Bad Romance

by Heather Demetrios

  Stealing and giving odor!

  Enough; no more:

  ’Tis not so sweet now as it was before.

  I miss you, Grace. I don’t want to lose your friendship. Stop avoiding me, eh? I promise I won’t quote any more Shakespeare. It’s just two a.m. and I can’t sleep and I … I don’t want to make all this harder on you than it already is. Anyway. Friends?

  G.

  hey baby—

  I recorded this song for you. it’s going on the LP! have a listen. it’s all acoustic, just like you always want. can’t wait to see you at the show tonight. i love you more than life.

  Grace

  I know I’m not perfect

  But I’ll sure as hell try

  Just give me one more chance

  To prove that I’m your guy

  You’re my saving Grace

  You’re my saving Grace

  This love doesn’t grow on trees

  But I’ll get down on bended knee

  To prove my love to you

  To prove I want you—only you

  You’re my saving Grace

  You’re my saving Grace

  Baby, come closer now

  Don’t give up on me

  We’re so close to everything we want

  We’re so close to everything we need

  You’re my saving Grace

  You’re my saving Grace

  I need you

  I want you

  I love you

  You’re my saving Grace

  You’re my saving …

  Grace

  Dear Ms. Carter:

  On behalf of the University of Southern California, I’m delighted to invite you to join us next Fall to continue your academic career. Out of hundreds of applicants, you were one of the few students that have been chosen for our prestigious School of Dramatic Arts. You will soon receive a packet in the mail with more information. Congratulations and welcome to the Trojan Family!

  Fight on,

  Eleanor Hopkins

  Dean

  USC School of Dramatic Arts

  Racy Gracie!

  Your BFF Nat here. Look, I know things are crazy right now with boys. You know which one I’m rooting for. But—and I know this is going to sound insane—they’re just BOYS. You’re not going to marry either one of them, I PROMISE. I know this for a fact because I heard a rumor that a certain Calvin Klein underwear model is MADLY in love with you and wants you to have his babies. Shhh, don’t tell.

  I miss you, my dear friend. It’s been weeks since we’ve hung out just the three of us (and, coincidentally, three weeks since The Bat Incident). We’re supposed to be having senior year fun times, remember? It’s almost MAY! Don’t push everyone that loves you away, okay?

  Because you can try, but we’re not going ANYWHERE. (I mean that totally literally because this town freaking sucks, so, like, where could we even go—the water tower?).

  I Lovvvvvvvvvvvvveeeeeeeeee Youuuuuuuuuu— Nat

  grace |grās|

  noun

  1. simple elegance or refinement of movement: she moved across the stage with effortless grace.

  •  courteous goodwill: at least she has the grace to agree Radiohead is the best band ever.

  •  (graces) an attractively polite manner of behaving: she exhibits all the social graces when directing a play (except when Peter doesn’t learn his lines).

  2. (in Christian belief) the free and unmerited favor of God, as manifested in the salvation of sinners and the bestowal of blessings. You deserve all the grace in the world.

  •  a divinely given talent or blessing: she has the graces of Dionysus, god of theatre.

  •  the condition or fact of being favored by someone: you can never fall from grace with me—no matter how hard you try.

  3. (also grace period) a period officially allowed for payment of a sum due or for compliance with a law or condition, esp. an extended period granted as a special favor: my feelings are getting stronger for you during this grace period.

  You’re one of my most profound friends and a wonderful person with a beautiful soul. Whatever happens, don’t forget that.

  G.

  grace—

  my therapist told me it’d be a good idea to write you a letter, to tell you everything I’m feeling. at first, I was, like, fuck that, but then I started thinking about everything and realized, yeah, I have to get some stuff off my chest. I mean, I’m seeing this therapist and taking fucking meds for you. do you even appreciate that? pretty shitty that you basically coerced me into going, saying it was the only reason you’d stay with me, which, by the way, was a lot to ask of me after what you did.

  HIM. you know who I’m talking about.

