I study the pictures taken last summer, which are mostly of our graduations, the Braffs’ Independence Day barbecue, and our joint going-away dinner before we left for college in August—the beginning of the end. My eyes then land on another August shot of us at his grandparents’ fifty-ninth wedding anniversary. It took place in their Captiva Island vacation home, which lies vacant most of the year, and I wince recalling all the times my ex and I would sneak away there to get it on. I can’t believe I wasn’t more bothered then by how disrespectful that was. I guess I was too busy thinking about how his grandparents also met during their senior year in high school, which in my mind meant that their grandson and I were fated to follow in their footsteps. Serves me right, for me, a wannabe doctor, to have relied on something as unscientific as destiny.
I continue foraging through the pile, and as I catch sight of our half-empty condom box, I wonder about whether I should bring all these things to Gainesville. It seems stupid to, since, as far as I’m concerned, the sole benefit of moving is making a fresh start in a new place. I can’t trash this, though. It’s the only concrete evidence left that we were once a we—
“Just quit it!” I shout at myself.
I toss everything into the bag and hoist it back into the recesses of my linen closet.
All that’s happening now is another “step back,” which is normal, absolutely normal. But by wallowing, I’m flat-out ensuring he’s doing better than me.
In an effort to clear my head, I strip off my pajamas, lie down in the bathtub, spread my knees, turn on the water, and position my hips so the stream lands on just the right spot. Then I close my eyes and sift through my mental catalog of hot men like Matt and Mr. Chesnoff, before settling on Guy. Next I’m visualizing us back at Bantam Beach, except now we’re not avoiding any bases, and all the while Guy’s raving that I’m the only girl for him. Soon I’m grasping the sides of the tub as spasms ripple through me. But it’s all over seconds later. And when I open my eyes to turn off the faucet, the first thing I see is the ugly image of my three-day unshaven legs spread-eagle under a calcified waterspout. I begin bawling uncontrollably.
My main motive for coming back here this summer wasn’t just to vacation or be with Amy. It was to enjoy living at home again despite its being the site where I was rejected. It was to stamp out hurtful memories by making happy and empowering ones. Meanwhile, Fort Myers isn’t even home for much longer. I’m unwanted by every guy in my life. And now here I am, more than half a year post-breakup, and my latest “memory” is of trying to jolt myself out of my funk by getting off with the aid of modern plumbing. That’s not empowering. It’s pitiful.
I don’t bother changing back into my pajamas before hurling my soaked, naked body into bed and sobbing myself to sleep.
12
I should’ve just called in sick. All Thursday, I’m so addled, I mess up the simplest tasks, like distributing the incoming mail and taking down the nurses’ lunch orders. Bratsitting that night doesn’t fare much better. With all my trembling, I’m the one spilling apple juice on my pants, which the five-year-old I’m watching thinks is hilarious because it looks like I peed myself.
But my crowning moment occurs Friday when I accidentally wheel the hospital library book cart into a loaded gurney, causing heavy hardcovers to fly off and thwack the patient on his suspended leg cast. I end up spending lunch hiding out in a janitor’s closet, having another meltdown. On top of feeling loveless and rootless, I’m incompetent, too. And to think I was wondering why my supervisor hasn’t let me shadow doctors yet.
When I finally get home that evening, my parents are already on their way to Chez Jacques with their friends to celebrate moving to Gainesville. Mom left me my favorite grilled bass dinner to reheat, along with a congratulatory cupcake for getting good grades, but as is common in the depression stage of grief, I can’t eat. Instead, I go straight to bed and close my eyes despite the fact that it’s still light out and I’m wide-awake. I’m just biding my time until Amy comes over, which she texted should be around nine. But then she phones at seven.
“Hey,” I answer sullenly. “Isn’t your track reunion thing going on?”
“Yeah, but I skipped out early ’cause it was lame, so I’m heading to your place now.” I hear her car engine start. “And you can stop freaking, because the answer is no, I didn’t find out anything there about Mr. NYU.”
