Every Girl's Guide to Heartache

by Marla Miniano

  This is how he operates. I should know this; I should know how he manages to get away with everything every time. He spreads out his affections, dividing his attention among people, always giving them too little, sometimes barely enough, but never too much. He says what he means and he means what he says, but he never says all the things they expect him to say. He is an enigma, and he knows this keeps them on their toes, ready and willing to be The Girl Who Will Finally Understand. He knows how to leave them wanting more. He knows exactly how to make them fall helplessly, hopelessly, head-over-heels in love with him.

  And by “them,” I mean “me.” Of course I mean me.

  Time’s up; three AM has arrived. Nico moves closer and closer until he is directly in front of me. He tucks my hair behind my ear, and I try not to make eye contact. “Chrissy,” he says, “look at me.” He puts a hand under my chin and gently tilts my face up towards his. I have no choice—I look. Big mistake. I feel like fainting but I cannot bring myself to look away. I tell him, “You had no right to do that to Nathan.” Or to me, I add silently.

  “I’m sorry it made you feel bad,” he says. “But I’m not sorry I did that. It was what I had to do.”

  When I don’t say anything, he kisses me on the cheek, zeroing in on a spot barely an inch away from my lips—slowly and deliberately, enough for me to realize that maybe I don’t have to make this decision myself. Because maybe Nico can make it for me. Maybe Nico is already making it for me. He says goodnight and is gone.

  The kiss lingers long after he has left, and my first thought, as I feel my lips curling into a smile, is that I am probably mistaken about Nico and these possibilities. I have been wrong about these things many, many times before, and I have discovered that all the precious little “clues” I would patiently gather in my head eventually pool into a dismal puddle of disappointment at the end of the day. I do not want to assume anything because I do not want to be wrong again—not this time, not when it matters. But here it is, the warmth on my face embracing the sweetness in the air, evidence that this can be something special and real and wonderful. And this time, because it matters, I might just be right.

  I fall asleep with a smile on my face.

  Rule number 5:

  Follow instructions.

  The next morning, while driving me to school, Nico tells me, “I really like you, Chrissy.” He holds my hand before he says the next line: “But let’s take things slow, okay?”

  This confuses me a bit: Wait, weren’t you the one who pursued me by leaving all those secret admirer comments online? Weren’t you the one who asked me out to dinner? Weren’t you the one who climbed in through my window to kiss me goodnight? Weren’t you the one who made the decision for me and for us? Weren’t you the one who started all of this? If anything, I should be asking you to take things slow. I specifically remember you writing, “I know someone who wants to be with you now, not later;” what happened to that? But it is too early to be having an argument, and I am too caught up in the afterglow of last night’s grand gesture to be paying much attention to anything else. So I stash away the confusion, turn up the brightness of my smile, and tell him, “That sounds like a great idea.”

  I wonder whether taking things slow involved not telling anyone about us. I was planning to give Anna and Rickie a detailed account of the latest developments, to set the record straight and make them understand that I am not the unappreciative, indecisive girl who can’t seem to choose between two good options. I wanted my friends to be happy for me, but more than that, I wanted them to reassure me that by not actively making a decision, I was actually setting myself up for the better end of the bargain—the boy who was willing to exert more effort, willing to pull out more stops, willing to risk more just to be with me. I wanted to include my best friends in whatever I was feeling, simply because when you’re starting to fall in love, it’s nice to be able to share the giddy, hopeful joy with somebody else. But I sneak a glance at Nico and realize that I am not yet willing to put to the test how much he likes me, and if this means keeping it a secret, then it will stay a secret until the right time comes. It occurs to me that the right time will always be subjective, that it may arrive sooner for one of us while the other person is left behind. It occurs to me that I should manage my expectations now, while there are not yet too many of them, while they are not yet spinning out of control and manifesting themselves in everything I say and do. It occurs to me that Nico is not actually asking me to take things slow as much as he is warning me to take a step back.

  At the stoplight, I think I see Nathan’s family’s van several meters ahead, and I wonder why he’s behind schedule today—usually, he’d be in school thirty minutes before the bell rings because he’d always be the first person among the brood of five to be dropped off. I wonder if he’s still mad at me, and I understand why people tend to force friendship immediately after things don’t work out between them romantically—it’s to dilute the guilt and dissolve the weight of all the things that were left unsolved, to prove that they don’t completely hate each other, that they’re not completely cruel, that they’re not completely shutting each other out. It’s actually a diversionary tactic: Look, we can totally be more than civil! We can talk to each other and hang out with each other and move around in each other’s social circles and tell each other about our new dating prospects. We have no problems with each other; we are not bad people! I wonder whether it would be more decent to tell Nathan about Nico, or just let him figure it out for himself. And if I do tell him, I wonder whether I should highlight the fact that it was Nico’s decision, or downplay the fact that it wasn’t my own.

  We pull up in front of my school’s main gate, and I realize Nico had let go of my hand while I was deep in thought. I scold myself for not noticing, for not just enjoying the moment. He gives me a peck on the cheek, tells me to text him when I get home this afternoon, and unlocks the door. I smile at him and step out of the car; after taking a few steps, I turn back to wave goodbye, but he has already driven away.

