by Julie Barton
We didn’t talk about what we did at night. Then Greg would brush his finger on my hip as he passed me in the kitchen. That touch would send a firecracker through me. But part of me held back. It seemed too soon to have a new boyfriend. Since I was eighteen, I’d been in relationships all but a few months. It was comfortable to have a boyfriend, but for the first time, I craved independence. The few months of single life in Seattle had suited me surprisingly well. Greg commented that my autonomy was something he admired. We had fun together, laughed, made out, and talked for hours. This was not an all-encompassing kind of love. It was easy and fun, not desperate like the love I’d known with Will and Brian. That kind of love meant crazy longing and inevitable emotional distress. It meant crippling fear of losing something that sustained me. Now I felt fine if Greg and I didn’t connect for a while. I didn’t long for his call or get frustrated if he didn’t come to see me in the dark of night for a few days. I wondered if this meant that I wasn’t really that interested in him. I felt great with him, but I also felt great without him. Maintaining my autonomy didn’t feel like the kind of love I’d always known, so I second-guessed our connection. It was easy. He was easy. He was calm and fun and didn’t act like he owned me. He was interested in me, and liked me, clearly, but he didn’t expect me to want to be with him every second. He didn’t mind if another guy called the house asking to talk to me, even Will. He encouraged Melissa and me to go out on our own. “Have fun,” he’d say, and he’d mean it. “Have a great time.”
Melissa and I had a blast out on the town in Seattle. We would go see our favorite band, The Super Sonic Soul Pimps, and we’d dance in the mosh pit and try to figure out how we could approach the adorable bass player. One night she stayed out late, but I was tired so I took the bus back up the hill and returned to an empty house. Greg was still working and Chris was out with friends.
I snuggled with Bunker alone, then picked up the phone and called Will. We still talked. Truth was, when it came to Will, the man who didn’t show up when I needed him, I couldn’t get enough. He told me that leaving me was the worst mistake of his life. I wanted to hear him say this a thousand times. I inhaled his sorrow and regret. I wanted to believe that none of the men in my life had ever meant to hurt me. I wanted my father to tell me that he wished he’d been home more, not working so much and missing everything. I wanted to believe that Clay would come to me someday and say that he didn’t know what he was thinking when he chased me, hit me, insulted me. I wanted him to explain, over and over and over, that it had absolutely nothing to do with me, that I was okay, that he actually liked me.
BLIZZARD IN SEATTLE
DECEMBER 1996
Melissa was still suffering through her breakup and had gone home for an extended Christmas break. She’d asked me to pick her up at the airport on the 30th of December, and I put it on my calendar. I was working that Monday. I’d been hired full time as a receptionist at a small downtown law firm. Soon after I started at the job, a very handsome bike messenger started appearing at my desk almost daily. He was everything I’d fallen for in the past: rugged, handsome, tall, rough around the edges, and nothing but trouble. His name was Jason, and he asked me out on a date. I accepted. No one ever had to know. I could just see how it went. Greg and I hadn’t had sex yet, hadn’t discussed our relationship status. I could go on one measly date.
That day, forecasters were calling for an enormous snowstorm. Routes across the Cascades were closed, weathermen warned of several feet of snow falling, then a warming that would turn the snow into slushy rivers pouring down city streets. At work, everyone was talking about the storm, how offices would most likely be closed on Tuesday. But I wasn’t really paying attention because I was looking forward to my secret date with a brand-new bad boy.
We went to a bar in Belltown, had a few beers, and talked to the bartenders about the coming weather. Jason was fit and attractive with dark hair and a wry, mischievous smile. But he only wanted to talk about his motorcycle and a new tattoo he planned to ink the next weekend. I deduced, based on the complete lack of information he offered about his personal life, that he probably had a girlfriend or maybe even a wife. We watched the snow come down outside the bar window, marveling at the beauty of it, chain-smoking cigarettes like morons. Soon Jason said, “I live pretty far outside the city. Maybe I should crash at your place tonight since you’re right in Queen Anne.”