  I thought I was okay, you know, after we made up and you promised me nothing happened and I realized I needed some help because I seriously would have bashed his fucking face in if it weren’t for Kyle and Peter, but I can’t get him holding your hand out of my head. and how you let him. I talked with my mom about it and we both agree that that’s not “nothing,” as you say. I am in literal fucking agony over this, grace. like, I can’t sleep at night. my doctor had to up my meds because they just stopped fucking working. I can’t write any songs except total emo shit.

  you are ruining my life.

  and I’m letting you. you’re like a goddamn drug that I can’t get enough of. do you have any idea how addictive you are? I should turn you into pills, sell you on the street.

  I don’t know what to do. I love you so much. like, I would die for you. I really think I would. but you’re driving me crazy. I would never do this to you. how would you feel if you found out I was with some girl all the time? holding her hand? that bad feeling you just had reading that—it’s what I feel all the time.

  and don’t read this and say we should break up. you’re not the only one in this relationship. so here’s the deal:

  stop being a tease. stop stringing me along. no more contact with him. no fucking letters or after-school talks or sitting together at lunch or phone calls or whatever the hell is going on over there behind my back. yeah, peter told me everything so don’t even try lying. and stop listening to your bitch friends who hate me and want you to be with HIM. why are you turning your back on me and not them?

  grace, I love you. can’t you see that? what more do I have to do to show you that we’re meant to be together? soul mates. you’re the one. please don’t fuck around on me.

  Gav

  Grace—

  Are you even reading these? Sometimes I think the letters I write you are diary entries that wind up in the trash. Did he find one? Is that why you won’t write me back?

  Listen, I know this whole situation is screwed up. And I know you say we can’t be friends. But that’s CRAZY. You’re one of my best friends. The only person who I can talk to about all the stuff going on in my head—God, Radiohead, the world—all the shit that matters. Can’t we keep that, at least? I promise I won’t talk about “the situation” or try to kiss your forehead or even say stuff like “I really, really want to kiss your forehead.” I swear on all the gods.

  You’re not okay. I can see it. And what’s with spending lunch in the library? It’s your senior year. Nat and Lys are super worried about you—Miss B, too. Are you not doing the spring dance concert because I got cast? I’ll totally quit if you need me to. I know he doesn’t want us around each other and even though you know how I feel about him and all of that, I don’t want you to lose your last chance to do a Roosevelt show.

  There’s this expression the teachers in my mom’s yoga class use: Namaste. It means “The light in me recognizes the light in you.” Namaste, Grace.

  Come back to us.

  Come back to me.

  G.

  Gav—

  It’s our year anniversary and I woke up this morning and wished I were dead. For a second there, I really wanted to be. I wanted to wake up in the clouds or into oblivion or whatever happens when we die.
That scared the shit out of me. There isn’t any good way to say what I’m about to say. So I’m just going to say it: I’m breaking up with you. As of this moment, we are no longer together. I still love you, but I’m not in love with you. Or maybe I am, I don’t know. That confusion is reason enough to break up, don’t you think? What I do know is that we fight all the time. I know you’re angry at me—hopelessly, endlessly angry at me. I know that no matter what I do, it’s never good enough for you. I know I hurt you so bad about the whole Gideon thing. And I can tell you now that even though nothing happened, I like him. A lot. I’m so sorry.

  I’m not getting with Gideon after writing this. I’m not getting with anyone. I need time to be by myself, to figure out who I am and what I’m going to do with the rest of my life. We’ve been together so long—I have no idea what’s me and what’s you. We’ve both sacrificed huge parts of ourselves—me with NYU, you with UCLA—and it’s time to stop doing that. We are so young. Gav, I’m desperately unhappy. I practically start crying the moment I wake up and I cry myself to sleep most nights. Nothing brings me happiness. I’m a zombie, just walking around school in this depressed haze. I can’t keep on like this. It’s my senior year and I’ve worked so hard to get where I’m at.

