The Romantics

by Leah Konen

  Yet there was something refreshing in the way Cara didn’t seem to care about her clothes. Something genuine, honest. Maybe it was illogical, but it didn’t seem like a cheater’s uniform, that was for sure.

  A lock of hair escaped Cara’s haphazard updo and danced in the slight breeze from the creek.

  The kiss had been great, but the lightness, the escape from numbness, had worn off so quickly. And suddenly all he wanted in the whole wide world was to get it back.

  Before he could second-guess himself, Gael reached to tuck the errant lock of hair behind Cara’s ear, ran his thumb along her slightly sweaty jawline, and leaned forward, eyes closed . . .

  “Wait!”

  Gael’s eyes snapped open. Cara vigorously shook her head.

  For a split second, she looked almost wild with fear, but then she composed herself.

  “Gael,” she said, her voice soft and slow and drawn out, almost one-note.

  Here goes, Gael thought glumly. He stared over her head at the trees, unconsciously picking at his thumb again.

  Her words came in a rush, like she was one of those fast-talking, bright-eyed young reporters in a black-and-white movie. “It’s not you. You’re amazing. It’s just that, I know people always say this, but it’s really not you.”

  “I wasn’t trying to—” Gael hesitated, attempting to craft his words carefully and failing completely. “It’s just that I really wanted to kiss you.”

  Cara blushed, and he swore he saw the tiniest of twinkles in her eye, but she held her hand up. “I know. I mean, I do, too. It’s just . . .”

  “Just what?” he asked.

  Cara took a deep breath and tugged at the waistband of her shorts. She didn’t look at him.

  “The thing is, I just got out of a relationship a few weeks ago.”

  “So did I,” he offered, neglecting to inform her that “a few weeks” meant two.

  She sighed. “Well, the thing is, I told myself I was going to go all of October without dating anyone. And then you kissed me, and, I don’t know, I thought maybe it didn’t matter, but my suitemates in the dorm, they just thought that it was important that I actually do this, just to prove to myself that I could, you know, be single.”

  (A classic Serial Monogamist.3 You may know the type. If not, please see below.)

  Gael nodded, but the wheels in his head were already turning. She liked him enough to tell her roommates about him. She liked him enough to at least think about breaking her promise to herself.

  Cara didn’t wait for a response. “Is it okay if we just stay friends for now, at least until October is over?”

  “Of course it is,” he said. And he meant it.

  Because there were just over two weeks left in October. He could certainly hold out two weeks.

  * * *

  3. Serial Monogamist: One who ruthlessly believes in not being alone. Feelings of love and romance aren’t nearly as strong as they are with Romantics; instead, Serial Monogamists have an intense desire to have a partner at every stage of their life. May result in jumping from relationship to relationship, falling for a new person before letting go of the first, and not taking time to figure out who they are on their own. May also result in an uncanny knack for commitment that can help commitment-phobes finally give love a shot.

  phase two, explained

  Okay, so Gael wasn’t exactly horrified by Cara’s less than compatible behavior (leave it to the Manic Pixie Dream Girl trope to convince a guy that someone who straight-up irks him will also somehow save him). Fine.

  I wasn’t worried. I was well into Phase Two.

  Cara had made a vow not to date anyone in October. Cara made a lot of vows of that nature. And she always broke them as soon as someone new came into the picture. And her friends always kept their mouths shut.

  But through some pivotal moves on my part (an article on how being a good friend means saying what you actually think, a well-timed psychology lecture about how we often lie to those we love most), I’d convinced her friends to speak their minds on this one.

  And when Choosing Me Before We fell off the shelf at Student Stores, right onto Cara’s feet, she took it (rightly) as a sign. She listened.

  I’d bought myself a little bit of time—just over two weeks. But I was dealing with a Grade-A Romantic and a textbook Serial Monogamist.

  This certainly wasn’t going to be easy.

  mano a mason

  “Come on, man,” Mason yelled from his truck as Gael walked home from school on Thursday. “Let me give you a ride!”

