The Silver Year: Chapter 11

Chapter 11

Mormon Girl Glow


Walter’s​​ seat jerked forward as the airplane clawed​​ the Heathrow tarmac.​​ He grabbed at the empty air in panic as his mind was still unsheathing itself from​​ sleep.​​ He looked out his window torpidly and it dawned on him he​​ had​​ made it;​​ he​​ had​​ landed in​​ London. So far it​​ looked just as he imagined—cloudy and dreary,​​ so dreary in fact he fell back asleep.

“Sir . . . Sir,”​​ his​​ British​​ flight​​ attendant​​ nudged​​ him​​ awake​​ again​​ later.

“Yeah-yeah, what?”​​ Walter​​ said, arising​​ to a​​ now​​ empty plane.​​ 

“As much as I’ve enjoyed having you here, I’m sure you have other places you need to be.”​​ 

“Not right away.​​ This plane’s kind of nice now that it’s quiet and empty . . . But I can’t stay on,​​ can I?”

The​​ flight attendant​​ shook his​​ head amused.​​ “No, unfortunately not. Did you need help with anything?”

“No,​​ I think I’ll be​​ okay,”​​ Walter​​ said standing woozily.​​ He’d overdone​​ the wine trying to make himself fall asleep during the flight. It worked, just not until an hour and a half before the flight landed.​​ “Just a little tired,​​ kind of hungover—just a little of everything right now, that’s all.”

“It was a stressful flight for everyone,” the flight attendant said,​​ “but​​ you​​ especially.​​ That’s why I let you sleep​​ as long as I could.”

In​​ an​​ ominous beginning to​​ Walter’s​​ trip, the elderly British lady in the aisle seat of his row​​ had a​​ heart attack​​ an hour into​​ the flight, forcing an emergency​​ landing​​ in Las Vegas for two hours​​ where​​ paramedics boarded the plane and unloaded her, leaving​​ Walter​​ alone the rest of the flight with Amber’s memory​​ still occupying the middle seat​​ which​​ mysteriously went unfilled​​ by standby.

“I saved you some​​ fruit and muffins​​ since you slept through breakfast,” the flight attendant​​ said handing him a paper bag. “Also​​ a​​ coffee.​​ Figured since you’re American​​ you’d prefer​​ it​​ over tea.​​ Would you like any cream or sugar?”

“No, black’s​​ just fine,” Walter said eagerly taking the to-go cup. “Woo, still hot. You must’ve just made this.”

“I did, just for you.”

“Thank you. Thank you so​​ much.​​ Really, you didn’t have to.”

“Just​​ doing my job sir. On a flight like this, we’ve got to go above and beyond so you Americans​​ don’t sue us.”

Walter chuckled. “Very true. You’re funny... what was your name again? Sorry, it always takes me two or three times to remember and my brain is at its worst in the morning.”


“That’s right. Like Saint Ambrose. How’d I forget?​​ Anyway, thank you for everything. You’ve been very kind.”

“Again,​​ just so you don’t sue us sir.”​​ The flight attendant smiled.

Walter​​ picked up his backpack and​​ began​​ moving​​ up the aisle.​​ “Oh,” he said turning back. “Do you know what happened to...”

“Abigail?​​ The hospital​​ said she’s​​ still​​ recovering, but doing fine. The heart attack was just a small one.”

“Oh thank God. You don’t know how happy I am to hear that . . . Well, take care Ambrose.”

“You too Mister Huxley. Also, welcome to London.”


After​​ going through​​ customs​​ and​​ getting​​ another​​ coffee,​​ Walter​​ sat on a bench in baggage reclaim to​​ sip​​ it while waiting for his​​ checked suitcase.​​ As he​​ did so,​​ people​​ passed​​ him​​ as if he wasn’t even there. As a test, he took off his hat,​​ leaving​​ his freshly-shaven​​ face​​ unobscured, but still, not even a​​ stare.​​ He​​ was​​ no one again.​​ The​​ bells of his bellbottoms began​​ swinging​​ excitedly​​ beneath​​ the​​ bench.

