Sincerely, Carter

by Whitney G.

  “And if he doesn’t?”

  “Find someone who does.”

  “Right,” she said. “Are you still thinking about breaking up with Emily this weekend, or are you going to try and make it work?”

  “No.” I walked over to my bedroom door and shut it before completely answering. “It’s definitely over. I’m not feeling it anymore, and I’m beyond tired of all the arguing, her erratic craziness, and feeling like I have to check in every hour on the hour.”

  “This is your fourth breakup in a year. I think it’s time for you to give the girlfriend thing a rest.”

  “Don’t worry,” I said. “I’ve finally accepted that I’m not the relationship type, and I’ll be making my single status very clear after tomorrow. I need to be single and enjoy life before law school starts anyway.”

  “So, you’re saying that you’re going to be a whore this summer?”

  “I’m implying that.” I smiled. “There’s a difference.”

  “There’s really not…Oh! Gotta go! Scott just pulled up in the driveway so I’ll call you tomorrow. Bye!”

  I hung up and grabbed another beer from the fridge. As I was shutting the door, a plate whizzed by my head—inches away from my ear. It hit the wall and shattered onto the floor.

  “What the—” I turned around to see a red faced Emily. “What the fuck is wrong with you?”

  “With me?” She tossed another plate at my head and missed. “What’s wrong with me? What the fuck is wrong with you?!”

  “Only one of us is currently using plates as a potential murder weapon right now…”

  “You’re breaking up with me tomorrow? Days before graduation?”

  “If I say yes, will you stop throwing my goddamn plates?”

  She threw another one, but it landed near the stove. “I thought we were going on vacation together this summer! I had tons of selfies and sex planned, but all of sudden you’re willing to throw it away? Just like that?” She was talking faster than ever. “I know I text you all the time, but only because I worry and like you so much, and I’m a journalism major so I see stories that would make your mind explode... People are out there dying every day, Carter. Every. Day.”

  “Okay…” I shook my head. “Exactly how much Adderall did you take today?”

  “Our perfect future aside, you’re breaking up with me and I have to hear about it from a phone conversation you’re having with someone else? That’s messed up, Carter! Beyond messed up!”

  “You’re right.” I held up my hands in a slight surrender. “And I’m actually very sorry about that, but yes, I am breaking up with you tomorrow. Well, right now, actually…” I decided to give diplomatic option one a go. “It’s not you, it’s me…”

  “Are you being serious right now?”

  I went for diplomatic option two. “I just don’t think I’m the man you’re looking for.”

  She was silent for a long time, glaring at me in utter disbelief. I was hoping she wouldn’t try to talk me out of this, otherwise, I’d have to go with the less than diplomatic reason and dodge more plates.

  “You know what?” She set down the remaining plates in her hand and slid her bag over her shoulder. Then she walked toward me. “I should’ve seen this coming miles away; should’ve known that you would never bare your soul to me like I bared mine to you.”

  “You’re more than welcome to stay the night,” I said, glad she was somewhat accepting. “I never said I was putting you out. I can take you home tomorrow.”

  “Oh! So, now you want to be a gentleman?!” She hissed. “Please! My best friend is outside waiting for me.”

  “Well, in that case…I’m sorry we didn’t work out.”

  “You’re really not,” she said, stepping closer. “You’re not sorry because you don’t really want a girlfriend, Carter. You’ve never wanted one, and do you want to know why?” A slight purr escaped her lips and I was more than convinced that ending this relationship was for the best.

  “Ask me why.” She pushed my shoulder. “Ask me why you don’t need a goddamn girlfriend!”

  “Why don’t I need a girlfriend, Emily…?”

  “Because you already have one…You always have…” She pushed me harder. “And her name is Arizona Turner.”

  I raised my eyebrow, completely confused.

