Page 21 of Don't Tell Me How to Die

He smiled, and I wondered if he had any idea how incredibly sexy he was. “Are you saying you brought me here under false pretenses?” he said, blue eyes scolding playfully.

“Totally,” I said.

“Well, in that case, I’m glad my parents aren’t home. They’d be upset if they found that their only son was smitten by a wily, conniving?—”

“Smitten?”

“Big time. Can’t you tell?” he said, wrapping me up in his arms.

We were done talking. He lowered his face toward mine, and I lifted myself on my toes to meet him. I’d kissed boys before, but they always seemed to be racing through it, their lips pressing hard, their tongues working fast, hell-bent on rounding first base so they could run their hands under my bra and get to second.

Not Van. His lips were soft, and the kiss was long, slow, and gentle. He held me in his arms, his hands never roaming.

When the kiss was finally over, I put my lips to his left ear. “I’ve never done it,” I whispered. “But I’m ready.”

He didn’t say a word. He just took me by the hand, and we went upstairs to his bedroom.

Over the years I’ve heard other women talk about their first sexual experience. For some it was painful—not just physically but emotionally. The most common regret is “He stuck it in, finished in a hurry, and then he only called me when he wanted to bang me again.”

It was different for me. I wasn’t coerced. I was totally willing. In fact, once I met Van, Iwantedhim to be the one. The first time was, as you’d expect, awkward. He wasn’t a virgin, but the way he fumbled with the condom bespoke his amateur status. Foreplay consisted of him saying, “Are you sure you want to do this?”

“I’m sure,” I whispered, and he got right to it.

It didn’t last long. It took him less than two minutes. It would take me another three years before I had my first orgasm. But I’d done my research, so it came as no surprise. What did surprise me was the rush I felt as he called out my name and erupted inside me. When it was over, I waited for the shroud of Catholic guilt to envelop me. It never came. Instead, I was overcome with joy at how easily I could make him that happy.

I’d read about the so-called power women have over men, but I’d never really experienced it. This beautiful, caring, desirable man wanted my body—reveled in it—and I got to call the shots.

Today I’m the mother of twins who are almost the same age as I was then, and I shudder to I think that at this very moment, they may be thinking about their own leap into adulthood.

Sex was better the second time, even better the next, and as the year progressed, Van and I grew bolder, more adventurous, and by the end of my junior year I had no doubt that we were trying things neither of our parents had dreamed of.

And then Van graduated and enlisted in the Marines. I tried to convince him to at least apply to a few schools, but college didn’t interest him. His father and his two uncles were Marines, and the Corps was in his DNA.

He left for Parris Island in July 1996, and a year later, when my mother died, he was stationed in Seoul, South Korea.

Mobile phones had not yet gone mainstream, so I wrote to him at least three times a week. Van wasn’t much of a writer, so his letters were uninspired recaps of his life in the military, and over the course of a year they had dwindled from weekly to sporadic to hardly ever.

And then he called. It was a Monday morning, and I was in the shower when the phone rang.

Lizzie banged on the bathroom door. “Dry yourself off, Juliet. Romeo is calling from Korea.”

My mind did cartwheels. It was August 8, a year to the day since Van and I first had sex. He was calling for our anniversary.

I threw on a robe and ran for the phone, deliriously happy.

“Hello,” I said.

“Hey, Maggie.”

“I can’t believe you remembered.”

“It’s hard to forget,” he said. “I mean, I got your letter saying your mom died. I just didn’t write back, because ... well, you know how it is with me and writing letters. Anyway, I’m really sorry. And tell your dad that too. And Lizzie.”

“Thanks. How are you?”

“I’m okay, but I have some bad news. That’s why I’m calling.”

It wasn’t about our anniversary. I should have known that guys don’t pay attention to things like that. “What’s the bad news?”

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