Once​​ with​​ his suitcase, he​​ walked​​ slowly​​ through the airport, taking in his surroundings​​ without interruption from fan,​​ paparazzo, gawker, or heckler​​ until​​ reaching​​ the​​ London Underground—aka “the Tube”.​​ As he​​ boarded​​ the train,​​ funny English accents chattered​​ like companies of parrots;​​ the trashcans​​ read​​ “rubbish”;​​ someone said his phone battery was “flat”.​​ The most minor of quirks were the first to catch​​ his​​ attention, but were the most​​ affirming of his new​​ existence: he was alone,​​ five​​ and a half​​ thousand miles away​​ from​​ home;​​ a foreigner​​ in a​​ foreign​​ place;​​ an​​ American with an accent.​​ It wasn’t a​​ third world country—the natives even spoke English,​​ but that didn’t​​ mean he wasn’t allowed to be a little culture shocked.​​ He’d also been so caught up in the trip being Amber’s gift that he’d forgotten indeed it was a trip, a trip​​ to a place he’d never been in a world he​​ thought he knew so well.

As the train accelerated, the gray and sooted outer​​ west​​ reaches of the city jetted​​ over​​ the windows, many​​ of the​​ cracked and cobbled buildings looking​​ as old or older than his native country.​​ So used to the full​​ color​​ of the California sun,​​ the muteness​​ made​​ him​​ feel off kilter, as if he​​ were inside​​ a black and white television set.

Nearing the city’s center, the​​ train dug underground​​ and began​​ stopping more frequently,​​ billowing​​ with​​ occupants—drunk​​ occupants, so much so there was a​​ miasma​​ of​​ stale​​ beer in the car.​​ A​​ group of men​​ then​​ boarded with paper masks​​ on​​ of​​ the​​ most​​ well-known members of the monarchy​​ and squeezed in next to Walter.​​ He​​ asked the paper-faced​​ Duchess Catherine​​ the cause.

“Whaaaat?!” the man behind the mask​​ cried.

“What’s going on?”

“What do ya mean what’s going on?​​ The fuckin’ queen​​ mate!​​ The fuckin’ queen.”

That’s right,​​ Queen Elizabeth’s​​ Diamond​​ Jubilee.​​ Before her heart attack, the elderly lady on his flight had made mention of it.​​ The Queen​​ was​​ going​​ to be carted down the River Thames​​ today​​ for all of London to see in celebration of​​ her​​ being queen for sixty years. But also​​ it was​​ an ornate excuse to be drunk in public.​​ 

At​​ the​​ stops​​ nearest Buckingham Palace,​​ the miasma dissipated, and by​​ Walter’s​​ stop,​​ Russell Square,​​ the car was almost empty.​​ A​​ wide elevator—or “lift”—then​​ carried him​​ and his luggage​​ up from the deeply buried​​ station​​ and​​ spit​​ him​​ onto the sidewalk.​​ There, he​​ drew​​ in​​ his​​ first breath of moist, outside​​ London air. The​​ roads​​ around him​​ were narrower​​ than the​​ ones​​ back home,​​ and all the buildings looked to be​​ laid in brick or​​ carved out of stone, earthly shades of red, brown and tan, stained with rain and glossed with moss.​​ Bright green treetops lined​​ the​​ street perpendicular to him,​​ and red and blue Union Jacks hung over the sidewalk in front of him​​ and​​ everywhere​​ he looked.

He continued following​​ the directions provided in his Contiki travel wallet—almost getting run over because he forgot the​​ new orientation of car traffic—until he arrived at the Royal National Hotel. The instructions guided him to an underground side entrance of the hotel labeled “Contiki Basement”.​​ Inside he​​ was welcomed by a cutely chubby Aussie girl behind a stainless steel counter. The place looked like an empty underground club, layered with color like a cake from the bottom up:​​ blue, yellow,​​ and​​ red. In comparison to the loud streets above, it was a​​ deadened​​ silence. ​​ 

“Ello,” she said cheerfully. “Checking in?”

“I guess so.”​​ 

“Your last name?”

“Huxley, Walter Huxley.”​​ Her eyebrows furrowed as her search came up empty.

“Could it be under a different name?”​​ she asked.

“Yeah,​​ my hitchhiking ghost,​​ Amber Evans.”

“Your what?”

“I mean my girlfriend—ex girlfriend. Uh, forget about it.​​ Sorry,​​ I sometimes make these inside jokes with myself and forget there’s other people around.”​​ She looked at him puzzled, but politely humored​​ him.

“Long trip?”​​ she said.


“Where you coming from?”


