An Apology of Sorts - Esmé Fromhart
For as long as I can remember I have been romantically interested in men, Troy Bolton being my sexual awakening at a very young age when I innocently asked my mom why watching him in High School Musical made me “have to pee”. Once I got a bit older and thought I understood the concept of sexuality I—along with the rest of my ‘free thinking’ peers— decided it was a spectrum; no one is completely straight or gay. Thus, I decided I was attracted to women as well as men and started making out with my girlfriends and the occasional pretty girl at a party from time to time.
But inevitably, I would always end up romantically involved with a man. It was these ‘romantic’ endeavors that led to an intense shame building up inside me over time, rooted in the multiple occasions in which I have been in bed with a man; his naked body on top of mine, my eyes unable to meet his, as they are instead glued to the ceiling. My body moves while my mind remains stagnant, separated from the event at hand. It is times such as these when I recall one of the many instances in which my friends have reminded me that I “didn’t have to exclusively fuck men”, which—while factually true—never entirely resonated with me as someone who outwardly craves male attention.
I spend a majority of my therapy sessions unpacking these sexual encounters with my therapist, and attempting to grapple with the events that have led me to prefer the company of men over women. Last week we spent almost our entire session talking about how the patriarchal society we exist in has led me to invertedly seek male attention over female. My fingernails and cuticles happened to be incredibly interesting for that hour. In all honesty I don’t think I need a therapist; I consider myself to be incredibly self-aware in comparison to my peers. In fact, my therapist has even noted my cognizance over my emotions as being higher than that of the average person. I only see a therapist because my ‘friends’ suggested I go after the incident with Margo– people like to think therapy is some cure-all that will magically make you a better person. Personally, I think it just makes you more self-absorbed. Anyone with a real education should know they’re above the idea that some so-called 'expert' can rewire their brain just by talking about feelings. I only agreed to go because I thought Margo would maybe start talking to me again if she heard through the grapevine that I was actively seeking to better myself. Instead, I am down one friend and now convincing my parents to shell out $300 a month for me to sit on a teal couch surrounded by framed inspirational quotes and ‘gender inclusive’ artwork for sixty minutes each week while I pick at my cuticles and listen to some woman with a degree attempt to understand my shitty actions.
I met Margo in high school. I moved to Rochester in tenth grade, and I had no friends until I met her. I kind of hated her to be honest; she was one of those girls that everyone knew, she was pretty and ditsy, and she had a group of friends who would probably die on her behalf if necessary. I would have never approached her and her waist length-blonde hair if she hadn’t introduced herself first. Her smile was so contagious, she giggled in between her sentences and showed her blue braces to the world as if they were some trophy to be proud of. We got older, her braces were removed, but that smile still held the same mesmerizing effect. It wasn’t hard to love Margo—everyone did. She was just so human—or is, I guess. She’s not dead; we just don’t talk anymore. Once I got to know her, I realized she experienced every emotion at enormously heightened levels. A part of me admired this about her, it made me want to be close to her so I could live through her reactions to the life that unfolded in front of us. In hindsight, I think this was why we argued so much. I couldn’t understand why she was so impacted by the seemingly insignificant occurrences, and she couldn’t understand why I wasn’t.
The most trivial fight of ours that I can remember was a few months before our backpacking trip across Europe. The trip was her idea, we were both taking a gap year before college and searching for an adventure of sorts and an escape from the sorrows of Rochester. Anyways, I had bought my plane ticket before she did, I really didn’t think it was a big deal, it was on sale, and I guess I just forgot to tell her. When I passively mentioned it to her a week later, her voice got higher, and she got all red in the face. Holding back tears, she told me I didn’t know how to think about anyone but myself. I didn’t really know what to say—so I rolled my eyes and laughed, like she was being ridiculous. A couple days later, I saw a bouquet of lavender at the farmers market. It was overpriced and honestly not worth it. But I bought it anyway. She loves lavender.
Margo liked to believe the world saw her as a whimsical, untethered soul, forever chasing adventure. But to anyone paying even a shred of attention, it was painfully clear she was just running away from the weight of her own emotions. Thus, the impromptu Europe trip was likely an opportunity for her to distract herself from her breakup with Theo. Of course, she’d never admit that—possibly because she hadn’t realized it yet. But that’s what I’m here for.
I was practically Margo’s sole support system during their breakup. Theo was the love of her life, who unfortunately never uttered the three words that would have solidified it. Instead, he broke up with her and left her in such a state that none of her friends had the courage to console her. Except for me. I spent hours listening to Margo’s tear-stricken monologues about how she couldn’t imagine loving another the way she did Theo. We drove for hours through Rochester’s back roads until Margo had cried herself dry and her puffy eyes could no longer keep themselves open. I didn’t mind being her comfort. In fact, I kind of loved it. There’s something satisfying about the girl everyone wants having no one but you. I think Margo was a smart girl, she was intuitive and skillful when it came to understanding others emotions, often ones that they don’t understand themselves. But in her heartbroken delusion she had genuinely convinced herself that Theo broke up with her because he was too scared to admit how much he loved her. I can’t even begin to explain how stupidly cliché that hypothesis is. From the jump it was incredibly obvious their whole relationship was a strung-out ploy for Theo to lose his virginity. I never understood what she saw in him; he was a seventeen-year-old boy, the only thing he loved was jerking off to Reddit porn and successfully convincing his female peers he was worth their time. And besides, if he loved her so much, he wouldn’t have been fucking me.
In hindsight, I’m a shitty friend. My therapist consistently inquires as to why I did it, three years later and I still don’t have a proper answer for her. I suppose I wanted to see if I could. Maybe I wanted to have something Margo had, to feel what she felt. After being with him, I’d lie awake for hours, listening to the low hum of my air conditioner and the crickets outside, wondering if Theo’s lips tasted the same to me as they did to Margo.
After Margo found out, one of the last things she said to me was that no sane person could spend a month abroad with someone they’d utterly betrayed—that the guilt should’ve eaten me alive.
During our trip I let Margo do all of the socializing for the both of us. She was the kind of person everyone wanted to converse with, thus she never had trouble making friends. We stayed in Barcelona for three nights where we met a couple Spanish boys who were eager to give us a “tour of the city” which ended in the four of us getting completely wasted to the point of us no longer being able to bridge the gap between our language differences. It was in this inebriated state that Margo asked if any of them had weed, to which they replied by pulling out a hand-rolled joint. I was hesitant to take drugs off of a stranger, but Margo had no qualms and was happy to take the first drag. To this day I have no idea what was in that joint. Hours later we found ourselves stripped down to our underwear, sprawled out next to each other, our backs touching the cold tile of the hotel bathroom floor. We held hands and giggled together over nothing worth remembering.
After what felt like hours of laughing and aimless babbling, Margo turned to face me, her pupils were especially large, leaving only a sliver of her pale blue irises visible.
“I love you, Ella."
I felt a familiar tightness in my throat at her statement, I remained still. "I know we butt heads sometimes,” she added, softer, “but I really do love your company”. I held my breath, refusing to meet her eyes—as if I were hiding in the jungle, ducking for cover while being hunted by a large predator. Time stretched thin between us. Finally, out of the corner of my eye, I saw her turn away—defeated. Moments later, she stood up and left the bathroom.
That night, she slept with her back to me.
Esmé is a junior set to graduate in May 2026. She is currently majoring in English and minoring in Fine Arts.