When I get in Wes’s Explorer, he looks as bad as he sounded. I ask him if he’s okay, and he says he’s just tired.
“Look, Wes.” I take out a Tupperware container from my bag. “Chocolate-dipped strawberries!”
“Thanks, Dom.” But he doesn’t ask to eat one. He doesn’t say anything else on the drive to Captiva either. I think back to when we went parking, the night the cop caught us. He was really despondent when he picked me up then too, but it was only because he was lovesick. Maybe this is the same thing?
When we get to the condo, Wes curls up on the bed and stares into space. I tentatively start massaging his scalp and neck, and when he leans into me I move to his shoulders and back, and finally his feet. A few minutes later I work my hands to his crotch, but he’s still silent and soft. I lie down behind him, wrapping my right leg over his and wedging my left arm between his neck and the bed so that I can hold him tightly with both arms. I have absolutely no idea what’s going on or what to do. Maybe it’s me.
“I like your haircut,” I whisper, running my fingers through it. “You look more like the old you.”
He doesn’t answer.
“You know what was really cool? Yesterday morning, I woke up and my lips were swollen from kissing you. I really miss that feeling at college.”
He still doesn’t answer.
“Oh, I forgot to tell you. Right before I left I found out I got an A-minus on my last biology test! I’m so relieved. I may be able to pull up my grades after all.”
Still nothing.
“You know, if I did or said something wrong, if I upset you in any way, I hope you’d tell me. Please tell me what I can do,” I say desperately.
Wes releases himself from my grasp and buries his head in the pillow. It’s the first time I’ve ever seen him cry. His shoulders shake as muffled sobs fill the room.
“Please, Wes, I feel so helpless right now. What’s wrong?”
“Jeh…sih…ca.”
Oh God. You’re in love with her, aren’t you? You’ve been cheating on me. I always suspected it.
My voice quavers as I speak. “Jessica? Isn’t she with her family in Texas now?”
He turns around to face me. “Not her.”
“Well, who—Oh.” The dog! “Oh no!…Is she okay?”
He doesn’t answer.
“Is she…?”
He nods and cries even louder, his head now on my shoulder. I turn my face away to hide my look of relief that his sadness has nothing to do with me.
“Oh, I’m so, so sorry. I know she hasn’t been doing so well for a while, but I had no idea she was that ill.”
“She wasn’t…. She seemed fine yesterday…but she started having problems breathing this morning…while I was at the barber…. My dad rushed her to the vet…. She had extensive…pulmonary…meta—, meta—”
“Metastasis?”
He nods.
“That’s awful! Did she, um, go naturally or was she put to, you know?”
“To sleep. The vet said she was suffering.”
“Poor Jessica. And this all happened today?”
He nods. “This afternoon. I wasn’t with her when she died. I should’ve been. Some Thanksgiving vacation.”
I think back to Calvin’s warning about the first trip home being strange. That’s turning out to be the understatement of the year.
As Wes continues to whimper, I try to make him feel better by reminding him that Jessica lived to an old age, and that her longevity is proof that she had an easy, wonderful life.
“Honestly, Wes, you were the best owner any pet could ever ask for.”
Wes sits up and for the first time in our relationship looks at me hatefully.
“Owner? She was family. ”
“Of course,” I say quickly, startled at his anger. “Of course I mean family. All I meant was she had the best life a dog could desire, and you should take comfort in that.”
His brow furrows like he’s thinking about this, and then he slowly sinks back down into the pillow.
I hold him for the next three hours as he alternates between sleep and crying. When he wakes up to the grandfather clock striking ten, he turns over and hugs me.
“Hey. I’m sorry to be a downer, I’m just really, really sad.”
“It’s totally fine. You’re experiencing a massive loss. I just wish there were something I could do or say.”
“Thanks for being here. That’s enough.”
