Parallel

persistent peanut flavor.
    “Ha. Very funny.”
    “I’m serious,” I say. “I sent an email to the coach right before I came over here.” It strikes me that someone who’s been on the team for weeks probably wouldn’t say “ the coach,” but Michael is too busy looking flabbergasted to notice.
    “You quit the team? Over email?”
    His reaction throws me. “Well, yeah,” I reply, suddenly self-conscious. “What’s the big deal?”
    “Did something happen at practice today?” he asks. “Is that where this is coming from?”
    “Why does it have to be ‘coming from’ anywhere?” I ask, getting defensive. “Can’t a person just decide she doesn’t like something anymore?”
    “Overnight?”
    “Why not?”
    “I dunno, maybe because that’s not how people are? People don’t just abandon whole parts of themselves,” he says. “You’re a coxswain,” he declares, as though he’s telling me the sky is blue. “It’s part of who you are. A part I happen to like. You’re this little bossy ball of energy.”
    Subtext: I will like you less if you’re not a coxswain.
    “I love that you like that about me,” I begin, and then swallow hard when I realize that I’ve used “I,” “love,” and “you” in close proximity to one another in the same sentence. Thankfully, he doesn’t flinch. I barrel on. “But it’s not really part of who I am. Even if it seems like it. I only started coxing because I hurt my foot and couldn’t run cross-country,” I explain. “Since I didn’t want to obsess over the fact that I couldn’t do what I really loved, I told myself I loved crew, and after a while, I started believing it.” I’m making this up, of course, because it wasn’t really me who did any of this. But as I’m talking, I wonder: Is this how it happened for my parallel? Because if it is, then I sort of get it. Even if I want to believe I never would’ve given up so quickly on cross-country, I can imagine how it might’ve been easier to throw myself into something else than to suffer the disappointment of not being able to run.
    “Sounds to me like something happened at practice today,” Michael says.
    “Nothing happened at practice today,” I insist. “I just don’t want to do it anymore.”
    Michael takes a sip of his beer, considering this. “So I guess that means you can sleep over tonight,” he says, all nonchalant. “No crew practice in the morning.”
    I freeze. I didn’t shave my legs. Or my bikini line. My underwear has a hole in the crotch, and not in a sexy way. For these and a wealth of other reasons, I AM NOT READY TO HAVE SEX. Flustered, I put my bottle to my lips and tilt it back, my cheeks warm again. This is one of those moments—and there have been several since Michael and I met—when I’m reminded of how totally and completely out of my league I am. It’s not like I’m a total neophyte when it comes to the opposite sex—I’ve dated and made out with and almost-seen-naked a respectable number of them. But those were regular guys. Michael Carpenter is a different species altogether. He’s gorgeous. He’s smart. He’s athletic. And he’s cool. Like, really cool, without even trying. I, meanwhile, am of lesser caliber. I’m cute but not gorgeous, more hardworking than smart, fit but not athletic, and while I have moments of cool, those moments are surrounded by hours of carefully planning how to execute them.
    Michael sees the look on my face and laughs. “I’m kidding,” he says. “I intend to walk you to your doorstep after our date, where I will kiss you chastely good night.” He pauses, then adds, “Unless, of course, you want to sleep over . . .”
    “It’s a school night,” I say, and smile. My attempt to sound coy and flirty and not completely unhinged by this conversation.
    “We should probably save the sleepless night for another time, then.” Acting all blasé, he drains the rest of his beer and sets it on the counter. “Ready to go?”
    “Mm-hmm,” I manage, as casually as I can, as the words “SLEEPLESS NIGHT” reverberate in my head. Michael’s eyes are lit up with laughter.
    “So have you figured out where we’re going yet?” he asks as we set off down the block. His elbow grazes the back of my arm, sending a ripple to my fingertips. If our conversation in the kitchen was just a ploy to get me naked, it might have worked. My legs aren’t that hairy, and the beer I just downed has made me decidedly less