I knew exactly what he was suggesting. I grinned, a bit giddy from the nicotine. “Oh, yes. Definitely a much safer option.” I blew smoke out of the corner of my mouth, all kinds of emotion rushing inside of me. Part of me did not want him to come to my house, but I had no idea how to tell a man “No.” I didn’t want to hurt his feelings or make him sad, because I didn’t want him to hurt my feelings or make me sad.
“Can we get the tab?” Jason asked, his eyes still fixed on mine.
We took the bus back to the Magnolia house, locked my bedroom door, and dove into bed. I didn’t even know if I wanted to do it, but I did. I’d never had a one-night stand. The momentary ecstasy with Jason was followed, of course, by terrible guilt and instant regret. Lying naked next to Jason late that night, I heard Greg climb the outside stairs to the house, enter, go to the kitchen, then to my door. Clear as day, I realized: I had sabotaged this good thing with Greg. It was too healthy, too easy. It was midnight and he’d been working since nine that morning. He knocked lightly, so as not to wake Chris upstairs. Melissa wasn’t home; she was flying back to Seattle from Ohio and I was supposed to pick her up at the airport, but I assumed her flight was cancelled due to the storm.
Instead I lay naked next to a man I didn’t care about, who didn’t care about me. Jason slept soundly while I had visions of tossing him out the window, pushing him out onto the sidewalk. Greg knocked again and Bunker stirred. He looked at me as if to say, Now you’ve really blown it.
I closed my eyes, took a deep breath, ignored Greg’s third knock, and planned my lie: that I slept through his knocks, that I was sick, that I fell asleep with headphones on. It came as a sickly realization that Greg must’ve known I wasn’t alone because Jason’s souped-up bike leaned against the mantle in the living room.
Soon I heard slow footsteps ascend the stairs and I put my face in my hands. Greg’s mattress creaked above as he climbed into bed alone, and I longed to leave Jason, tiptoe up the steps, and slip into bed next to the kind, beautiful man who I knew would treat me well. What had I done? I imagined leaving a note for Jason asking him to please leave upon waking, to just disappear. But I was locked under Jason’s muscled arm, unable to move—not because I physically couldn’t, but because I was afraid. Part of me wanted this: wild sex with Jason, a man I knew would hurt me, leave me, and treat me terribly. This was what I knew. This was comfortable, familiar. I was helpless to the pull of a man who might not love me. I lay in bed thinking: Idiot. You deserve assholes because you’re an asshole.
The phone rang at midnight and I heard Melissa’s voice on the answering machine through the wall. She’d made it to Seattle but was stranded at the airport in the snowstorm. I lay there frozen, sinking even further. Fuck, fuck, fuck. I pulled open the blinds and the snow was coming down hard now, at least six inches on the ground. A bus skidded down Magnolia Street, braking erratically to try to slow itself down, nearly sideswiping my truck. Melissa’s voice was pleading on the answering machine, “Are you coming to get me? There are, like, no cabs or anything. We’re completely snowed in and you’re the only one I know with four-wheel drive. Can you please come and get me? Hello? What’s going on?”
It’s indefensible, all of this, but I did it. I screwed around and ruined a sweet, budding romance. I stranded my best friend at the airport. I didn’t even get up to answer her call. I stayed in bed under a strange man’s strong arm and, at the time, I didn’t know why. I was comfortable being trapped under him, content to suffer in the familiar territory of a man who didn’t care about me. I co
uldn’t accept kindness from a man; it honestly repulsed me. I didn’t trust that I could be the kind of friend Melissa deserved, the good friend she thought I was. I only knew that I’d just completely betrayed the two most important people in my life. I was a statue that had once come alive, then turned back into stone.
When I woke in the morning, Bunker was sitting up, looking at me as if to say, Who’s this guy? Where’s the nice-smelling guy? He jumped on the bed and stepped on both of us. It’s worth noting that Bunker never jumped on the bed and stepped on me. Jason laughed, “Whoa!” he said, too loud, protecting his naked penis from Bunker’s sharp claws. “Hey, buddy! Nice to see you too!”
I slipped out from under Jason’s arm and put my underwear on. Jason’s sexy ruggedness from the night before appeared pockmarked and scarred in the morning. He asked if he could smoke in my room and I mumbled that the landlord didn’t allow it.
