James asks to ride in my car on the way home, and I know he wants to talk about last night

—in which I took his virginity, or rather he gave it to me, and quite persuasively if we're being honest

—which I'm trying to be more of these days, so I say yes, of course he can, and as our friends scramble into each other's cars, I draw a breath

—which feels conspicuous, faltering in my chest

—which he spent last night kissing after too much gin from a plastic hotel cup

—which is something I'd sooner forget: it was an unimaginative trope

—which, as I pull onto the highway, is exactly what I tell him

—which is an example of evasion

—which he has no time for, and he asks who started it

—which I'd think should be obvious, but he says he lost a few hours, so for now I am the holder of memories

—which gives me a small rush of pleasure, because it's normally him who is in control, like when I was new to school in seventh grade and he stood on his chair in the band room and, wielding his trumpet, undertook a comprehensive introduction of me that included both parents' jobs and the population of our previous hometown, and I lowered my head and thought wow, he is extreme but also unforgettable

—which remained a decent analysis in high school, when he wanted to be my boyfriend but asked me to "go places" instead of "go out" because he preferred to explore the world rather than, say, sit on a sofa in a romantic way

—which explains why he is now so skilled at swing dancing, cycling, orienteering, growing tomatoes, but never once managed to kiss me

—which could have made last night feel like a revolution, a bright fizz of champagne after the long symposium of our friendship, but no, his face falls when I say it was him, definitely him who started it, and he starts to speak in low, measured tones about abstinence before marriage

—which is a policy to which I didn't know he still subscribed, all these years after our Catholic upbringing, or else when he started unbuttoning my jeans I would have said Hang on, hang on, instead of going along with it on the basis of my own guiding belief

—which is more here than there, more earth than sky, and which has gotten me into trouble before, yes, but has never conjured a situation quite like this, with a very good friend now outlining, in excruciating detail how essential it is that his wife be the first woman with whom he achieves sexual union

—which are obviously his words

—which I interrupt to ask if he's proposing

—which doesn't land well, and he says be serious, this is for his children, how he wants them to know he remained free from temptations of the flesh

—which may explain why we never sat on the couch in a romantic way, and I think of being twelve years old with this boy, sheltering in the warm glow of his affection, sliding notes through the slats of his locker, and I wonder how he would stand up and introduce me now, and when I look over he is staring out the windshield

—which is streaked with rain, and I don't even remember turning on the wipers, but he has to raise his voice to be heard when he asks: Who took more initiative? How long did it go on? Did I stay hard? and finally, because my answers are evasive, shy, going out but not places, he asks, Was there penetration?

—which is not a question I am equipped to answer without visibly shuddering, but I understand this is why he is in my car: to find out whether a matter of centimetres means he officially fucked me

—which I can't believe he's forgotten, at least not entirely, because his movements were so decisive and clear

—which seems like a lot to blame on the gin

—which I start to point out, but he is already talking, saying he would need to spend his whole life lying to his children if my answer is yes, and I can see that this pains him, but I can also see that he wants me to see that it pains him

—which makes realize, slowly, what he's asking: for me to keep my bright-eyed recollections to myself and tell him not to worry, I've taken nothing from him, there's no reason to slough me off like a sin, to climb out of my car and never see me again

—which is what's at stake here, although I don't know it yet; I am young and stubborn and believe that the true story is always the most important one, and now he's glancing over, waiting for me to tell him whether he's the kind of person he thinks he is

—which depends on the kind of person I am

—which, as it turns out, is not such a simple question to answer.

.