You gain a deep understanding of the future of being lonely in a bar in Fenton in the rain with a man ten years older than you. You swallow down the three dollar beer he bought you ‘cause everyone in the bar, singing a country song you don’t know at the top of their lungs, knows that’s all it takes to get “those” girls out of their pants.

And you kiss him like you’d rather not and you **** him like a teenager because that’s the person you think he wants instead of you. He’s the first guy to ever put his mouth on you and it’s electric, a live wire, but everything else he does, every touch, every hissed word under his breath, every time his eyes meet yours is just another way you’re both lying to yourselves and each other. “I’m with you, so no, I’m not lonely. If you’re not alone, you can’t be lonely.”

You lay in his bed for awhile. You don’t want to be with him but you don’t want to go home, either. It’s raining outside the truck and it’s raining on your face because you don’t want to keep doing this until you’re his age, but you fail to see any other alternatives when you’re still not looking people in the eye.

He’s not your type, but you’re drunk and you’re desperate and all the couch cushions are already on the floor. You pick him up in person, which is new, but instead of making you feel like you’re in control of this speeding train with no brakes, you feel like it was all out of your hands. Like you have no choice but to keep building this story so you can be one of “those” girls.

Like if you’re going to try to get to know someone, you’re going to do it with your clothes off.

And he says it doesn’t have to be a one time thing, which is sweet in a way that makes your skin crawl, and his number is in your phone, but you already know you needed to know about him laying flat on your back on the floor of your friends’ apartment with a towel in your mouth so you won’t scream existentially or otherwise.

And the new one? He’s kind of like the old, except he’s ticklish and wears glasses and has crooked teeth when he smiles. The *** should by all rights be bad, but he left ringlet bruises around your wrist and pulled your hair hard enough for you to remember that this is real, that it’s really happening, that your heart is still beating in your chest, that no matter how lonely you are, that doesn’t mean you’re alone.

Make no mistake. The new one is not love. You’re not going to sign off on that again. He’s leaving in a month and you’re going to feel your heart beat against his chest as often as you can to remind yourself there is a real difference between being lonely and being alone.