“Good. I couldn’t take it tonight if you heard he had a new girlfriend. This has been my shittiest week in a while. I didn’t tell you before, but … a couple days ago I looked through the ex bag.”
“Ugh, Dom!” she heaves. “You are so beyond this. It’s time you get rid of that junk!”
“That’s easier said than done. And I don’t like being this screwed up, Ames. I’m as tired of it as you are. But with so much not going my way, I can’t help it.”
“Well, enough feeling bad about him. All hims. Feel bad for me. I just wasted an hour of my life!”
“Bummer the party wasn’t fun. I thought you were tight with a lot of those trackies.”
“Emphasis on ‘were.’ And what blows is that I was so psyched about seeing everyone again, but with the few people who did show, none of us meshed anymore. I mentioned Rauschenberg, and not one of them expressed interest in coming to any shows, and that’s after I rooted for all their asses at every single meet in high school. I just had to get outta there.”
I’m usually a homebody, but as Amy rattles on about how everything’s changing, I’m now dreading staying in for another of our tween-style sleepovers. Inevitably it’ll make me more nostalgic for our pre-college days, which will further put me over the edge. If I’m ever going to pull myself out of this, I have to do something different. Feel something different.
Then, as if my body were acting on its own, I go to my desk and bring up Guy’s Facebook page. Just minutes ago Bruce “checked in” himself, Guy, and three other boys—whose names I recognize from Guy’s stories as Betas—at the Midsummer Night’s Rockfest, that free concert Guy posted about earlier.…
Why am I not there with him, again?
Around Guy, I felt energized and stimulated and happy, and now I’m denying myself him and getting nothing in return. And no one can blame Guy for steering clear of commitments. I’ve tried the love thing, and if it implodes, you’re damaged for life. In the meantime, I’ve been so caught up with mapping out a picture-perfect “forever” that I’m completely neglecting my present, which I have far more control over anyway.
Suddenly I flash back to more than a decade ago, when I started going to sleepaway camp. Each summer there was invariably one girl I became inseparable with, but after our families picked us up and school resumed, we almost always lost touch. I’m still glad those friendships happened even though nothing came from them. Summer would’ve been a lot less fun otherwise. And Amy’s right. Everything ends eventually, including our bodies. I’d never tell a terminally ill patient to commit suicide just because death was imminent. I’d advise the patient to live it up in whatever time was left.
The Midsummer Night’s Rockfest is being held at Seminole Field. That’s just south of Ford and not far by car. As I click back to Guy’s page and admire his handsome head shot, I sense stirring inside me that same spontaneous desire that prompted me to ask Guy out in the first place—that drive to take action instead of waiting for something to happen. And it makes me feel alive.
“… I know that it’s been a while since I hung out with the trackies, so I guess it was dumb to think we’d just pick up where we left off. Maybe I’m really not the same person I was back in high school. Or maybe they’re not the same people—”
“Forget about them.” I cut Amy short before running to the bathroom and laying out a new razor in my shower. “How do you feel about meeting some new people tonight?”
13
Despite heavy Friday-night traffic, Amy and I arrive at Seminole Field with ten minutes to spare before showtime. It’s almost dark, and
I can barely see any grass, there’re so many people and picnic blankets. I had planned to text Guy that I’m here, but Amy claims I’ll lose my courage to see him if he writes back something unenthusiastic or doesn’t answer at all. She’s probably right, so we begin weaving through the crowd to hunt him down. Then, as we’re speeding by the concessions stands, I hear his voice. “Dom Baylor?”
My heart rate skyrocketing, I skid to a stop, eye Amy, and turn around. Guy’s just standing there by himself, holding a soft pretzel, his mouth in an adorable O of surprise.
“Hey!” I exclaim, the delight in my voice impossible to mask. “Great to see you!”
“Oh. Um … yeah. You too,” he says uncertainly as I step toward him. For a moment I consider playing off my being here as a coincidence, but the truth flies out.
“Actually, Guy, believe it or not, I was hoping to run into you.”
He lifts his head and squints down at me with suspicion. After a silence he responds, “No kidding?”
