I suppose every high school had one. I know ours did.

Her name was Heather, the worst kept secret of the senior class. And by late fall she had become a staple of our adolescent preoccupation with the carnal.

Heather was everyone’s girl.

Like vitamins, she kept us healthy. And many of us took her, once a day.

But I’m getting ahead of myself. Because all of that happened later . . . after I forced myself to sweep away the memory of our first kiss, after the lingering scent of her perfume on my shirt had evaporated, after I heard the first snickers and the poorly disguised innuendo.

Because before I knew the truth—before I felt the sinking nausea sweep through me as I finally realized who they were talking about—Heather was my girl.

At first, I refused to believe it—it had to be a mistake. Why would she need to share her body with others? She wasn’t that kind of girl—the kind who would cheat on me and lie about it. The whole idea was insane.

But as others stepped up to confirm the rumors that, apparently, I was the last to hear, it became clear she was exactly that kind of girl.

Even with such overwhelming proof, I searched for a reason to doubt the accusations. Confronting her accusers, I demanded details—when, where, and with whom. Like all teenage boys eager to brag about their sexual conquests, they were happy to oblige.

They held nothing back, describing the features of her body in the same way a cartographer defines the features of a relief map—her full, rounded breasts crowned with small nipples, the small, clover-shaped birthmark on her right hip, and the perfect symmetry of her tiny pussy—a “Barbie,” they called it—and then adding how the muscles in her thighs flexed in synchronized cadence as her torso rose to meet theirs with every thrust.

That afternoon, just hours after I learned the truth, I waited for Heather in the parking lot, just like I always did. For four months, I’d picked her up and driven her to and from school—because it was what you did when you were a couple.

At first, I’d thought about leaving without her, letting her find her own way home. But I had questions. And I wanted answers—from her.

A strangling lump rose in my throat as I saw her emerge from the crowd. Running up to me, she stretched high on her toes to kiss me, forcing me to use every ounce of self-control I could muster.

Not here. Not now. Wait until we’re down the road. When the others—the ones who already know—won’t see us arguing.

Without saying a word, I opened the car door and watched her scoot across the front seat of my ’89 Chevy—to sit close, shoulder to shoulder—just as she always did. For her, the day was no different—her smile, her arm around my shoulder, the softness of her lips on mine. All the same—for her.

But for me, everything was different.

The girl sitting next to me—the girl I’d known more intimately than anyone before her— had become a stranger. And as I watched her adjust the radio, I noticed her face was a little less attractive, her body a little less special.

In that moment, I changed my mind about confronting her. No, I wasn’t offering forgiveness. Far from it. I decided to treat her as she’d treated me. I would strip away the sentiment and reduce our relationship to what it really was—a sham, built on pretense and lies.

From that moment on, I would abandon the emotional connection I thought we shared. I would use her body solely to satisfy my physical needs. To balance the scale. To put us on equal footing.

It was callous, insensitive, and unfeeling. And I hated myself for it—because I could never bring myself to hate her.

Were my motives stirred by revenge? I told myself I was justified. After what she’d done to me, I could easily rationalize using her body without any regard for her feelings.

And yet, I knew separating the devotion from the passion would take time—a slow and determined weaning of the intimacy and contentment I’d found in our most private moments. Heather had become a part of me. So much so, that in the middle of our most ardent lovemaking, I often thought of my responsibility to protect her, to cover her body with my own, to keep her from harm—and from others who might also consider the possibilities.

In hindsight, I realize my plan to abandon her emotionally while still portraying the role of a caring lover was nothing more than a lie of self-preservation—a cry from my wounded male ego. Even so, I would never again think of her as my girl. She was tarnished, flawed by invisible blemishes that would never heal.

I began to make excuses about our standing weekend dates. I told her there were things that needed to be done around the house. Not my fault, I assured her. My parents were insisting I take more responsibility. I also claimed my grade average was going south, and I needed to spend more time studying.