“Oh, lucky you. I’ve always wanted to go there . . . Ah, found it. Sorry about that.​​ Amber Evans and Walter Huxley. I’ve got a single room with a double bed for two nights. Is she arriving later?”

“Um,​​ no. She won’t be arriving at all.”

“Ah, you booked the trip before the breakup.​​ We see that a lot.”

“Actually there was just​​ this​​ kind​​ of thing, this​​ uh…​​ event. Truthfully,​​ she kinda...​​ she kinda​​ died.”

“She​​ kinda​​ died?

Walter cursed himself for not leaving it at breakup.​​ “Not kinda,” he said, “she just died.”

“Oh my goodness.​​ Like on the way here?”

“Oh, no-no. It was​​ over a year​​ ago.”

“I’m so sorry. You poor thing. And now you’re going on the trip in​​ her​​ memory? That’s so sweet.​​ You must’ve loved her a lot.”

“Yeah” he laughed uncomfortably. “Actually, she became​​ my ex-girlfriend before she diedI mean like,​​ right​​ before she died.​​ She’s not my ex​​ because​​ she died. So she’s​​ kind of​​ like my ex-ex-girlfriend​​ . . .​​ Maybe I should call her Dos Equis.

The counter girl​​ shook her head slowly and was​​ bug-eyed as if he were holding up the place. He​​ couldn’t tell if she was just extremely confused or thought​​ her life was in danger because​​ the only reason he had an ex-ex-girlfriend was he had killed an​​ ex-girlfriend—which he​​ kinda​​ had.

“You know Dos Equis,” Walter said,​​ “like the beer—Spanish for two X’s?​​ That’s right,​​ maybe you​​ don’t have Dos Equis​​ over here.​​ But​​ yeah, you’re​​ kind​​ of​​ right. We—I mean she—booked this trip before we broke up,​​ then we broke up,​​ then​​ she died, and then​​ I still came,​​ alone and single . . . I’m sorry,​​ can you just ignore me right now? I’ve​​ gotten maybe an hour or so of sleep in the last​​ twenty-four​​ hours​​ and I’m​​ starting to​​ go a little haywire.”

The girl looked afraid to speak.​​ “Um… yeah,” she said.​​ “So here’s everything you need for the room. Lemme go get your sleeping bags—I mean sleeping bag,​​ just one sleeping bag.”

“Sleeping bag?”

“Yeah. You won’t need it here, but​​ for​​ some of the hostels you’re​​ staying​​ at​​ during​​ your trip. I’ll be right back,” she said leaving then returning with the sleeping bag. “So that’s everything. If you have any questions, or need some suggestions of what to do here in London just lemme know—I mean let us know, as in the Contiki staff. I obviously won’t be here all the time, but somebody will be . .​​ . Oh,​​ I almost forgot, take this paper​​ to the hotel front desk to get your​​ keycards—I mean keycard because it’s just you​​ now, but​​ you can​​ still​​ get more than one​​ if you’d like​​ .​​ . .​​ I’m sorry,​​ I’m​​ still​​ new here​​ and​​ honestly the whole​​ dead girlfriend—or dead ex-ex-girlfriend​​ thing​​ is throwing​​ me​​ off.”

“Hey,​​ it’s okay.​​ I’m new​​ here​​ too,​​ Billie,”​​ Walter​​ said reading her nametag. “You’ve been very helpful​​ . . .​​ Well,​​ if I’ve got​​ everything I need, I​​ guess I’ll​​ go​​ now.​​ 

“Yes, you’re all set​​ . . .​​ Hey,​​ I get it now.”​​ 

“You get what?”​​ 

“Your inside​​ joke​​ with yourself. It’s because your​​ ex-girlfriend—I mean, your ex-ex-girlfriend​​ is​​ d…” She stopped. “I’m​​ sorry.​​ I shouldn’t find that​​ kind of thing​​ funny.”

Walter smiled.​​ “I wouldn’t have said​​ it​​ if I didn’t think it was funny myself.”​​ 

At his room door,​​ Walter​​ struggled to open​​ it​​ with the keycard​​ he’d been​​ given. Two jockish males​​ dressed like they’d just come from a pool party​​ approached the door​​ to his right.

“Contiki?” one of them asked in an​​ Australian​​ accent.

“Yep,​​ Contiki,”​​ Walter​​ replied.

