“We were just fooling around,” I tried. “It should never have happened.”“And maybe it shouldn’t have kept happening regularly for two years?” Danielle added bitterly. “Mom loved you. She still does. If it wasn’t for dad, she’d do you today. I know that for a fact. I read her newer diaries too.”“You are just too sneaky for your own good, young lady,” I managed, shaking my head and chuckling a little now. I was busted and there was no point in denying it. “The fact remains that you’re a sixteen year old virgin and I’m old enough to be your father, even if you weren’t related to me.”“I’m not. A virgin, that is. Amanda Fuller took care of that last year with a hairbrush. Even if ... ummm ... even if I can’t be, you know, the ummm ... submissive you want, could I ... at least, you know, ummm ... touch it a little?”“Danni, baby. You can’t even call it what it is. Having no hymen doesn’t mean you’re not a virgin anymore either. If you were eighteen and not sixteen and Nancy and your mom. Eventually, you start to feel a bit like the widow who lives out her days celibate, still in love with her dead husband. It was the hardest thing I’ve ever done. Liz and I poured every meager cent we earned into long-distance phone calls and plane fares, but, more often then not, I found myself romantically committed to a voice on a telephone. With all our combined income, we were still only able to afford to see each other for one weekend each month. You’d think these occasional visits would be filled with non-stop passion and amorous euphoria, but that’s never how they turned out. Sure, there was “the good stuff”—the sex, the cuddling, pillow talk, romantic adventure—but each weekend tryst was always underscored by a certain degree of disappointment; of never being quite as perfect as what we’d built up in our minds over the preceding weeks. And then there were the fights. Like clockwork, each of these supposed-to-be-blissful cross-country weekend visits inevitably included one.
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