  “So, fuck you and her, and I hope your tiny little cock—”

  “It was huge when you were riding it yesterday…”

  “Whatever! Fuck. You. Carter.” She bumped me with her shoulder and headed toward the side door. She twisted and turned the lock a few times, pushing and pulling on the knob.

  “You have to leave through the front door,” I said, without moving. “New locks, remember?”

  “Oh, yeah…I totally forgot about that. Did I ever tell you that I liked the new locks you picked?” She moved to the front door and opened it, looking over her shoulder. “I liked them a lot, very artsy and unique. How much did you pay for them again?”

  I gave her a blank stare.

  “Well then…” she said, snapping back into pissed off mode.” Goodbye, Carter James…And FUCK YOU AGAIN…With something rough and sand-papery!”

  The inevitable door slam came right after.

  I walked into my room to see if she’d damaged anything, to see if she’d tried to leave a revenge mark somewhere, and she had. Pictures that were once hanging on my wall—the only ones I had of my parents, were lying all over the floor. She’d even somehow managed to open all my desk drawers and throw everything out without making too much noise.

  Why do I continue to do this to myself?

  Annoyed, yet relieved that I’d be spending tonight alone, I returned everything to its rightful place—hanging the pictures back up first.

  When I finished tossing all of the pencils and pens back into the drawer, I heard my phone ringing in my pocket. Arizona, again.

  “Yes?” I held it up to my ear. “Do I need to explain how sex works to you? I know it’s been awhile in your world, but it really isn’t that difficult…”

  “Scott dumped me!”

  “What?”

  “HE. DUMPED. ME!” She huffed. “But you know what? I’ll call and tell you about it tomorrow after I calm down. I don’t want Emily accusing you of having phone sex with me.”

  “Emily actually just left.” I searched for my car keys. “We can talk.”

  “Oh my god, let me tell you then!” Her coherent speech ended right there. Whenever she was discussing a breakup, there was an endless tirade of cursing and “What a goddamn asshole,” “He didn’t deserve me!” “He’s going to miss me!” woes before she ever started to sound intelligible.

  “Ari…” I said after she called him a dickhead for the umpteenth time. “Just tell me what happened.”

  “Right…” She took a deep breath. “He came back with the condoms, and we were suddenly half naked, kissing, and we were close to going there—so close…But, those weird vibes came back, so I told him to stop and that I wasn’t ready. I said I needed a little more time to make sure I was doing the right thing. Then I said, ‘Besides, Carter thinks that I should—”

  “Whoa, whoa, whoa…” I stopped, finally locating my car keys. “You brought me up?”

  “Yeah, why wouldn’t I? I told him what you said about me being one hundred percent sure before I slept with someone. Then he said, ‘Okay, that’s it. We’re over. Get the hell out.’”

  “He did not tell you to get the hell out, Ari. You’re exaggerating.”

  “He did!” She sounded livid all over again. “As a matter of fact, when I was walking out, he said that since I always have to go ask for your advice about everything, that I should just go and fuck you.”

  Silence.

  At the same time, we both burst into hysterical laughter.

  “No offense,” I said, still laughing. “But I would never fuck you, let alone put up with you in a relationship.”

  “You mean, I would never put up with you. No
t only are you the worst boyfriend in the history of boyfriends, you’re also not my type.”

  “Clearly.” I opened the ‘track-current-caller’ app on my phone. “Exceptionally sexy, muscular in all the right places, and the ability to make any woman want to sleep with me after a first date are somehow all unfortunate qualities in your mind.”

  “Seriously? Are you listening to yourself right now?” She scoffed. “Please. For the record, my qualities are far better and weed out the one-track minded men like yourself: Smart, witty, and talented with something other than my tongue.”

  “You left out your best quality.”

  “Which one?”

  “The permanent ‘not interested in fucking’ label etched onto your forehead.”

  She laughed, and I heard a light knock at the door.

  “Hold on a second.” I held the phone to my chest and walked to the front door, hoping it wasn’t Emily.