“CONTIKI!” they both yelled.​​ 

Down the hallway, two more jocks​​ appeared, looking almost identical to the first two.​​ “Contiki?” one of them asked,​​ also in an Aussie​​ accent.

“CONTIKI!” the original two yelled again.

“Contiki,” Walter said​​ after​​ and apathetically.

“CONTIKI!” the other two yelled back.

“CONTIKI! CONTIKI! CONTIKI!” all the Aussie jocks began to chant.​​ 

Just what I expected,​​ Walter thought,​​ frat boys.​​ Except,​​ why is everyone​​ an​​ Aussie?​​ I thought​​ this​​ was London.​​ Is Contiki​​ some weird Aussie frat?​​ ​​ 

His​​ door​​ finally​​ opened after​​ jamming​​ his​​ keycard​​ into​​ the receptacle​​ innumerable​​ times​​ and ways.

“Where ya going mate?” the​​ original Aussie​​ asked.

“My room…” Walter said in a bothered tone.

“Put your​​ stuff away and let’s go drink​​ at​​ the pub downstairs.”

“It’s still a little early for me to start drinking. I’m honestly pretty tired guys​​ and just want to relax for a bit.”

“Ah,​​ don’t be a puss bloke. C’mon,​​ let’s go drink.”

“How about I​​ join​​ you down there later?”

“All​​ right, but you better come. You heading out on Escapade tomorrow?”

“No,​​ I think my trip is called European Horizon. It heads out in two days.”

“Ah, that’s a bummer;​​ you won’t be with us.”

Thank God,​​ Walter​​ thought.​​ See you​​ later guys,”​​ he​​ said, and closed​​ his​​ door.​​ CONTIKI, CONTIKI, CONTIKI...​​ they began chanting from the other side as they marched down the hallway.

He set his bags down and stood by the window​​ staring blankly at his partial view of the London skyline. Below him, bubble-shaped taxis went down the wrong side of the road and London’s iconic red telephone booths littered the streets. He felt like he was dreaming and the abatement of sleep only heightened it, like the glass in front of him was not a window, but a television screen. Everything on the other side​​ looked​​ like a movie set.

Fatigue​​ came​​ on​​ again and the bed​​ was tempting him in.​​ Must not sleep.​​ Must not sleep. I came too far and have too little time​​ to sleep,​​ he thought​​ but still​​ sat on the bed. Two minutes later​​ the bed had him​​ knocked out​​ in its arms.

Four hours later he awoke at twilight. By the time he slothfully showered, brushed his teeth, and got dressed it was dark.​​ Starving, he opted for the​​ pub downstairs for some fish and chips and​​ figured he could make good on his promise to​​ join​​ his​​ frat boy​​ neighbors for​​ a​​ drink if they were still there,​​ which, they were,​​ along​​ with​​ many​​ brethren.​​ Even though they had forgotten​​ inviting​​ him,​​ they​​ still poured​​ him​​ a pint​​ from one of their pitchers,​​ but Walter​​ quickly grew​​ tired​​ of​​ trying to decipher their drunk and high​​ Aussie​​ dialects​​ through​​ a​​ melee of “cunts”, so he​​ slyly slipped away​​ after​​ the beer.

Mingling​​ about the pub, he​​ found​​ most people​​ were leaving on a month-long tour​​ the following day​​ or​​ had just returned​​ from one.​​ On a daily basis Contiki sent out waves of young people from all over the world on rotating European tours of various​​ lengths from their London hub.​​ Amongst him were South Africans, English, Irish, Canadians,​​ Mexicans,​​ Germans, East Indians, Kiwis,​​ and of course Aussies, but​​ not a single​​ American​​ because to most Americans a month-long vacation​​ was​​ unimaginable.​​ 

From a side entrance,​​ Walter​​ noticed the Contiki counter girl​​ enter​​ the pub.​​ She​​ also​​ spotted​​ him​​ from his bright orange fedora​​ and approached.​​ “Ello,” she said.​​ “It was Walter,​​ right?”

“Yeah,​​ and​​ you’re…​​ I’m sorry I just had your name on the tip of my tongue and lost it.​​ I’ve been drinking a little.”

“Billie. No name tag since I’m off work now,” she said pointing at her ample​​ left​​ breast.