We hold hands while we take a short walk along the beach. I wish he would lift his gaze from the ground to take in the beautiful starlit sky and water, but it’s understandable he can’t appreciate any of that right now. I tell myself I’m a really horrible person for being disappointed. My boyfriend’s dealing with the most traumatic thing that has ever happened to him; meanwhile, I’m just annoyed the dog died during the only time Wes and I have had together in three months. I’m still glad to be with him, but we haven’t exactly created any new good memories.
At midnight we’re in front of my apartment. Wes’s flight is in eight hours.
“I hate this part,” I say when I walk around to the Explorer’s driver’s side window. “Here, take these strawberries for the plane.”
“Thanks. Again, I’m sorry, Dom.”
“No, no, I’m sorry about Jessica. I’m just happy I got to see you. Tell your family I said hi, okay?”
“Sure. Tell your fam I said hey.”
“I will. I still can’t believe you have to leave tomorrow, with everything you’re going through.”
“I think it will actually be good to go back to school,” Wes says pensively, staring straight ahead. “It’ll help get my mind off it.”
“Yeah. I’m going to miss you a lot, though. I’m just looking forward to winter break. That’s four whole weeks together.”
He nods. “That’ll be nice.”
I lean over to kiss him. He restarts the engine. I just can’t hold it in.
“I love you,” I bleat as he puts the car into drive.
Please say it. It was bad enough I had to first.
As he rolls up the window, he mouths, “I love you.”
Tears stream down my cheeks as he drives away. We didn’t make love once this vacation.
The following Saturday at seven a.m., I’m speed-walking around Tulane’s outdoor track. I’m thinking I’m the only one who could possibly be out this early when I hear, “Good morning, Cruella.”
I stop short as Calvin emerges from behind the bleachers. I’ve managed to avoid him since the freshman semiformal, but he always winks at me whenever we pass each other on campus. Today his sweat-drenched curls are smoothed back from his forehead, revealing a prominent brow line. He has this way of looking straight into my eyes, which makes me uneasy.
I ask, “Isn’t it a little early for you to be out and about, what with all the partying you do?”
“I never said I party all the time. I can be serious too. C’mon, it’s the weekend, it’s beautiful out—let’s have a normal conversation.”
“What are you even doing here?”
“I work out every morning, and when I saw you walk past the weight room I followed you. Also, I’m worried about you, and I’m sort of responsible for your experience here, as an RA.”
“You’re not my RA,” I say as I resume my speed-walking. He keeps up with me. “And aren’t you abusing your authority, preying on freshman girls?”
“I’m not preying, I’m concerned. You’ve been moping around the dorm lately. Why so depressed?”
“You’re reading way too much into everything. I’m just preoccupied. Premed’s tough, as you discovered the hard way.”
“Well, you got me there…. So, do you walk here often?” he asks while flicking a mosquito from his forearm.
“Well, I’m thinking of trying out for track, so I started training a few days ago. My best friend runs distance at Amherst, and my boyfriend at NYU is a state champion sprinter, so I’d love to be able to keep up with t
hem.”
“Ah, I see…. Did he give you that mood ring?”
“Yeah. How’d you know?”
“You never stop touching it. It looks like something I once got in a box of Cracker Jack.”
“Yeah, well, it means something to me. He won it. And I touch it because I miss him.”
“As someone older and wiser, let me give you some advice. You two should break up now and agree to stay friends. That way you can keep in touch with none of the pressure, and then there will be a chance you can get together in the long run.”
I roll my eyes. “Thanks, Mom.”
“I see it every year. A bunch of freshmen come in gabbing nonstop about their significant others. ‘My SO this, my SO that.’ By the time they’re sophomores, they’re calling them SOBs. If you cool things down with this guy now, you could go out on a date with me and see what you’ve been missing.”
“Calvin, I’m no more interested in dating you than I would be in dating a horse.”
“Even though I’m hung like one?”
I can’t help but laugh. Two points for Calvin with the comeback.
“Listen.” I stop walking and look at him. “I’m very flattered, but I have absolutely zero desire to date you. If you’re cool with that, then I’d be happy to get to know you as a friend. Otherwise, just forget it.”