  It wasn’t.

  It was Ari, puffy red eyes and all.

  “Can I spend the night on your couch since Emily left?” she asked, stepping inside. “It doesn’t make sense for me to go all the way back home at this hour, and I’m sort of offended that you didn’t at least offer me a ride since I clearly said Scott kicked me out. You know his apartment isn’t that far from here.”

  “I was actually getting ready to come get you.” I ended our call.

  “Sure you were.” Her eyes veered to my arm. “You got another tattoo?” She touched my sleeve, tracing the latest addition—another branch of Latin phrases on my overgrown cypress tree. “When was this?”

  “Last week. I told you I was considering it.”

  “Considering, not actually getting…” She traced it again. “I like it. Although, you’re definitely going to have to wear suits for most of your professional life. No one wants to hire a lawyer with a sleeve full of tattoos.”

  “So you say.” I grabbed a blanket from the hallway closet and handed it to her. “You can take my room. I’ll sleep out here. I need to think.”

  “About how to break up with Emily?”

  “No, that’s already done. She overheard our conversation and dumped me right before you called.”

  “Wow. What a suck-fest day for the both of us….” She frowned, but then she quickly snapped back into her usual upbeat self. “You want to grab a late breakfast this Saturday at Gayle’s?”

  “Sure. Noon?”

  “Actually, could we do one o’clock?” She started walking to my room. “I have a bikini wax appointment at noon.”

  “Why are you waxing the one part of your body that no one ever sees?”

  “I see it.”

  “Hmmm. So, is that the real reason you wanted to postpone sleeping with Scott tonight? Because you had a bush you didn’t want him to see?”

  “What? What did you say?”

  “I know you, Ari.” I smirked. “And you definitely heard me…Is that the real reason?”

  “Carter…”

  “I’ve known you since what? Fifth grade?”

  “Fourth grade.”

  “Same thing,” I said, noticing a slight redness on her cheeks. “You can tell me. I’m not going to judge you. I’ll just suggest you keep your bush trimmed regularly instead of worrying about waxing it all off at the last minute.”

  “Even if I had a bush,” she said, rolling her eyes, “which I don’t, I’m pretty sure I wouldn’t make that the main reasoning behind not having sex with someone—my boyfriend especially, at the last minute.”

  “Good,” I said. “Because most guys—guys like me, honestly don’t care about that. And seeing as though you probably won’t be having sex for another eight months, I’m just trying to save you some money. Maybe take the money you’ll be spending on a wax this weekend and buy a better vibrator instead?”

  She slammed the door to my room, and I laughed until I fell asleep.

  Track 2. Wildest Dreams. (3:54)

  Why don’t they tell you that the major you declare your sophomore year may be the one subject you end up loathing by your senior year? And how can people honestly expect a nineteen year old to know what she wants to do for the rest of her life and be happy with her decision?

  Ridiculous…

  Somewhere between Small Business Accounting and Tax Law 101 my junior year, I realized that I hated business only slightly less than I hated the idea of working in an office for the rest of my life. Even though I could draft a spreadsheet and integrate statistics like no one else could, I was bored. Excruciatingly and utterly bored.

  I didn’t realize my true passion in life until I started baking “Fuck this major” cupcakes to cope with an intense tax law class. I’d brought them to a study group and they were devoured by my classmates in seconds, so I made more. Then I started branching out and making other things.

  At first, I mastered the simple treats—different cupcakes, cookies, and brownies. Then I started to attempt the more intricate recipes: frosted éclairs, upside down sorbet style crescents, stuffed cream waffles.

  The more I baked, the happier I became, but it wasn’t until my mom brought it to my attention one day that I actually considered taking it seriously. I’d made her an orange soufflé for Christmas and she loved it so much that she took pieces of it over to her neighbors—demanding that they try it. She even called my then-boyfriend over and asked him to have some, to which he said, “Hmmm. It’s edible.”

