The Romantics

by Leah Konen

  His dad shrugged. “That’s what I say for everything. It’s just simpler than going into all the details. Jesus, son, that girl is twenty. Do you really think that’s the kind of person I am?”

  His dad pulled a pack of tissues from the console and handed them to Gael, who took them gratefully. “But what about the toothbrush? I saw one that wasn’t yours in your bathroom.”

  His dad laughed a sad laugh. “You know what a freak I am about dental hygiene. I bought it at Student Stores because I’d had Indian food for lunch a couple of weeks ago.”

  “But it was pink,” Gael argued.

  “Yeah.” His dad shrugged. “And it was the cheapest one at Student Stores.”

  Gael wiped at his eyes again. He felt ridiculous, like a child, and yet he felt the tiniest blossom of relief. “But the phone calls. Why are you always going into your room?”

  His dad looked up at the ceiling, then back at the steering wheel, and finally back at Gael. Perhaps Gael had hit on some secret. He could tell that this didn’t have as simple an explanation. His heart beat, once again, with that familiar fear.

  “I was talking to my therapist,” his dad said finally. “And I didn’t want you kids to see me crying.” His dad’s face turned red, but he didn’t stop. “Look, Gael, your mom and I thought it would be best to keep specifics out of it, but I guess we should have known that your imagination would run wild.” He sighed. “I’m counting on you not to tell her this, and I hate to even put you in this position, but it was really important to her that we protect you guys.”

  Gael nodded.

  His dad looked down at his hands, then back at Gael. Gael was shocked to see that his eyes were watery, too. “Your mom wasn’t happy, Gael. She needed a change. She still cares about me, of course, but for her, it’s just not the same.”

  The words hit Gael like a ton of bricks. “Oh my god, did she cheat?” he spit out.

  His dad shook his head vehemently. “No. Your mom wouldn’t do that. But she made it clear that she needed to move on.”

  Gael’s head was spinning. “But then why is she the one who’s crying all the time?”

  His dad shrugged. “Because it sucks for everyone,” he said. “Even if she wanted it, it still sucks.”

  “Why didn’t you try therapy?” Gael asked. “You’re always going on about how therapy is good for everyone . . .”

  “We did,” his dad said. He sighed. “You might as well know all of it now. Remember last year when Sammy stayed late on Wednesdays, and we both said we had later office hours scheduled? Well . . .”

  (This was the part that got me because, last year, if I had been there, maybe I could have helped Gael’s parents. I could have reminded Gael’s mom of all the natural ebbs, pushed her to give it more of a shot. I could have urged Gael’s dad to fight for her, instead of taking her words at face value. But I didn’t. For years, I wasn’t there for them when I should have been. I was too sure of their success, too happy with my work. I was in love with love, just like Gael. I made the mistake that so many have, of thinking, even if only subconsciously, that if it’s good enough, it doesn’t need work.)

  “I hate Mom,” Gael said.

  “Please don’t.” His dad’s voice shook.

  (Arthur Brennan, a certified Loyalist,6 would never stop loving his soon-to-be-ex-wife. And he wouldn’t stop defending her, either.)

  “She loves you. I love you. We love each other, in our way. I’m sorry you had to deal with any of this.” His dad put his face in his hands, stifling a sob.

  And Gael didn’t know what to do, except to say, “I love you, too, Dad.” And then Gael wiped his eyes one last time and he got out of the car.

  * * *

  6. Loyalist (pardon the term, I love revolutionary history): One whose greatest strength when it comes to love is his or her devotion; one who may not fall as fast as the Romantic, but who falls way more deeply when it happens. May result in clinging to the past, overlooking a partner’s flaws, and, frankly, allowing oneself to be walked all over. May also result in a knack for forgiveness that gives one the space to heal and love again.

  the real worst day of gael’s life

  You’re well familiar with the second-worst day of Gael’s life. And now it only seems fit to share the first, to give you a look into the absolute worst day, the day that would hold that place for him for years to come.

