🎧🎶Last summer — ooes

It was summer, they were both seventeen.

Alanas’s parents and brothers had gone to the dacha in Palanga for a summer, leaving the house in Šiauliai entirely at the disposal of the “responsible high school senior.”

Her own place was under renovation at the time, and she was officially “staying with a friend,” but in reality she spent almost all her time at his. The building was an old Soviet panel block in Šiauliai, fifth floor, with a view of the pine trees and that very same music school they used to skip together.

They had kissed before. The first time—drunk, after the ninth-grade graduation, the second—sober, in the park, just to check if it would feel the same. It did. And a few more times after parties: in stairwells, in someone’s friend’s car. But it never went beyond kissing and hands under clothes…

They both already knew it was going to happen. They’d known for two weeks, maybe three.

It all started with a stupid joke at a basement party at a mutual friend’s place: one of their friends blurted out, “You two are gonna sleep together eventually anyway, it’s obvious.” Everyone cracked up, they laughed too, but then walked home in silence, even though they usually never shut up. Still, the silence got broken:

“I’m scared my first time will be with some asshole who’ll tell everyone afterward. Or worse—with someone I actually like, and then he dumps me and I cry for three months.” Alanas was quiet for a long time, rolling a cigarette between his fingers. “What if… with me?” he finally said, and blushed so hard his ears turned red. She looked at him, squinted. “Are you serious?” “Well… we trust each other. And it definitely won’t be worse. And we won’t tell anyone. Just… so it’s not with a stranger.” She didn’t answer right away. Then she nodded: “I’ll think about it.”

They dragged it out for almost two weeks. Slept in the same bed (it was summer, hot, no AC), cuddled, kissed until their knees shook, but it never went beyond underwear. He touched her breast under her T-shirt, she ran her hand down his stomach—he’d catch her wrist and kiss her palm, like, no, don’t do that. Eventually, for the weekend, she went to sleep at her parents’ so they wouldn’t worry too much about her “burdening” her friend. On Monday she came back. With a backpack that contained two bottles of cheap wine, a pack of c•ndoms (bought secretly at the pharmacy, face the color of a tomato), and a terrible feeling that she was about to do something irreversible.

They spent the whole day stalling. Watched some dumb movie, ate pizza, played PlayStation. Alanas acted strangely calm, the way he always did when he was nervous to the point of nausea. Joked non-stop, talked louder than usual. She was quieter than usual and kept twisting the ring on her finger. By evening they’d drunk almost all the wine. They were sitting on the floor in his room, facing each other, his guitar between them. He was picking at the strings, she was listening.

“You know we can just… not do it,” he said suddenly, without looking up. “If you don’t want to. I won’t be offended. Honestly.” She was quiet for a long time. All the stories from her friends spun in her head: “the first time always hurts,” “I bled for three days,” “he lasted a minute and then I cried,” “better with someone older who knows what he’s doing.” She almost started crying right there. “I’m scared,” she said at last, very quietly. He put the guitar aside, turned to her, sat beside her. “I’m scared too. Fucking terrified.” She looked at him in surprise. “You? But you’re… well, you’re a guy.” “Yeah, so? It’s my first time too. And I don’t want you to hate me afterward.” “I don’t want you to think I’m a slut afterward,” she whispered, almost laughing actually. Alanas pulled back a little, took her chin, made her look at him. His eyes were red from the wine and from holding it together all day. “Are you stupid? We’re not strangers. I’m the one who offered, if you forgot.” She snorted, almost smiled. “You might think afterward that I used you.”