  Gael always walked to and from school on Thursdays—Gasless Thursdays, one of his dad’s earnest efforts to lower their carbon footprint, was a longstanding tradition in the Brennan family, even though they weren’t really one family anymore.

  Before TUB, of course, Gael had rejoiced in the occasional Thursday-afternoon ride from Anika or Mason, especially if he had his saxophone with him. But now, Mason was the last person he wanted to be around. It had been two days since the hike with Cara, and he wavered between counting down the days to November and wondering if her whole story was just a lame excuse to reject him.

  He and Cara had made plans to go to a UNC exhibition basketball game together, but it wasn’t until Friday, which left him no choice but to slog through his classes, make inane lunchtime chitchat with Danny and Jenna, and listen to his mother’s daily reminders about how being single could be empowering, freeing—the perfect time to find yourself!—which was completely hard to believe given how puffy her eyes had been these last few months. Honestly, Gael was exhausted.

  Both mentally and physically.

  Because that morning he’d made the deranged decision to go running with his dad. After ten blocks, Gael had gotten winded, and after another ten, his dad finally realized that chanting “You can do it!” was about as helpful as telling a sloth to hurry up. A few blocks later Gael screamed, “This was the shittiest idea ever!” and he headed back home before he could see the inevitable disappointment on his dad’s face.

  Mason, ex–best friend and king of the betrayers, laid on the horn.

  “What the hell, man?” Gael finally broke his silence, accompanying his question with a choice gesture.

  Gael picked up his pace, but Mason matched it—driving his truck well below the speed limit.

  “Seriously?” Gael asked, turning around.

  “We need to talk,” Mason said. “Manna to manna.”

  A line of cars steadily backed up behind Mason. Horns honked, but Mason wouldn’t go any faster.

  “Fine,” Gael snapped. He walked around the truck, opened the passenger door, and tossed his backpack in harder than he needed to.

  “And, by the way, it’s mano a mano,” Gael said bitterly, as he slammed the door and Mason stepped on the gas. “Manna is, like, ancient bread.”

  Mason shrugged, and then despite his decree, he didn’t say anything the entire drive to Gael’s house, which was thankfully only about five minutes.

  As soon as Mason pulled into his driveway, Gael got out of the car and slammed the door without so much as a word of thanks. In classic Mason fashion, he didn’t take the hint. Instead, he turned the car off, got out, and followed Gael inside.

  Sammy was sitting in her usual spot in the dining room with Piper. Upon seeing Mason, she adjusted her glasses, waiting to be clued in on any new developments in the Gael-Mason drama she’d so epically witnessed at his birthday dinner. Gael passed by without so much as a “Hi” and headed to his room. Mason followed.

  Mason flipped on Gael’s Xbox and loaded up his file in Skyrim like nothing was the matter. He shot Gael a goofy grin as a rugged landscape appeared on the screen. This used to be their thing. Skyrim was Gael’s favorite video game (it reminded him of Lord of the Rings), and they’d spent hours taking turns upgrading their armor, slaying dragons, and defending themselves against thieving bandits.

  Gael felt a brief—but deep—pang in his chest. He missed Mason. It was kind of like th
ey’d broken up, too. But as soon as the feeling came, he pushed it away. Mason was trying so hard to act like things were okay. But they weren’t. And Gael didn’t really think they ever would be again. What Mason had done was completely inexcusable. It went against every rule of friendship. Every rule of basic human decency.

  Gael laughed bitterly to himself: kind of like barging into someone’s home to play video games without being invited.

  Mason’s Skyrim character ran through the woods, his attractive female servant trailing behind him. He shot an arrow at a wanderer, killing him instantly.

  “You know you shouldn’t do that,” Gael said.

  Mason shrugged. “Gotta get in my archery practice. Some must die in the pursuit of greatness.”

  Gael sat down on the bed. “You can’t just go around killing people who did nothing to you.”

  Mason gave him a side glance. “That never bothered you before.”