  It was a Saturday last July. When Gael and his family should have been grilling or visiting the farmers’ market or rowing in Jordan Lake or one of a million other things they used to do as a family.

  Because they had always been a happy family. Even though Gael knew happy families were rare, he’d taken it for granted.

  (And I don’t have to tell you that I’d taken it for granted, too.)

  Gael knew something was off when his mom and dad walked into the living room, and his mom switched off Piper’s educational program before Piper had even used half of her allotted screen time for the day.

  “Hey,” Piper said, running up to the TV and flipping it back on. “I still have forty-five minutes.”

  His mom and dad exchanged a look, and then his dad walked up to the TV and turned it off himself. “You’ll get your forty-five minutes, but right now, we need to have, err, a family meeting.”

  His parents sat on the couch, side by side, a united front. Piper stayed on the rug where she’d been watching TV. Gael scarfed the remaining leftovers from last night’s Italian dinner and waited for his parents to get on with it. He figured his mom had planned some new chore schedule or his dad wanted to do more outdoor activities together.

  He was wrong, of course.

  And he hadn’t enjoyed the taste of chicken parmigiana ever since.

  His mom took a deep breath and folded her hands in her lap. He realized, suddenly, that her eyes were puffy and that this was probably not about chores.

  She looked at his dad again. “There’s no easy way to say this . . .” Her voice dropped off.

  His dad cleared his throat and then folded his hands in his lap. “Your mom and I have decided to go our separate ways. I’m going to be moving out of the house into an apartment in Durham at the end of the month.”

  The news shook Gael, shocked him. It was like everything slowed down, froze. His eyes drifted to the wall of family photos behind his parents—good times, bad times, their times—the pictures seemed to mock them all.

  And then his gaze drifted to Piper, whose face was scrunched up like it was when she was trying to decipher a bit of French.

  There was silence for—a minute? A second? An hour? Gael could hardly tell.

  Go our separate ways. What the hell does that even mean? he wondered.

  Piper was the first to speak. Her face unscrunched and hurt washed across it. “You don’t want to live with us anymore?”

  His dad’s voice cracked. “Believe me, baby, I do. But”—he looked to Gael’s mom—“we think this will be best for everyone. We still love both of you more than anything, and we still care about each other, but it will be better this way.”

  His mom stared at her hands, then up at Gael. “Sometimes people just don’t get along as well as they used to,” she said weakly.

  Gael had a deep urge to rip one of the pictures off the wall, smash it over his knee, send glass shards everywhere.

  Piper began to cry, and Gael had to look away. It was too hard to watch. Her face was too shiny, too red, too raw. “I don’t want you to live somewhere else,” Piper yelled. “I want you to live here!”

  His dad stared at Gael, and Gael stared right back.

  Gael realized this was serious, that they weren’t changing their minds, that this wasn’t some insane joke. That suddenly he was occupying a foreign world, and every-thing—from the photos on the walls to the marks in the dining room charting his and Piper’s growth to the small crack in the sliding glass door from where a pigeon had flown into the window—well, it all felt suddenly so alien. So . . . off.

  Ga
el couldn’t stand being in the room anymore. He jumped up from the couch, walked as quickly as he could to his room, closed his door, and fell, facedown, in the bed.

  And as he felt the tears dampen his pillow, he knew, deep down, that something huge had broken.

  That a part of him would never feel the same about love, about family—about any of it—again.

  night of the loving dead

  It was Gael’s fourth Halloween on Franklin Street.

  The street was packed, as it always was. Each year, students, professors, some high school kids like Gael, and people from colleges nearby descended on the stretch of Franklin that edged the campus. The city estimated about seventy thousand people came each year, making it one of the larger centers of Halloween revelry in the country.

  As such, people took Halloween quite seriously in Chapel Hill, turning three or four blocks into a giant party packed with people wearing everything from mass-produced costumes of the Party City variety to elaborate group numbers that made you wonder just how much the UNC freshmen were actually studying for their midterms.