  I’m sorry I’m doing this in a letter, and on our anniversary, which is the shittiest timing and seems purposeful, but isn’t. It’s just I know I won’t be able to break up with you when you’re standing right in front of me being sweet and hot and mine. I don’t know if there’s a future for us. Maybe in a few years we’ll figure it out. Maybe we won’t. Please just give me space and I’ll give you space, too.

  I love you, Gav. I love you so much. But I can’t do this anymore. Please don’t hurt yourself. Please.

  Grace

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  I clutch the letter I wrote you in my hands and stare out the window as Nat speeds to your place.

  “I am so effing proud of you, Grace,” she’s saying. “I know how hard this is, but seriously, don’t you feel better already?”

  I nod, but I’m not so sure.

  “You’re positive this isn’t the equivalent of breaking up with someone over text?” I ask, holding up the letter. It just says Gavin on the front.

  “Dude,” Lys says from the backseat, “the only reason you have to do it this way is because we now know he threatens to bash people’s heads in when he’s pissed.”

  This is true.

  “But it’s our year anniversary. Maybe I should wait a day? It’s so harsh.”

  “Okay, imagine this,” Lys says. “You don’t give him the letter. He’s going to pick you up tonight and take you out. You’re going to pretend that it’s all good the whole time, but he’s not stupid, so he’ll ask what’s wrong, and you’ll get in a huge fight. And you’ll try to break up and then he’ll cry and ask for one more chance.… Am I on track?”

  I nod, miserable.

  Nat glances in the rearview mirror. “I think it’s time for the breakup playlist,” she says.

  “Hells yeah.” Lys takes her phone out of her backpack and hooks it up to the car stereo.

  “You guys made me a breakup playlist?” I ask.

  “Oh, did we ever,” Lys says as Lily Allen’s “Fuck You” comes on.

  The three of us have a dance party and by the time we reach your apartment, I have the courage to get out of the car. Your Mustang isn’t in the parking lot, so you’re going to get this when you get home from rehearsal with the band. You guys are playing a show later tonight, a few hours after our planned date, so I know you won’t be able to get too depressed. In some ways, the letter is coming at a perfect time because you can get your sadness and anger out in the best, most healthy way: through your music. I don’t know if you would try to kill yourself again, like you did with Summer. You’re older now, and on meds and in therapy. And it’s not like this is coming out of nowhere. I can’t remember the last time we saw each other and didn’t fight.

  “You go to school with him every day,” you said, just a few days ago. “How do I know that you’re not making out in between classes, screwing in his car during lunch?”

  This language, it doesn’t rile me up anymore like it used to. I’ve become quite accustomed to you flinging this shit my way. Gideon’s letters burn inside me: Namaste. Come back to me. I haven’t talked to him for the entire month of April. I miss him. I miss the me I am with him.

  “I don’t understand why you’re staying with me if that’s the kind of person you think I am,” I say. “Break up with me if you can’t trust me.”

  Now I feel like I don’t have the right to be the one doing the breaking. I’m the one who emotionally cheated on you. I don’t get to hurt you like that, then dump you. I deserve to be dumped. I’m waiting to be dumped. (Please dump me.)

  “Break up with you,” you snort. “That’s what you want, isn’t it?”

  “I love you,” I whisper. Then a tiny bit of courage rears up in me. “But I’m fucking tired of fighting with you every day—”

  “I hate you.” You say this quietly and when you look over at me, the malice in your face sends a chill down my spine. “I hate you almost as much as I love you.”

  I stare at you. There are no words, just this fear spreading through me. You’re so much bigger than me and you have those strong guitar-playing hands. My fingers move to my neck, clutch at my collarbone. I think about the foresight it took to find a baseball bat and bring it to the theater. If no one had stopped you, would you have used it on Gideon? Me?

  I don’t know who you are anymore.

  Panic blooms in my chest and I think about how I forgot my cell phone at home and how we’re in the middle of an abandoned housing development after dark, since some of the guys from the band are crashing at your apartment. No one would hear me scream.