“Yeah. Bruce posted online that you all were here, so I …” My voice trails off and I wink at him. He doesn’t say anything, though the slow upward curl of his lips kills all the ugliness that has weighed on me since Sunday at Bantam Beach. “So,” I continue, “are you with just the Betas?” Translation: Did you bring a girl?
“Right, it’s only us dudes tonight. Well, not anymore.” He stares me up and down, sending me into momentary light-headedness. “But why didn’t you call?”
I shrug and quote him, “ ‘The phone’s a crappy substitute for the real thing.’ ”
“Touché.” He’s still grinning.
“I was afraid, though, I wouldn’t find you in this mob. It’s lucky you spotted me.”
“Well, your Lilith hair is hard to miss.”
“Oh, yeah.” I run my fingers through my ponytail, still damp from the shower. “You know, only, like, one in a hundred people have the melanocortin-1 receptor on their sixteenth chromosome that causes this color.”
He laughs. “I always suspected you were a genetic mutation.”
“It’s true! At the hospital, a nurse told me that some redheads need extra anesthesia because—”
“Ahem.” Amy clears her throat. I forgot she was here!
“Oh, sorry! Ames, this is Guy Davies. Guy, Amy Braff.”
“Heya, Guy!” Amy greets him with her megawatt smile, but Guy just nods at her before turning his gaze back to me. I’m such a Plain Jane next to Amy’s bee-stung lips and curvaceous figure, and I’m used to guys ignoring me for her. It’s fun being in her position this time.
The three of us then walk over to Guy’s four frat brothers, who’ve staked out a space near the front of the field. En route I get nervous that they’ve heard about our fight and will be inclined to dislike me. But when we all introduce ourselves, everyone’s friendly. Maybe Guy didn’t tell them anything. I guess nothing we did really qualifies as news—short-lived relationships are a dime a dozen in college. Or it could be they’re acting nice because Amy’s here, back in her element as the center of attention. While the other Betas buzz around her, Guy and I share his pretzel and gab as if nothing ever happened.
“Work’s been hell this week,” Guy says. “The mainframe crashed, and we lost a bunch of data.”
“It’s been rough at the hospital, too. I tried so hard making friends with the med students, but they don’t even acknowledge my existence.”
“I know what you mean. The postdocs never let me forget I’m the low man on the totem pole.”
“Oh, well. One day we’ll show ’em who’s boss—”
The floodlights flash on. Immediately, dozens of people stampede past us to rush the stage, leaving Amy and me unable to see the band over all the upraised arms. I don’t really mind, since I didn’t come for the music, but Amy’s annoyed. Then I notice her shouting something into Bruce’s ear. Five seconds later she’s sitting up on his shoulders and tousling his hair as if she doesn’t already have a boyfriend.
I’m torn between being awed and appalled by her, when Guy points to them and yells to me over the opening song, “WE CAN DO THAT, TOO.”
“OH.” I look back at him. “I DON’T KNOW.”
“WHY? DON’T YOU WANT TO SEE?”
The sensible course of action would be for Guy and me to keep some physical distance until we discuss what’s going on with us. I’m also perspiring from the July heat (and from seeing Guy), and I don’t want to sweat all over him. Plus, I’d feel bad impeding the view of the people behind us.… On the other hand, if being sensible were my aim, I’d have just stayed home.
Guy makes puppy-dog eyes and extends his lower lip. “C’MON. YOU’RE MISSING EVERYTHING.”
“OKAY.” I smile. “WHY NOT?”
“ALL RIGHT!”
Guy kneels behind me and instructs me to spread my legs. After hesitating for a second because the whole thing feels so unreal, I obey. Guy then pokes his head out from between my thighs, and I hold in my giggles when I think how it would look to everyone if he were turned around. Finally I grab on to his hands and crouch forward.
“HANG ON TIGHT!”
Guy shoots up, and I shriek as the earth sinks beneath me.
“YOU OKAY UP THERE?” he asks, now standing upright.