  Gael had been no exception. At the end of September, just a week or so before Anika had dumped him, he’d bought a couples’ costume for the two of them, Marc Antony and Cleopatra, but given the Mason-and-Anika situation, Gael thought it was too weird to use it with another girl. (Not to mention, Cara certainly wouldn’t have seen the Elizabeth Taylor and Richard Burton film it was based on.) And so, a quick run to Target this afternoon had resulted in enough zombie makeup for a Walking Dead episode. It wasn’t as elaborate as his usual setup—past costumes had included the dude from A Clockwork Orange (bowler hat, eye makeup, and all) and the Joker from The Dark Knight—but it would have to do.

  He and Cara had gotten ready in Cara’s dorm. Cara’s roommate took shots while her boyfriend touched up her Bride of Frankenstein makeup. By the time they were finished getting dressed, the roommate was on her third shot (luckily, Cara only had one, so Gael didn’t feel too bad about not joining in), and both Gael and Cara were oozing blood and gore, faces pale and eyes rimmed in black.

  Bonus: With all the heavy-duty makeup, Gael didn’t think Cara could even tell that he’d been crying.

  So now they were on Franklin, perfecting their jilted zombie walk, while Gael, unbeknownst to Cara, tried to hold it together after the revelation about his parents. Lucky for him, the street offered plenty of distractions.

  “Can we agree that mimes are creepier than zombies?” Cara asked, as the black-and-white troupe headed off in search of their next target.

  “One hundred percent yes,” Gael said as a swarm of yellow Minions ran past them.

  “Come on.” Cara linked her arm through his. “Let’s go this way.” There was a small break in the crowd, where a group of firefighters in high heels had just sauntered through.

  She let go of his arm and turned to face him. “Having fun?”

  He nodded forcefully, afraid she’d prod if he didn’t sound convincing. He couldn’t deal with any more serious discussions. Not now.

  “I’m glad I’m here with you,” Cara said, and Gael wondered if maybe she’d had two shots when he wasn’t looking. It wasn’t exactly like her to be effusive.

  A guy in a Jason mask stumbled past them, and for a second, he wistfully thought of Sammy, wondering where she was.

  Cara shivered and started to rub her arms.

  (Don’t do it, Gael. Do not do it.)

  “You want my jacket?” Gael asked. She was wearing a long-sleeve white shirt that they’d stained with fake blood, but had left her jacket at the dorm, complaining that it didn’t go with her overall costume.

  She shook her head. “I’m fine.” But her chin was shaking.

  “Come on.” He started to unzip it.

  “Uh uh,” she said. “Really, I’m fine.”

  “Well, come here, then.” He put his arm around her, pulling her close to keep her warm.

  It was nice. It helped to quiet all the crap running through his head. A gaggle of Angry Birds and evil piggies ran past them, and he realized, suddenly, that this was exactly what he’d wanted, just a couple of weeks ago. It was November tomorrow. He was free to pursue Cara now.

  So why did he suddenly feel so hesitant?

  Cara nuzzled closer to him. “Thanks,” she said. “Looks like I’m totally unprepared.”

  “Looks like you are,” he said, a bit robotically.

  He nodded to Cosmic, down the street. “You want to go get some nachos?” he asked. “Try to warm up a bit?”

  Cara looked up at him and smiled. “That sounds perfect,” she said. “Just perfect.”

  Cosmic Cantina was packed by the time they got to the front of the line, and it smelled like stale booze.

  “Want to try and wrangle us a table?” Gael asked. “I can order the nachos. You want anything else?”

  “Extra guac, please.” Cara smiled.

  “You got it.”

  Gael placed his order and stepped to the side, surveying the premises. At least half the diners were properly drunk, and the other half were well on their way there.

  After Gael watched no fewer than three arguments break out and two bros fall to the ground, a guy in an apron whose forehead was beaded with sweat finally brought out the nachos. Gael’s eyes flitted around in search of hot sauce—the only bottle was being used by a Superman who could barely sit up straight. “You have any more hot sauce?” he asked.

  “Only in the back,” the guy said.

  “Okay,” Gael said. And when the guy didn’t move, Gael asked: “Can you get it?”