“Right,” Walter said,​​ completely forgetting​​ her name​​ again​​ and​​ only​​ remembering​​ the​​ breast.​​ But​​ it wasn’t the only thing he took notice of. She​​ also​​ had the most charming face,​​ like​​ a​​ cherub with​​ crystal​​ blue eyes,​​ and pale,​​ rolling blond hair.​​ “I’m surprised you’re talking to me.​​ I thought​​ I​​ freaked you out earlier.”

“A little.​​ But then I wondered how I’d act in the same situation. I found you interesting more than anything,​​ especially the way you dress. I​​ wasn’t sure about it at first, but now I think it’s kind of cool, like you went running randomly through some op shop​​ and threw on whatever you found kind of cool.”

“And I was trying so hard to avoid cool​​ . . .​​ So​​ I’m guessing from​​ your accent​​ you’re​​ Australian?”

Ouch,” she scowled. “I’ll let that​​ pass since you just got here, but​​ I’m​​ from New Zealand.​​ 

“What, Kiwis and Aussies don’t get along?”

“Yes, but as you can see...” she said eyeing the​​ frat boys, “…us Kiwis are​​ a little more refined.”

“Are you trying to say all Aussies are like those guys over there?”

She laughed.​​ “No. Truthfully, it’s just a neighborly rivalry.​​ Those​​ blokes over there are​​ what​​ you call bogans. They love Contiki tours. And even though Contiki is a Kiwi company, bogans​​ are​​ very​​ Australian.”​​ 

“I didn’t know Contiki was​​ a​​ Kiwi company.​​ That must be​​ why​​ there’s​​ so many of you​​ from​​ down under​​ here.​​ I didn’t​​ do much​​ research​​ about Contiki​​ before I​​ left.​​ I​​ only found out​​ about​​ this​​ trip​​ two weeks​​ ago.”

“Why​​ is​​ that?”​​ she​​ asked​​ then​​ realized​​ she​​ had stumbled into sensitive territory.​​ “Never mind.​​ It’s not important.”​​ 

“Thanks,” Walter said. “Despite my joke earlier, it​​ still​​ isn’t easy​​ to​​ talk about. Perhaps that was​​ just my way of masking it.”

“Say no more.​​ While not quite for the same reason,​​ I have my own ex back home I’m trying to forget​​ about.​​ How about​​ I get a round of shots to help us forget them?”

“Let me​​ get​​ it.”​​ 

You​​ get the next​​ round.​​ Then I’ll get the one after that, and by the end of the night we’ll both have spent the same but never looked impolite.​​ I’m still kind of new to this, but​​ that’s​​ how it works, right?​​ Her demeanor was much more driving than the bumbling girl​​ from​​ earlier.​​ “C’mon!​​ Don’t be a tosser.​​ It’s the 21st​​ century. Let a​​ Sheila​​ buy you a drink.​​ 

As they continued conversing​​ over​​ drinks,​​ conduct became increasingly flirtatious,​​ especially after they hid themselves away in a booth in a dark corner of the pub.

“So​​ Contiki’s okay with you fraternizing with the travelers?”​​ Walter asked as their fingers danced​​ together​​ under the table.

“Very much so,” she said. “Just so long as certain body parts don’t come in contact.”

“And which parts would those be?”

“Maybe you’ll just have to find​​ that​​ out​​ yourself,” she said​​ raising her eyebrow​​ and placing his hand on her thigh.​​ The additional drinks had continued to peel away​​ her​​ shy​​ shell,​​ exposing a rather vampy core.

His hand began​​ sneaking​​ up.​​ “Keep going...”​​ she​​ said.​​ It​​ continued to​​ walk, then​​ paused on the crest of​​ her hipbone. She gave​​ an agreeing​​ smile. A finger​​ then​​ dipped beneath her waistline. “Stop,” she said,​​ “but stay right​​ there.”​​ She bit her lip​​ and​​ shook her head​​ at him.​​ “I had you pegged as a complete dag​​ earlier.”

“Not sure what a dag is, but I think I can say the same of you.”​​ Her lips neared his, wanting​​ to be kissed, so​​ Walter​​ did.

“Oops,” she said​​ after.​​ “I was supposed to stop you.​​ Lips​​ are on that list of body parts.​​ Oh well,​​ no​​ going back​​ now.”​​ Her​​ lips​​ went​​ back to his​​ and her hands began crawling up his legs, but then stopped.​​ “Not here​​ though,” she said, “too many people​​ from work​​ around.”