  “Well, it does now.” Gael’s voice was loud, agitated. “That guy could have helped you. You, literally, just stabbed him in the back.”

  He turned to Gael, and for a second, it looked like he was maybe actually going to say something more than his vague, “I’m sorry, dude,” but he didn’t.

  Instead, Mason killed two wolves and a bandit before he spoke again. “The thing is, I need your help.”

  Gael scoffed. “I am in no mood to help you.”

  “Just hear me out.” Mason’s character headed into a cave, using a spell to light the way. “Things have been weird with Anika.”

  Gael grabbed a pillow and punched it down. “Are you kidding me? You hijacked my afternoon and invaded my space to get advice about the girlfriend you stole from me?”

  (Mason’s actions were kind of ridiculous. But what Gael still couldn’t wrap his head around was that everyone makes ridiculous choices when it comes to me. This wasn’t The Gael Show. He wasn’t the only one who had ever been in love.)

  Mason paused the game, grabbed Gael’s computer chair, whipped it around, and sat down backward. He leaned his chest against the back of the chair and let his extra-long arms dangle at the sides. “She’s not a possession, dude,” Mason said, in a totally profound and un-Mason way. It almost made Gael feel like a jerk. “She’s a person.”

  “Whatever,” Gael said. “However you want to say it, it was a pretty shitty thing to do.”

  Mason picked at a sticker on the back of the chair. “I know. And maybe the longer you go without talking to me, the more I get just how shitty it was. But you’re the only one I feel comfortable talking about stuff like this with . . .”

  Gael crossed his arms and kept his mouth shut.

  Mason took a deep breath and swiveled the chair back and forth. “Just so you know, she kissed me, okay?”

  Gael threw his hands up in the air. “I already told you, I do not want to hear about how you and Anika got together.”

  Mason stared at his feet, then back up at Gael.

  “Look, I should have told her to break up with you before even thinking about doing anything with me, but I didn’t, okay? And now . . . I don’t know, I guess I’m worried that she’s messing with both of us. Like what if she doesn’t care about me at all and was just using me to break up with you?”

  Gael rolled his eyes. “Well, would you even care? Isn’t that the Mason goal? No one to tie you down?”

  Mason crossed his arms and leaned forward in the chair. “The thing is, sometimes she doesn’t wear a freaking seat belt when she’s in my truck, and then I think about what if there are other times that she’s not wearing a seat belt, and what if there’s some sort of accident, and then what if she’s just gone, and . . . well . . .”

  “What do seat belts have to do with this?” Gael asked.

  Mason shrugged and mumbled, “I never worried about little things like that before. Half the time, I don’t even wear a seat belt.”

  “That’s because you’re an idiot,” Gael said.

  But behind his rebuke, there was the weirdest thing—happiness for his friend. Mason actually cared, legitimately cared, about a girl. Not just because she was hot or because he wanted to hook up with her, but just because she was her. Mason, who Gael had often feared would grow up to be a total womanizer, sacrificing any chance of real happiness in the name of perky boobs, had somehow stumbled upon the real deal.

  For a fraction of a second, Gael was proud of his friend.

  (And I was, too. Mason was a natural Drifter,4 but for once in his life, he had no inclination to run.)

  Gael pushed his sympathy away. How Mason had gotten to this point was still utterly unforgiveable. “So what exactly do you want me to do?” he asked.

  “Is this normal?” Mason asked. “To worry like this?”

  (Boys. Yes, it’s normal! Your mother was telling the truth when she said she worries because she loves you.)

  Gael’s patience had run its course. “I have no idea what normal is for people like you,” he said with disdain. “Now can you get the hell out of my room, please?”

  Mason paused for an agonizing moment, but then he reluctantly grabbed his bag and headed out. Gael waited until the door was shut behind him before he unpaused Skyrim, wandered through the woods, and shot the first stranger he could find in the back.

  It didn’t feel as good as he’d imagined it would.