“UM …” I remain frozen for a couple seconds until I’m confident we’re stable. Then I slowly straighten out my back and breathe. “THE AIR’S A LITTLE THIN,” I kid, letting go of his hands. “BUT I’M FINE.”
“CAN YOU SEE?”
I pan the field with my eyes. “UH-HUH. PERFECTLY!”
Guy then passes up a Coors he disguised by cutting open a Coke can and pasting it over the beer can. I never understood the appeal of alcohol, though the whole concert atmosphere makes me thirsty for it in the same way you crave s’mores around a campfire or popcorn at the movies. So I pull open the tab and take a big slug. The taste is as revolting as ever, like liquid wood. But that toasty feeling as it runs down my throat is kind of nice. Now I look over to Amy, who gives me a high five, and for no good reason I start whooping at the sky. Nobody would guess that I’m the same person who forty-eight hours ago was crying naked in a tub.
After handing the can back down to Guy, I close my eyes, take slow breaths, and concentrate on relaxing. I try blocking out everything except the music, breeze, salty air, and Guy’s calloused fingers gripping my ankles. With every passing minute I’m getting more in the moment, and soon it’s as though I’m having a quiet epiphany about how good things really are. I’m young and free and on vacation and next to my BFF on this perfect midsummer’s night, with a pack of boys as a bonus. How could I have ever dreamed of feeling sorry for myself?
Perhaps it’s just the beer mellowing me out, but this is the first time in a long time that my mind’s not racing, mulling, preparing, or strategizing. For once I don’t care about was or will and just let myself be.
14
After the concert, Amy launches into her scheme to give Guy and me some time alone. First she suggests we all go to Chamber, a new eighteen-and-up club in North Fort Myers. Everyone seems into it, so then I lie about being too tired to join them. I’m not sure what we would’ve done next if Guy didn’t offer to drive me home, but he does. By midnight, Amy’s pulling out of Seminole Field with the other four Betas crammed into her Camry, while Guy and I commence the short walk to Ford’s campus to retrieve his Accord.
I guess neither of us wants to confront what happened between us, since we’re sticking to neutral subjects like what we thought of the concert and our favorite bands. Then, when we reach the Beta house driveway, all conversation grinds to a halt as we gawk at Guy’s car. It seems to be repelling us with invisible currents to keep us from getting in.
“I was thinking, Dom …” Guy purses his lips in mock solemnity. “Maybe we should hold off a little longer before I get behind the wheel. I was boozing it up tonight.”
Guy had only one drink, and that was hours ago, but I play along anyway.
; “Maybe you’re right. Better safe than sorry.”
“Yeah. I bet your parents would prefer that we stall here for a while, since I’ll be transporting precious cargo.” He grins mischievously.
It feels so good flirting with him again. Then a completely insane idea comes to me that right now couldn’t be more perfect. “If you want, Guy, I can run some medical tests on you to check whether the alcohol’s out of your system.”
“Like what? You carry a Breathalyzer around?”
I laugh. “No, I mean the psychophysical exercises that cops make drivers do when they suspect they’ve been drinking. My dad showed me back when I got my license. That way we can scientifically assess whether you’re a true DUI risk.”
“Hmm.” He nods. “Okay … but only if you test me inside the house.”
That’s exactly what I was hoping he’d say.
When we get to the living room, I order Guy to take nine steps, heel to toe, in a straight line starting with his right foot.
“And when you get to nine, you have to swivel around without taking your front foot off the ground. Then repeat everything going in the opposite direction. You also have to count the steps aloud as you take them, and you can’t ever pause or use your arms for balance.”
“That was a lot to remember,” he says when he finishes. “I was really trying, and I still messed up the turn.”
“That’s okay. You have to get at least two things wrong to fail the test, so you would’ve passed.”
Then I instruct him to stand motionless with one of his legs extended six inches off the ground.
“Hold it like that for thirty seconds, and count aloud. Be sure not to sway, hop, put your foot down, or rely on your arms.”
“Damn!” he exclaims after stumbling midway. “This is hard even if you’re sober. Winos don’t stand a chance.”
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