“My hotel room?”​​ Walter suggested.

Billie​​ looked at him​​ apprehensively.​​ “I​​ shouldn’t,” she said.​​ “I’ve got to​​ get​​ up early​​ tomorrow.”

“Okay. Maybe some food then?​​ I think it’s my turn to pay.”

She smiled.​​ “You’re so sweet,” she said. “And very cute. These dimples...” she grabbed his cheeks.​​ “How about I take you to your door and say goodbye to you there?”


They managed to make​​ it to​​ the hotel lobby elevator before resuming their​​ groping and making​​ out. Walter pressed​​ the button for his floor, but when the doors opened on the third floor, neither of them proceeded forward. The doors shut and the elevator lowered​​ back to the lobby​​ floor then​​ opened​​ again.​​ Walter hit his floor button again,​​ and the doors closed again,​​ and the elevator rose​​ again.​​ This repeated​​ two​​ more​​ times undisturbed, the groping, making out, and unzipping of clothes intensifying with each pass.​​ There didn’t seem to be a soul awake​​ in the hotel,​​ or perhaps they were all still at the pub.​​ 

On the fifth pass​​ they​​ managed to​​ finally​​ leave the elevator, but not​​ make it quite to his room,​​ but​​ instead​​ a​​ nearby stairwell.​​ “Fuck it,” she said​​ with his​​ hard​​ penis in her hand.​​ “Just fuck me here.​​ I can’t take it anymore.”

“Yes mam,” he said,​​ and they​​ dropped​​ trou.​​ After putting his condom on, Walter then lined up.​​ “Wow...”​​ he​​ said as he​​ entered, “...that’s​​ really tight.​​ I’m in​​ the right hole, right?”

“Um, yes,” she said, “but​​ I should probably tell​​ you​​ I’m a virgin—or was a virgin.”​​ His penis came running out, causing him to fall over backwards.​​ 

“What?” he​​ cried​​ from the floor.​​ “Why didn’t you tell me?​​ I can’t do this.​​ You don’t want to do this,​​ not this way, not with me,​​ not in some​​ filthy​​ hotel stairwell.”

“But​​ I kind of already did…”

“No,​​ I only pumped once. I think it doesn’t​​ constitute as sex until three​​ or so,​​ right?”

“How would I know?” She laughed,​​ seeming​​ far less concerned about her virginity than​​ him.​​ “Would you prefer to take my virginity in your room?”​​ she asked.

“I’d prefer not to​​ take​​ it​​ at​​ all,” he said. “Plus, you don’t want to lose your virginity​​ to me. I’m still having trouble remembering your name.​​ You deserve someone​​ more special​​ than me.”

​​ “I’ve​​ gotten over the whole​​ ‘special’​​ thing.​​ I’m twenty-two years old now.​​ If anything, my virginity​​ is​​ just​​ annoying​​ to me.​​ And it’s Billie again by the way.”

Okay​​ Billie, can​​ you at least tell me​​ why you waited so long just to lose it like this​​ then?”

“Really?​​ Long story short, I was Mormon and engaged to someone,​​ then​​ realized my life was complete bullshit, so I broke off the engagement and moved halfway across the world to figure things out. Then I met this guy who dresses a little daggy but is irresistibly cute​​ and sweet​​ and funny and​​ very​​ smart, and I said to myself about half​​ way​​ through our third​​ or fourth​​ elevator ride, ‘Hm… I really like this guy. It’s about time I got laid, but there only seems to be a bunch of​​ bogans​​ around​​ me​​ and I sure don’t want my first time to be with one of them. Maybe I better take advantage​​ of him​​ while he’s​​ still​​ here because he may be the most decent​​ thing I’ll get​​ for a while.’”​​ She held out her​​ hand and helped him up from the floor.​​ “So​​ it’s okay. You’re all the special I need.”​​ 

“You were Mormon?” Walter said.​​ “So was​​ I​​ at one time. I knew there was something​​ familiar​​ about you.​​ Must be​​ the​​ Mormon girl glow.”

“Oh good. You​​ understand then​​ . . . Please​​ fuck that Mormon girl glow​​ out of me. I​​ don’t want to be that girl anymore.”​​ 

“You know,​​ I’ve never taken somebody’s virginity.”

“Good,​​ I guess​​ it will be special after all​​ then.”







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