  Still, I’d realized my love for the culinary arts far too late. So, instead of switching majors, I remained in the business school and whenever I had free time, I stole classes from the number one culinary school on the beach: Wellington’s Culinary Institute.

  Every Saturday and Sunday, I went downtown and sat in the very back of the classroom—taking notes like I really belonged there. On the days that the class met in the actual cooking room—one stove per “paying student,” I would simply pretend to be a high-schooler who was doing a research project.

  It was what I was currently doing at this moment.

  “Don’t forget that you’ll be graded on how you create the layers on your croissant.” The professor said from the front of the room. “They’ll need to be crisp, but not too flaky—soft, but never sticky…You’ll also need to make sure your own personal design is something you’ve never created in this class before. Do not replicate any previous assignments or you’ll receive an automatic demerit.

  I watched as the woman standing in front of me stirred her batter and mixed in a few sprinkles of sugar. She tasted the dough and shook her head—sprinkling in even more.

  “Hey…” I whispered to her. “Hey…”

  She looked over her shoulder. “What?”

  “You don’t need any more sugar in that.”

  “How would you know, thief?”

  I rolled my eyes. “Because you still have to fry it and coat it with a sugar blend, and that’s before you even inject the sugared filling into it. If you use anymore, you’ll give the taste-tester early onset diabetes.”

  She set down the bowl of sugar and got back to work, gratefully stepping over a bit so I could see the rest of her setup.

  As I was writing down the list of ingredients, I felt someone tapping my shoulder.

  “Yes?” I didn’t look up. I was in the middle of writing down a brand of specialty dough. I was on the last letter when the notebook was snatched out of my hands and I found myself face to face with a woman dressed in all black. The word “Security” was etched across her chest in huge block letters and she was crossing her arms.

  “What are you doing here today, Miss Turner?” she asked, pursing her lips.

  “I’m uh…” I cleared my throat and sat up. “I’m here doing a book report.”

  “A book report?”

  “Yes,” I said. “A very important book report for my school. My high school.”

  “And what high school do you supposedly go to?”

  “Pleasant View High.”

  “You go there even thou
gh it’s been abandoned for fifty years?”

  Shit. “I meant Ridge View…” I’d looked it up on Google earlier.

  “All high schools are currently out for the summer. The last day was this past Friday.” She snapped her fingers and motioned for me to get up. “Let’s go. You know the routine…”

  I stood up and took my notebook back, following her out of the room and into the hallway. “Is stealing lectures and taking extra notes in a class really a crime?” I asked. “Who am I really hurting here?”

  She waved her key card over the pad at the door. “Out.”

  “Wait.” I stepped outside. “If I give you twenty dollars, will you go back and tell me what type of dough they’re using for the specialty cronuts? Maybe I can give you my email address and you can send it to me?”

  She slammed the door in my face.

  Ugh… I tucked my notebook into my purse and heard familiar laughter. I looked up and realized it was the instructor from the “Understanding the Recipes” course.

  “You think this is funny? I asked, feeling bold. “Kicking someone out of class?”

  “It’s hilarious.” He laughed harder, looking at me. “And you weren’t kicked out of class, you were removed because I saw you going in there this morning.”

  “You snitched on me? I thought you liked me…You don’t normally snitch on me.”

  “I don’t,” he said. “But on test day, all bets are off. Can you not see the direct correlation between the times we have security remove you and the times we don’t?”

  I was stunned.

  “Exactly,” he said, patting my shoulder. “We all appreciate your passion, but test days are only for those who are actually paying tuition…I trust I’ll be seeing you more often since you’re out of college now, though?”

  I nodded, and he laughed again, saying, “See you next weekend, Miss Turner,” before walking away.

  Completely honored by the “appreciate your passion” comment, I smiled and wondered if I could later get him to write me an unofficial recommendation for a few other culinary schools I was waiting to hear back from.