He stares back at me for what seems like a full minute. I shift from foot to foot awkwardly, squinting as the bright morning sun glints off the aluminum bleachers surrounding the track.
Finally he says, “Just so you know, next semester my hall is getting a replacement RA ’cause I’ll be studying international business in Paris. So even if we started going out, we’d have to stop when I leave, or else I’d be a hypocrite about the distance thing.”
“There, you see? It’s all working out for the best.” He’s obviously missed the point about my already having a boyfriend, but at least it sounds like he’s given up on the dating idea. “Hey, Calvin, I’m done warming up, so I’m gonna start running for real now.”
“Okay, okay. I do want to be friends, and I’m sorry if I came off as a jerk before. Friends?”
Calvin reaches out his hand, and we shake on it before I take off.
I love these first few seconds of breaking into a run, when you feel the potential for speed coursing through you. That the air has finally cleared between Calvin and me is a huge weight off my shoulders, and my legs must be feeling it too because I’m running my fastest ever. Wes always says he thinks of himself as a jet taking off when he begins a race, and by the time I’m halfway around the track it really does feel like I’m flying…until I’m falling.
“Oh shit, shit!” I yell as I land hard on my knees.
Calvin bolts over to me. “What hurts?”
I point to my left leg. It’s throbbing so badly I’m scared to look at it. “Is the bone sticking out?”
“Um, no, it looks perfectly fine.”
“It hurts so fucking much!” I wail as I lie down on the asphalt to take pressure off my legs.
“Just calm down and take deep breaths,” he says in the same authoritative voice he uses in dorm meetings. “Student Health is not that far away. I’ll carry you there, they’ll assess the damage, and if it’s bad, they’ll transport you to the ER. Okay?”
“Whatever. I just need help now !”
He scoops his left arm under my thighs and extends his right arm around my back. I’m okay with this until I feel his right thumb land on the bottom of my right boob.
“No, don’t! Stop!” I yell as if I’ve been bitten by a rattlesnake.
“What’s wrong?”
I disentangle myself from him and balance on my good leg. “Um, what if you drop me? Just call them and have them bring a stretcher or something.”
“Okay, okay, have it your way, Cruella.” He sighs as he takes out his cell.
An hour later I’m sitting on the doctor’s table at Student Health with my left knee wrapped tightly in an Ace bandage. I never knew a first-degree sprain could hurt so much, but it feels much better now that it’s bound. The doctor tells me to practice RICE—rest, ice, compression, elevation—and promises I can stop wearing the bandage in about two weeks. However, she advises me to forget about track until sophomore year because my knee may still be too weak for a couple of months.
When she shows me the X-ray, I can identify all the bones and name the ligaments that cover them. She says she’s impressed and that I’d make a good doctor. For the first time this semester I feel genuinely eager to do my biology homework.
When I limp my way out of Student Health, I see Calvin waiting at the corner with a campus security golf cart.
“My Ferrari’s in the shop. Will this do?”
I crack a smile. “How did you swing this?”
“One of the many perks of knowing the right people at Res-Life. Your chariot awaits, milady,” he says with a slight bow.
“Well, as long as I don’t have to tip the driver.” I cautiously hobble to the cart and sit beside him.
When he leaves me at our dorm, he says, “I’ll check up on you later, and call me if you need me.”
“Thank you, Calvin. I appreciate…your assistance.”
Tonight after Wes and I talk on the phone, he e-mails me a “get well soon” virtual bouquet of daisies. I e-mail back that I’m the luckiest girlfriend in the world.
Throughout exam week, if I’m not taking a test or studying at the library, I’m in front of my laptop elevating my leg and shopping online for holiday gifts. I dip into my summer earnings to buy a new book about Matisse for Amy, a CD of viola sonatas for Caitlin, and another year’s subscription to Fishing World for my parents. For Grandma I decide on a white lace tablecloth because she got so happy reminiscing about her white lace prom dress when I showed her my prom dress, and I thought she could use it for our Sunday brunches.