But it was all lies.

Just like her lies—except hers were so much worse.

Eventually, our time together became nothing more than a quick fuck-and-go, like a fast-food drive-through offering carnal servicing. I often met her after dropping off my real date—because I needed the touch of her skilled body to give me what I could not get from others.

Even when our antics turned playful and the old feelings of intimacy and affection began to return, I would remember who she was—and what she had done to me.

Looking back, I’ve replayed every conversation, every awkward pause. I’ve searched for some hidden reason—some clue that would explain her need to cheat, to turn our relationship into a joke. But she was either a master at deceit or I had been far too captivated with her beauty to notice her betrayal. 

Our relationship had started innocently, without pretense or planning. I simply ran into her at the local burger joint. As we stood in line to order, I invited her to share a booth.

Compared to my six-foot, one-hundred-eighty-pound frame, Heather was tiny. At five foot even, her short blond hair, brown puppy-dog eyes, and sparkling white teeth made me wonder if she’d been created from ninety-five pounds of perfectly formed pixie dust.

The sex started on our fourth date. That night—the night of our first time together—I’d been so unsure, so careful and cautious, hoping she didn't notice my trembling fingers as they roamed the curves and contours of her body.

But my youthful anxiety didn’t originate from the fear of disappointing her, or what was sure to be her certain realization that I’d never had sex before. It was because she was special, so out of my league as to make her precious—the girl I’d always hoped to be with, but believing I could never measure up to.

As our relationship grew, I found new ways to worship her. Using the money from my college savings, I bought Heather a new dress for homecoming—because I wanted everything to be perfect. It might have been just another school dance, but for me, it was our coming-out party, letting everyone know we were a couple—now and forever. And after dancing under an imaginary sky fashioned from papier-mâché streamers and strands of twinkling lights, I celebrated the event by placing a gold heart-shaped locket around Heather’s neck.

I never regretted spending the money. I financed our time together as if I were buying an insurance policy—to keep her close, and always with me. Never doubting her intentions, I believed I was investing in an uncertain but coveted future, together.

In return, she did everything she could to alleviate my fear of being less than she deserved. And it made me want her even more. She let me touch her, sharing herself with me—because she knew I cared.

That’s what I told myself.

As the first week of December approached, we grew even closer. I knew our parents would think it much too soon for a ring, but I couldn’t think of a better Christmas present. And while the cost would make a huge dent in my college fund, I kept visualizing the moment—slipping it on her finger, seeing the surprise on her face, all the while knowing that gold band and tiny diamond were symbolically bonding our futures together. 

I’m not exactly sure when the rumors started.

I didn’t hear them directly. Not at first. But I knew something was wrong.

I became suspicious when my friends began acting strange—the sudden hush in conversation when I approached, the exchange of guilty glances, and the awkward silence when I mentioned Heather’s name.

Just a few weeks before, they’d made it a point to ask how she was, how we were doing as a couple. Usually, one of them would suggest we go on a double-date that weekend.

But now, the conversation was carefully restrained. No one mentioned her name. No one asked about her—about us.

Because they knew.

And to their credit—to acknowledge whatever degree of adolescent compassion may have motivated their silence—they tried to keep it from me.

But the rumors continued to spread, and while I occasionally overheard some of the mumbled, incoherent whispers, I never thought the vague allegations had anything to do with Heather.

Another week passed.

Unable to ignore the increasingly frequent shaking heads, the looks of sympathy, and yes, even pity as I passed others in the quad, I finally mentioned it to Heather, asking her if she’d heard anything, if she knew what was going on.

She swore she didn’t know.  

Finally, one of the girls—Kathy—told me. She’d been one of the first to show concern, her sad eyes falling on me in the same way she might look at a homeless dog.

“We’ve known each other for a long time,” she began, “since we were freshmen. I wish there was some other way to tell you without having to say it straight out. But you need to know what’s going on.”