  * * *

  4. Drifter: One who primarily seeks solitude and freedom from “being tied down” in romantic trysts. May result in missed opportunities, “ghosting,” general douchebaggery, and perpetual bachelor- or bachelorette-hood. May also result in a high level of self-awareness and confidence in relationships they don’t immediately flee.

  throwback to the first “i love you”: mason edition

  All right, all right, Gael and Mason had never actually said “I love you” to each other (unless, of course, you count that one time Mason had a few too many beers, and Gael had to hold his shaggy hair back), but even without the official words, their love had been sealed since they were about eleven years old.

  That was the year that Gael, cursed with oily skin from his stupid dad, got his first real breakout. And we’re not talking a clogged pore or two like the models on the Clearasil commercials. We’re talking legit, mountainous, impossible-not-to-look-at zits. So big you couldn’t even call them pimples.

  It didn’t take long for the über-creative minds of Gael’s middle school to think of a few names to use instead of “Gael”—think “pizza face,” “crater face,” and the only one that was actually a little clever, yet still completely cruel, “Orion.”

  It all came to a head (sorry) the day Brad Litcherson turned to Gael in first-period language arts and said, “Dude, are you wearing makeup?”

  Gael’s face turned beet red (at least the parts that weren’t covered up by the concealer he’d borrowed from his mom). Gael stormed out of the room before he could even hear Mason tell Brad to “shut the eff up” or their teacher, Mrs. Jackson, try to calm them all down.

  The next morning, Gael walked into language arts feeling especially vulnerable, with a face free of concealer and his zits on display for all to see. But all the kids were crowded around Mason’s desk.

  Gael pushed through them to grab his seat.

  Mason was sitting back in his chair—like it was no big deal—in full makeup. Foundation. Concealer. Powder. Blush. Eyeliner. Bright blue eye shadow with sparkles. Mascara. (Mason had an older sister who’d helped him go to town.)

  Kids were laughing, taking pictures on their phones. No one even looked at Gael. Barely anyone even remembered that Gael had been caught wearing concealer only the day before. Brad freaking Litcherson sat slouched in his desk, defeated.

  Mrs. Jackson told everyone to sit down and ignore “Mason’s obvious ploy for attention” (she later got scolded by administrators for pushing traditional gender identities on her students), but Gael could only whisper to Mason, “You’re such a weirdo.”

  “And you’re best friends with
a weirdo,” Mason said.

  “Thanks, man,” Gael said.

  “Anytime.” Mason batted his eyelashes at him.

  The kids called Mason “Cover Girl” for the rest of the year.

  And no one said anything about Gael’s acne after that.

  of all the bedrooms in all the towns in all the world she had to walk into mine

  The text from Mason came almost immediately after he’d left Gael’s:

  p.s. sammy got hotter since i last saw her, u should ask her out

  Not a moment later, Sammy opened Gael’s door.

  Embarrassed, Gael shoved his phone deep under the covers and went back to focusing on the game, where his character stood over the man he’d just killed.

  Sammy walked in the room without asking if it was okay and put a hand on her hip, her neutral position. “So what was that about?”

  For a second, Gael thought she was talking about the text. It was so like Mason to come over, practically profess his love for Anika, and then drool over another girl on the way out the door.

  “You and Mason are friends again?” she asked, relaxing and dropping her hand to the side.

  It’s not like Sammy and Mason really knew each other, but until recently, Mason had been over so frequently that they at least knew each other’s status. Sammy: resident babysitter. Mason: best friend. Recently updated to former best friend.

  “No,” Gael stumbled. “He just barged in.”

  She tilted her head ever so slightly to the side, her short hair framing her face in a perfect black arc. She looked kind of like Uma Thurman’s character in Pulp Fiction, bangs and all. She wore a tight Casablanca T-shirt that Gael couldn’t help but appreciate, skinny jeans, and a long geometric necklace that drew your eye to all the right places. Gael looked away.

  Sure, she was good-looking, Gael thought. Mason was right. But she was so obviously trying to be cool. Besides, a Casablanca T-shirt looked cool no matter who wore it.