  Anna and I are talking about our upcoming History project over lunch when Rickie comes in and slams her tray down on the table, loud enough to be heard by about half of the high school department of St. Andrew’s Academy. She stands there with her hands on her hips, scowling down at us.

  “Oh, come ON, Anna.” I’ve never seen her this exasperated. “I told you to ask her. You’re not asking her! Why are you not asking her?”

  Anna calmly looks up at her. “Here’s an idea,” she says. “Actually, two ideas. Number one, you sit down. And number two, you ask her.”

  Rickie sits down, takes a few deep breaths, and starts fanning herself. Anna rolls her eyes. “Just get it over with, Ric,” she barks. They glare at each other for a while before Rickie finally spits it out: “Chris, are you aware that Nico will be coming here?”

  I squint at her. “Here? Now? What, for lunch? Is he allowed to do that?”

  Anna rolls her eyes again, and they glare at each other again for a while before Rickie clarifies, “No, I meant he’ll be coming here to do assistant coaching for the basketball team. Like next week, I heard? Miss Vivian from the vice principal’s office told me yesterday.”

  “Oh,” I say. “I didn’t know, we never really talked about what he’d be doing. I mean, he told me he wanted to enroll in college next sem, and maybe look for a part-time job in the meantime, but I didn’t know... I mean, we didn’t talk about...” I trail off. There are so many things I don’t know. There are so many things we haven’t talked about, and I’d like to believe it’s only because we haven’t had a chance to yet.

  Rickie lets out a high-pitched laugh. “Well, at least you know now, right? And at least he’s gonna be with the basketball team and not like, the Literary Society or some other org Nathan’s a member of, ‘cause at least they don’t have to see each other all the time.” Anna makes that face she makes when she’s kicking someone under the table, and Rickie’s voice takes on that tone and sp
eed it takes when she’s panicking. She laughs again, and it sounds even faker this time. “Okay, they’d have to see each other, of course, it’s not like you can blindfold them when they bump into each other in the hallway or something, but like, at least they don’t have to work with each other, you know? Oh, and aren’t you glad he’s not your new Student Council mentor? ‘Cause you’d have to attend meetings with both of them there and that can be like, really weird and just, you know, awkward.” The last word bounces across the three of us, perfectly describing our current scenario, and we just sit there in silence.

  I don’t know what they’re thinking about me right now. Are they tracing all the blame back to me? Do they know how much I still care for Nathan, or do they think I’m trying to destroy him on purpose? People are always telling other people not to judge them before they get to know them. But it is neither strangers nor mere acquaintances who actually judge us the most, but our closest friends—because they think they know us so well, because they think they can step into our shoes and see the world from our eyes at any given situation, because they think they have access to all our intentions and motivations. Friends judge each other all the time, and judgment doesn’t hurt any less when it comes from people who actually have a right to pass it. When Anna started dating Miguel before she was completely over her ex-boyfriend Jaime, I knew she was making a huge mistake. And deep down, I believed she knew this too; I believed she was aware of the consequences, but she just didn’t want to set things straight. When Rickie complains about her perfect older sister Lexi, I know she’s secretly wishing she can be more like her, because she’s smarter and prettier and more sophisticated. When she tells us about another big purchase her mom and dad made to distract her from their absence in her life, I can’t help thinking she’s playing the role of poor little rich girl because it’s so convenient for her to portray her parents as the villains. Judgment, when it comes from friends, feels like a betrayal not just because friends aren’t supposed to judge each other, but because it is often more accurate than we would want to admit.

  Another thing that feels like a betrayal is this: friends tend to get attached to each other’s romantic interests. It starts out slow—in the beginning, you are forced to get along with your friend’s boyfriend because it is the polite, proper thing to do. And then you get to know him, and you understand what your friend sees in him. He makes you laugh, or he gives you a ride home after gimmicks, or he sets you up with his cute brother. He becomes part of your group and part of your world, and eventually, he becomes your friend, too. So when things don’t work out between them, your loyalties are tested: how do you choose between two friends? Or, more specifically, how do you choose the girl friend you’ve known forever over the guy friend you only met through her when it is also a matter of right and wrong—when he’s obviously right and she’s obviously wrong?

  I don’t know what they’re thinking about me right now, but I can guess whose side they’re on. I break the silence. “You know what, guys? I don’t need this,” I tell them bluntly. “I don’t deserve this. When you can finally be supportive of me, the way you should be, let me know.” I have never said anything like this to them, at least not out loud. It feels liberating, and for a moment, it makes me feel good. The stunned expressions on their faces giving me an unfamiliar sense of satisfaction, I get up and turn away. And crash right into Nathan.

  My books and papers scatter all over the canteen floor, and Nathan scrambles to pick them up, muttering, “I’m sorry, I didn’t see you.” Which is precisely what I should be saying to him, because it is the best explanation I could come up with: I’m sorry, I didn’t see you. I see him now, and he looks exhausted and miserable, like he hasn’t slept in days. He has lost weight (how do boys lose weight so easily?), and his eyes are puffy and tired. He needs a haircut and has missed one button on his polo, and I want to reach out and fix it. His hands are shaking when he gives me back the books and papers I dropped. I see him now, but he seems like he doesn’t even have enough energy left to look at me.