Then she revealed the ugly truth. All of it.

As she spoke, I tried to think of something that would cast doubt on her allegations. But she had no reason to lie. She carried no grudge against Heather. No jealously, no resentment.

After she finished, I sat in silence for the longest time.

Finally, Kathy put a hand on my shoulder. “You gonna be okay?”

I couldn’t imagine ever being okay again. I managed to nod.

Another week passed before the hurt and disappointment turned into bitter acceptance. Forced to face the fact that Heather was no longer my one and only, I began to notice other things, other traits and mannerisms that I interpreted as tattle-tale behaviors of her infidelity. For example, how quickly she could remove her clothes to engage in a quick fuck in the back seat—a talent no doubt perfected from her experience in accommodating spontaneous requests for sexual favors, even when the front seat was occupied by others waiting their turn.

By Christmas, our dates had been reduced to a few words of careful conversation, followed by the press of her body against mine—the rhythmic rise and fall of her hips nothing more than an illusion of her contrived devotion.

And the ring?

I tucked it away in the bottom drawer of my dresser. Too embarrassed to take it back and too angry to look at it, I decided to deal with it later, when I was ready to tally the cost of her betrayal in dollars and cents.

The holidays came and went, as did the spring. Through it all, I said nothing to Heather about her unfaithfulness—and neither did she. I thought it strange she never questioned my waning attention or decreased availability. Surely, she knew about my dates with other girls. Yet, she carried on as if it was a normal and expected part of our evolving relationship.

As the end of our senior year approached, our time together had been reduced to the occasional phone call—usually initiated by her—to ask if I wanted to drop by to study together or watch television. I knew what her invitation really meant, yet I seldom accepted.

I had moved on, and seeing her again would only remind me of my foolish, naive commitment to a teenage fantasy.

After graduation, our relationship was resigned to history. Without saying goodbye, without so much as a few words of conversation, we went our separate ways. And why not? Heather was no longer a part of my future. She had become a bitter-sweet memory—a first love tainted by too many nights of asking myself, “Why?”

She went west, to study business at UCLA. I started my freshman year at Colorado State.

I was surprised to receive the first of what turned out to be Heather’s weekly emails—a few paragraphs about her dorm, her roommate, and the boring course lectures. She always ended with the words, “Miss you!” followed by the final parting, “Love, Heather.”

That lasted for two months.

By winter, the frequency of her writing had dwindled to an occasional paragraph about some upcoming social event or her ongoing battle with the dorm’s vending machines. There were no more mentions of her feelings, and the word “love” was gone from her vocabulary.

She ended her messages by simply typing her name, as if the time and distance between us had grown to the point that I needed to be reminded of who she was. 

I suppose if I’d written back—if I’d acknowledged her letters—she would have kept writing. But I was done. I refused to write to a ghost.

A year passed, then two.

During summer vacations, when we were both home and separated by only a few miles, I made no attempt to contact her, to catch up. Neither did she. By then, I assumed she’d accepted the truth—her calls wouldn’t be returned.

After college graduation, I settled into a marketing job with an international mining firm in Denver. It was interesting work and the pay was good.

Although several of my college classmates also took jobs in Denver, my social life was spotty. Pursuing old college relationships didn’t make sense. As students, we’d hopped from one open door to another, enjoying the sexual freedom without the need for commitment.

Now, my priorities were different. I wanted to concentrate on my career. Spending time in bars and clubs looking for a casual hookup seemed like a waste of time. I would have plenty of time to meet someone after I’d made some progress on the professional fast track.

It was a Saturday in October.

I’d decided to take advantage of the unusually mild weather with a day trip to Vail. I’d never been there and I’d always been curious to see how the other half lived.

I was in the kitchen, putting together a snack for the road when I was interrupted by a knock on the door ...

The New Girl in Town is available now in eBook & Paperback at http://TheNewGirlBook.com