How would I get Jason out without Greg seeing? I couldn’t tell Jason that I was sort of dating someone else, and I couldn’t let Greg see Jason. They would both hate me. I stopped dead, said nothing, and Jason dressed as I sat on the edge of my bed in dirty jeans, a T-shirt, and no bra.
“That was awesome, baby,” he said, holding the back of my neck and kissing me again. I smiled awkwardly and we clanked teeth. “I gotta get back on the bike, get home, and clean up before another day of dodging dumbass Seattle drivers—in snow, no less. See you later?”
“Sounds good,” I said, tempted to ask him to leave through the window. He pulled his messenger bag across his chest and walked out of my room. I heard the click-click-click of his bike chain in the living room. “Hey, man,” he said, to someone. I held my hand to my mouth, praying that it was Chris who saw Jason. I sat on my bed and prayed that Melissa had made it home safely. I prayed that Greg might forgive me. I prayed that I hadn’t fucked up my new life.
I watched out my window as Jason rolled his bike onto the sidewalk, hopped on, and slid carelessly down slushy Queen Anne Hill. Bunker whined to go outside. I had no choice but to face my newest mess; Bunker’s bladder wouldn’t let me hide in my room all day. I cracked open my bedroom door, pulled it with a slow creak, and Bunker trotted out and turned the corner into the living room. I heard Greg’s voice whisper, heavy with sadness, “Hey, buddy.”
I wanted to scream. What would I say? How would I explain what I’d done? How could I say how stupid I was? That I knew I had just ruined this beautiful, sweet connection we were cultivating? That I didn’t know what drove me to do it? That I was self-destructive and maybe it was best that he not date me?
I stepped into the room, struck with one glance by the heartbreak etched on Greg’s face. He looked at me, searchingly, as if trying to understand who I was after all. I opened my mouth to speak but he shook his head, got up, and walked away. He went upstairs and slammed the door, and I stood in the living room with my hand on my stomach, sour juices flowing. If I had to choose between Greg and Jason, I would choose Greg a million times over—no question. But something about his kindness, his ease, made him less attractive to me. I understood men like Jason: men who left, men who didn’t show up, men who knew that I was not worthy, men who had more important things to do with their time, who thought they could do better than dumb, ugly me.
After Bunker went outside to pee, I sat in the living room in my pajamas. When Greg came downstairs, I tried to speak, but he left without a word. He walked out the door, got into his blue Ford Taurus with nearly bald tires that slid like sleds in the snow, and swerved up over the hill toward campus. He left without even looking at me.
Bunker came to me and sat at my feet, leaning into me, bringing undeserved relief to my newest fuck-up. I kissed his soft head, petted his little skull bump, and whispered a quiet Shhhhit. Part of me wanted to call Jason, ask for a nooner. Get drunk at 2 p.m. and run through the snowy streets acting idiotic. But Bunker lay down and groaned, and I stayed with him. I sat down on the floor next to him and took a few long, deep breaths, watching the clouds multiply over Lake Union. I didn’t call Jason. I didn’t do anything. I just sat in silence and soon began to contemplate that perhaps what I needed was to be alone. I didn’t need Jason or Will or Greg. I just needed my dog.
TWO BAD OPTIONS
JANUARY 1997
At the stroke of midnight on New Year’s Eve 1997, I was lying on the couch in the house in the darkened living room, praying. Greg and Chris had gone out to celebrate. Greg wasn’t talking to me and we’d managed to avoid each other since the night of the blizzard. The roommates didn’t know what was going on between us, and not talking to anyone about it compounded my confusion. Melissa came downstairs the morning after I’d failed to pick her up at the airport, walked past me, got a cup of coffee, then returned. She sat down across from me and said, “What the fuck happened? Where were you?” I had no defendable answer, so I just said, “I’m so, so sorry. I’m so sorry. I was sure your flight was cancelled. I’ve just fucked everything up.” She agreed and said she’d been really disappointed. She was still suffering through her breakup, and I had literally abandoned her in a storm. I couldn’t tell her what was going on, that I’d probably just ruined the best chance I’d ever had at a healthy relationship. She hugged me, clearly sensing my distress, and told me it was okay. I knew it wasn’t, though. I knew I’d betrayed her trust.
