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Once he walked in on me in the worst of all worst possible moments. The moment. The precise moment at which my first boyfriend, the one who gave me a Pixies sweatshirt and took me to a Modest Mouse concert and introduced me to Red Bull and vodka and cars and sex and sex in cars, reached his sweaty teenage climax in the TV room in the basement. We didn’t have school that day. We didn’t hear the garage door. We did hear the footsteps up the stairs and then, after the most painful near silence of our heavy breathing and his proximity, we heard his voice: “Ben, get your clothes on and get out of my house.” Not loud or hysterical but steady. “And Acacia, get up here. Now.” We didn’t laugh about it for a long time.
