It took me a long time to accept that sex and love didn’t necessarily have to co-exist. It’s like… you can still have an apple, when you actually wanted strawberry ice cream… because you may be just hungry or something. Maybe so much you can’t control yourself… like eating it wasn’t even completely your choice. It was just more convenient. It doesn’t mean you’ll be fully satisfied or that you won’t still crave the ice cream.
But, when you are 15, sex is this gigantic life-defining thing that has to have an actual meaning. Probably an unrealistic one. When you are 15, it’s strawberry ice cream or nothing. But I don’t think it was ever like that to Rayanne. She had a lot of apples. Including, the boy I was in love with in high school.
We’ve still been best friends ever since… because I was somehow convinced that , to Rayanne, having sex with Jordan Catalano was her messed up way of being me. As if “me” was this unachievable thing… or a good thing. Or something someone would actually want to be…
It’s just ironic that she’d want to be me. Because the truth is, every time that blue-eyed young man walks through my door, like a literal consequence of the night I thought I would manage to forget one day, I can’t help but wish that I was her and I wonder what it would have been like If I was the one who had gotten pregnant that night. Not Rayanne.
There are times when I wish that I was her more than anything.
Angela Chase's diary 