are both alive and together and that he has an older sister, but I don’t know if he’s close to them or if he has a best friend or…any of that stuff.”
“That’s because you literally just met him, dear.” This, with some droll side-eye
“Knowing the facts about someone is not the same asknowingthem, Mom. I don’t know how to put it.” I hunt for words. “I guess it just feels like…it feels like my heart knows his.”
Mom softens. “I know what you mean, honey.”
It’s another half an hour before Mom declares packing complete. I insist on hauling my suitcase down myself. Which I only manage about halfway, and then I have to pause and rethink the decision. Because…am I strong emotionally and mentally? Heck yes. Am I tough, physically? Absolutely? Do I suffer from an abundance of raw physical power? Not so much.
So I stand on the middle of the stairs, clutching a suitcase that suddenly feels like it weighs a hundred pounds.
Wes is at the bottom of the stairs, watching me. “Got it?”
I huff, annoyed. At myself, at circumstances, not him. “No, I do not.”
“You want some help?”
I nod. “Yes, please.”
He’s there in half a moment, taking it from me as if it weighs nothing. “I didn’t want to jump in and assume you needed help.”