  I inch toward you because that is the only thing that ever calms you—my touch. I reach out and place my palm against your cheek. Bring my lips close to yours. Your eyes are two narrow slits and I don’t know what that means, only that I have to tame you somehow.

  “We’re soul mates,” I whisper. “Soul mates don’t hate each other.”

  I take your hand and pull you toward the back of the car. I open the door and lie down, pulling you on top of me. This always works—your skin against mine, your breath in my mouth.

  “I want you,” I whisper. “Only you. Always.”

  After, you drive me home, silent, and when you drop me off, I close the passenger door softly behind me, as though you’re The Giant now and I’m afraid to wake you.

  I go into my room, grab a sheet of paper, and start writing:

  Gavin—

  * * *

  I STAND IN front of the door to your apartment and it hurts to remember the happy look on your face when you brought me here for the first time. Just past this door is the future you’ve been trying to build for us. I’m about to knock it all down. My phone buzzes in my pocket and I feel sick because I know it’s you. I pull it out and look at the text—a picture of you holding up a tiny gift bag from the jewelry store in the mall. I am such an asshole.

  Nat honks and when I look back, she and Lys pose with Lady Gaga claw hands and huge, you-can-do-it grins. I give them a thumbs-up. I can do this. I will do this. I tuck my phone back into my pocket and rest my palm against the door for a minute, a year of memories running through me: you serenading me in the hallway at school as you ask me to prom, you kissing me under stars, drenched in moonlight. Birthdays and holidays and shit times and beautiful times. Your songs and your smiles and the way your hands touch me like I’m a priceless treasure. But then I think about you saying I hate you and a year of tears and yelling and punishing kisses and sex for the purpose of forgetting. A year of a hopelessness that’s rooted itself deep inside me. Five hundred twenty-five thousand six hundred minutes of riding a roller coaster that refuses to stop.

  My eyes well up as I tuck the letter under the corner of the welcome mat your mom bought you. Th
en I run back to the car and Nat turns the stereo up full blast: Taylor Swift’s “We Are Never Ever Getting Back Together.”

  “I say this calls for some Pepsi Freezes,” Lys says.

  For the rest of the day I feel light as air. I’m single, I keep thinking to myself, over and over. I’m free.

  I meant it in my letter when I said I wouldn’t get with Gideon, but a part of me wants to run into his arms and stay there for a good long while. It might be too much to hope that he’ll forgive me for shredding his heart and then ignoring him for the past month just to protect my own. I’m so used to having that now—a boy to hide me from my problems. Except … the boys are the problems.

  “Don’t let me get with Gideon,” I tell the girls. “I know I need to be on my own.”

  Lys nods. “Chicks before dicks.”

  I laugh. “Yeah, I kinda like the sound of that.”

  Nat turns up the radio as Beyoncé’s “Sorry” comes on.

  Middle fingers up, put them hands high, wave it in his face, tell ’em boy bye …

  I don’t hear from you. I thought I would—endless texts or calls I’d have to ignore. But there’s nothing. I feel disappointed. Not that I wanted you to fight to get back together, but I thought our year together warranted some kind of response.

  When I get home, I turn off all the lights in my room and light a few candles. The Rent soundtrack is on and I’m putting everything related to us in a box. Letters, gifts (the star necklace, the infinity bracelet). I take pictures of us off my phone. Take them out of frames. Then I lie on my back and close my eyes, dreaming myself to Paris. To Jacques or Raoul, to baguettes and café au lait and picnics along the Seine. I go to Notre Dame and the Louvre and the top of the Eiffel Tower. Then I’m in New York, in a boat in Central Park, at a late-night diner with friends. In a sound booth, calling a show on Broadway.

  And only once I’m looking out over all of New York at the top of the Empire State Building, just a speck among the thousands of twinkling lights, do I fall asleep.

  * * *

  MY MOM PULLS up in front of the hospital and I’m out of the car before she’s even stopped. I sprint to the information desk. Words tumble out of my mouth—I don’t even know what I’m saying.