  The guy looked at the crowd, then back at Gael. “I’m slammed, man.”

  “Please?”

  The guy rolled his eyes and headed to the back.

  Gael opened the container and popped a chip into his mouth while he waited. He couldn’t help but think of the last time he’d had nachos, right before he’d kissed Cara. What had he been thinking, throwing himself at her like that?

  He wondered again where Sammy was, then forced himself to stop.

  “Here, man. Enjoy it,” the guy said sarcastically.

  Gael smiled at the fresh bottle of hot sauce and threw an extra buck in the tip jar.

  He grabbed the bottle and pushed his way to the back. “Sorry that took so long,” he said, as Cara sat up straight and brushed off the table with a napkin. “I had to ask them to get a fresh hot sauce out of the back.”

  “Oh.” She tilted her head to the side, but she didn’t say anything, just looked at him. Finally: “You didn’t have to do that.”

  Gael shrugged. “I know how you love your hot sauce. I didn’t want to disappoint.”

  “Still,” she said. “I could have survived without it.”

  Gael flipped the lid open and doused the chips with Valentina’s. “You could have, but you shouldn’t have to.”

  She broke into a smile, one that was contagious. He smiled, too.

  She didn’t touch the nachos, just looked at him. “You know,” she said. “It’s almost November. No real harm in . . . err . . . pretending it’s already here.”

  Gael felt his heart beat faster, and he couldn’t tell if he was just nervous or what. Was it the shots? he wondered. Had she really had more than one after all? She was being so forward all of a sudden.

  (Homegirl didn’t need alcohol to be forward. She was a Serial Monogamist. And her vow was almost up.)

  “Uhh,” he stalled.

  “What?” she asked.

  “Wouldn’t you rather say you made it the whole month?” He forced a smile.

  Cara shrugged, popped a chip in her mouth. “Honestly, I don’t really care.”

  He thought of what Sammy had said. A whole month without dating someone!

  Wasn’t it just a tad ridiculous that she wasn’t even committed to going the whole month?

  “I don’t want to be on your friends’ shitlist,” he stammered, trying to buy himself some time. “So how about we hang out on Friday?�
�

  She narrowed her eyes at him, trying to deduce what he really meant. But Cara wasn’t the type to let a little hesitation on someone’s part hold her back. Serial Monogamists don’t really roll that way.

  “All right,” she said. “It’s a date.”

  love and frisbee golf

  The next day after school, Gael tossed his Frisbee toward the wire mesh basket of the fourth hole with avid precision. Just east of campus, Gael and Mason’s favorite Frisbee golf course was technically part of UNC, but no one had ever given them a hard time about being there.

  Gael had managed to make it home from the Franklin Street Halloween celebration relatively unscathed (and without any more uncomfortable overtures from Cara). They’d finished up their nachos, walked back toward campus, and parted at the post office, Gael trying not to think too much about the last girl he’d parted ways with at that very spot.

  When Gael got home, his mom had seemed a little miffed when he didn’t want to tell her anything about his night—she always stayed up late watching scary movies on Halloween and was waiting eagerly when he got in the door. But he knew if he so much as looked at her too long, he might lose it. And he’d promised his dad he wouldn’t tell.

  With so much bouncing around in his head, he practically jumped at Mason’s invitation to play Frisbee golf. And as much as he was still not fully over what Mason had done, he had to admit that doing something normal with Mason, especially after all the drama yesterday with his dad, felt pretty damn good.

  The Frisbee clanked against the metal pole and fell to the ground. Close, but no cigar.

  “The hole in one evades you, my friend,” Mason said.

  It was properly cold out today, and they both wore UNC sweatshirts they’d bought together at Student Stores the previous fall.

  “Since when do you say ‘evades’?” Gael asked, laughing.

  Mason shrugged, then tossed his Frisbee without much focus. It landed a good twenty feet from the basket. Frisbee golf was the one thing that Gael had always excelled at over Mason. Last fall, they probably played twice a week, but Mason never could get his wrist to stay straight when he threw it. It was a nerdy sport to be good at, but it was fun.