In the aftermath of the terrible storm, Melissa and I decided to stay home for New Year’s Eve, wear pajamas, and watch TV. When the clock struck twelve, she was on the deck watching the celebration over the Space Needle. “Come see the fireworks!” she shouted through the kitchen door. “They’re beautiful!”
“Okay, just a minute,” I said. Before I got up, I clasped my hands together in front of my mouth, closed my eyes, and whispered, “Please let Bunker be okay. Please let him be okay. Please.” Bunker was having trouble climbing stairs, so I finally scheduled the vet appointment for January 2. I prayed that the veterinarian would say that Bunker was just a clumsy puppy, that he’d grow out of these scary falls. I prayed that I would figure out what had motivated me to treat such a lovely man with such disrespect. I prayed that I would be a better friend to Melissa.
I took a deep breath and joined Melissa on the deck. The fireworks were beautiful, but the noise scared Bunker, so I told Melissa I was going to watch from inside the house. With each burst of light and color, a new possible diagnosis raged through my mind: bone disease, hip dysplasia, leukemia, cancer. I sat down on the floor next to Bunker, feeling his back, pushing on his hind legs to see if he’d respond. Nothing. He was terrified of the loud booming and pushed his nose into my lap. I held him, put my head on his back, saying, “Shhh. I got you, boy. I got you. It’s okay.” I listened to the strong beat of his heart.
He’d been neutered a few weeks earlier. I felt such confidence during the day of his surgery. The morning I dropped him off for the procedure, I drove to work feeling completely unworried. When I paused to examine that confidence, I decided it stemmed from a deep, abiding knowledge that Bunker was sent to me, that he was my comfort, and for him to leave me this soon wouldn’t make sense.
But that New Year’s Day night, before the next day’s appointment, I tried and failed to stop myself from falling into catastrophic thinking. Bunker lay on the bed with me, his back curved into my belly. I opened my bedroom window to see if I could see the moon. Nothing. Just clouds. The only thing that helped was remembering that I would do whatever it took to make sure he was healthy. Anything. I held his body, calmed by the rise and fall of his chest. I finally fell asleep with my face pressed to the soft red fur at the back of his head.
When I woke in the morning, he was sitting on the floor next to the bed, watching me like I was a present he had just unwrapped. I chuckled sleepily, rolled over, and turned off my buzzing alarm. He stood up and wagged his tail like a helicopter about to lift off. “You doofus,” I said. “You have me so worried.” He backed up, prancing, as I g
ot up out of bed. We went to the back yard and admired our half-done landscaping job. He had no problem with the stairs on the way back into the house. I told myself to relax.
I half-assed my way through work and rushed home to take him to the vet. In the waiting room, I filled out the necessary paperwork, and Bunker sat leaning into my legs. The receptionist smiled at him and said, “Only seven months? So calm!”
I smiled and held him close to my legs, stroked him to settle my own nerves. The vet tech called us in, weighed Bunker, and said he was fifty pounds now.
“So what brings you to see us today?” she asked.
“His back legs keep failing him,” I said.
“Oh, no,” she said. I couldn’t look at her and keep the tears from coming, so I just smiled and watched the floor. My palms went clammy as we waited to see the doctor. “Okay, sweet little guy,” she petted the top of his head and he opened his mouth into a smile. “We’ll send the doctor right in.” She left and I wrapped my arms around Bunker’s chest. I was keenly aware that I needed his touch right now. This worry was threatening to toss me backwards into a black hole of sorrow.
When the veterinarian came in, he furrowed his brow, his white lab coat crunching as he crossed his arms and listened while I explained the froggy legs on stairs, the yelping. He examined Bunker and his face seemed to darken. Each move the doctor made sent a dose of fear through me. He asked about whether Bunker ran with all four paws or if he “bunny hopped,” running with the front two legs staggered and the back two legs together in one motion. This, he said, was a sure sign of weakness in the hind legs. This, I knew, was exactly how my puppy ran.