I give my Tulane friends little sacks of chocolate chip cookies I bake from scratch in the dorm kitchen.
When I go to Calvin’s room and hand him one with a note thanking him again for his help at the track, he responds way too enthusiastically with a tight hug.
“What’s your IM, Cruella? I want to stay in touch while I’m overseas.”
“DominiqueBaylor,” I reveal, knowing I can always block him if he gets annoying.
“Don’t get married to that guy while I’m away, now.”
“I’ll e-mail you pics of the wedding,” I kid. “Anyway, I gotta go now. Enjoy the cookies.”
“Thanks. I bet I’ll love them.”
I know Wes is going to love his Christmas gift—an eight-by-ten glossy photograph that Amy took of us with Jessica the dog at Captiva Beach last summer. Wes has been taking her death really hard and sounds so gloomy on the phone, so I want to do something to help keep her memory alive. In the photo Wes is smiling at the camera and has his arms wrapped around me. Jessica’s at our feet, snuggling up to Wes’s ankles, and the two palm trees in the background are sort of intertwined. I shell out a hundred dollars for the frame, which is a gorgeous blue glass that matches Wes’s eyes perfectly. I get the bottom engraved with the message “In loving memory of Jessica.”
Since it’ll be his nineteenth birthday just a few days before Christmas, I also buy Wes a track singlet in violet and white, NYU’s colors. I ask Caitlin, who’s as good with a needle as she is with her bow, to embroider the inside back with the message “For Wes, who makes my heart race. Love always, Dom.”
It’s corny, but true.
The night I get back to Fort Myers, my parents take Amy and me out to dinner in Sanibel to celebrate our successful first semester of college. It’s so comforting that the vibe between Amy and me hasn’t changed at all since the summer. She looks exactly the same too, except she’s wearing a heart-shaped
gold locket Joel gave her for the holidays. We’re giggling nonstop on the car ride to the restaurant, recounting to my parents all sorts of college horror stories, which mostly involve drunk freshme
n peeing off dorm terraces and streaking the quad. I wish Wes could be with us, but he has four more days at NYU.
After we’re seated at the restaurant, I announce to everyone I’ve already received three of my four final grades, and in the unlikely event I failed my last exam, my GPA will still be high enough to keep my scholarship.
“That’s fantastic, Dom!” Amy exclaims.
“We’re so proud of you, honey,” Mom says. “And you had a rough semester too, with your room and your injury.” Then Mom opens the menu and mentions how good the veggie stir-fry and steamed tofu dishes look.
I chuckle, “Bland city. You know I always order the nachos and mozzarella sticks here.”
She looks down at her menu. “I know, Dommie. I just thought you might want to try something on the healthier side after all that junk food they feed you at school.”
“Not a bad idea,” I concede. A few seconds later the double meaning hits me. “Wait. Are you saying I’m fat, Mom?”
“No. Did I say that?”
“Basically,” I huff.
Amy obviously senses the tension in the air because she excuses herself to go to the bathroom. So I use the opportunity to keep picking a fight. “Trust me, Mom, I’ve noticed my clothes getting tighter, and I’m dealing with it. But just for your information, my body mass index is still well within what’s considered normal. It’s also perfectly natural for my metabolism to start slowing down at my age. And by the way, the last thing I need on my first day back is a lecture about a few extra pounds.”
“Dommie, calm down, you look beautiful—you always do,” Mom persists. “But you’re at your best when you’re a few pounds lighter.”
I sigh exasperatedly. “Dad, are you listening to this?”
He emerges from behind his menu. “I agree with your mom. Guys can be a little overweight,” he says, pinching his gut with his hand, “but girls can’t.”
“Oh my God, that is so sexist and wrong! So what? I’m one size bigger than usual and I’m fat?”
“Not fat, honey, nobody said fat. It’s just that cafeteria food. If you eat right the next four weeks, you’ll feel lean and healthy by the time you go back.”
Anatomy of a Boyfriend Page 15