  “Hi,” I say.

  “Hi,” he says.

  I want to ask, how are you?, but it is a stupid, insensitive question and I hate it when people ask me that while I’m obviously having a bad day. When someone asks how you are, your response is almost always automatic: I’m fine, thanks. Except you’re not fine, and you’re not thankful, and the fact that you have to lie on top of everything else going against you makes you even less fine and less thankful.

  But he’s the one who asks, “How are you?” and the way he says it makes it sound like a valid question. His genuine concern for me is peeking out from underneath all the layers of hurt, and I want to push it back down and tell it to stay put. I want him to go from careful to cautious to cold to cruel. I want him to have enough energy to really look at me so he can realize that from now on, especially when the new assistant basketball coach comes in, he cannot afford to let his guard down. His defenses are crucial, and I want him to start protecting himself, because nobody else can do that for him.

  I reply, “I’m fine, thanks.” I do not ask him how he is in return. I see him now, but I also see how far apart we have drifted over a span of several days. I convince myself that this is a good thing, because the farther he is from me, the greater the distance between him and Nico. And I need that—I need a clear distinction between the two of them, I need to draw the line between who I should and should not see.

  “I’m glad you’re fine,” he says. He is not being sarcastic; he is never sarcastic. He is being sweet and sincere and Nathan, the way he is sweet and sincere and Nathan with everyone.

  I tell him, “I have to go.”

  I get home that afternoon and head straight to my room to bury myself in homework. Nathan’s face has been flashing through my mind the whole day, and I need to forget about him and my little outburst in front of Anna and Rickie. I am knee-deep in a torturous Trigonometry problem when the phone rings. I am the only person in the house and I don’t answer it—if it’s really important, the caller would probably try again later, when I’m in a better mood. It stops ringing for about five seconds before it starts again, and I begrudgingly pick it up.

  “Hello?”

  “Hi, Chrissy,” Nico says. It is not an affectionate hi, but a perfunctory hi, and he sounds annoyed about something. I try to remember if I said or did anything wrong during the car ride this morning, but all I remember is him asking me to take things slow. Maybe it was a trick question, maybe I was supposed to protest and tell him I was ready for a relationship right now. Maybe I wasn’t supposed to think it was a great idea, and maybe he was just testing me to see how much I wanted to be with him. I’ve watched Rickie do this many times before: After two weeks of dating, she’d ask a guy if he loved her, and when he said yes, she’d tell him he was moving too fast and suggest they start seeing other people. When he said no, she’d call him a jerk and tell him it was his loss. Either way, the guy simply could not win. If that’s what Nico is trying to do now, then I don’t get it and I definitely don’t like it. Why can’t people just say what they mean and mean what they say?

  “Did you just get home?” he asks. “I told you to text me.”

  “Oh,” I say. “No, I’ve been here for about an hour. Sorry, I was doing Trigonometry homework.” It is not a sorry sorry, but a perfunctory sorry, and I don’t know why I’m even apologizing for doing homework—when has it ever been a crime to do homework? (Of course, I know that homework is not the real issue here. But I am tired and sad and confused and I feel like crying, and I don’t know what else to focus on.)

  “That’s okay,” he says, like he is making an effort to be mature and understanding about this, like I am a wayward kid he has to be patient with. “Would you like to have coffee with me now? I can pick you up.”

  Did I not just say I was doing homework? I struggle to put at least a hint of a smile in my voice, “I can’t, Nico. I have to do my homework.”

  “That�
�s okay,” he says again, in the same patronizing tone.

  “Okay,” I echo, just to keep the conversation going. I wonder why I can’t think of anything to say to him. After twenty years of marriage, my mom and dad still don’t run out of things to tell each other at the dinner table. Usually, they’d ask me and Justin first how our day was. I’d say something about school, and Justin would give us a recap of a whole episode of SpongeBob SquarePants he had watched that day, laughing over the funny parts himself before actually narrating what happened to Patrick or Squidward or Plankton. And then my dad would turn to my mom and ask, “How was your day, dear?” and my mom would tell him about one of her students (you’ll know who her favorites are for the semester because she talks about them more often), or about a novel she’s reading that she was absolutely sure my dad would love. My dad would then tell her about a new customer in the restaurant who promised to visit again, or about a regular one who keeps coming back and bringing different sets of friends with him. My parents do this every night at dinner, and although the stories tend to overlap and repeat themselves, they never seem to get tired of hearing about the details of each other’s day. I wonder how some couples can do that—be together for an entire lifetime and not get bored with each other. I wonder how you keep track of the bigger picture, your marriage, above the errands and deadlines and all the little things that stress you out every day. I wonder if Nico and I will end up like my mom and dad. They say children who were born to parents who stay happy through the years will always choose love over hate, laughter over anger, and forgiveness over resentment, no matter what. I wonder whether or not I shall prove this true.