So I focus instead on Teen Mom for another hour or so. After another couple of episodes, Melanie and Mandy go to bed and I get to work.
I crawl into bed three hours later, wearing now quite old pajamas. A guy who doesn’t look like he’s possibly old enough to be a chef lulls me to sleep as he makes some sort of layer cake.
SATURDAY MORNING. MY PHONE BUZZES thirty seconds before my alarm is set to go off. I shut off my alarm before it makes any noise, and I go to grab my phone, already suspecting who might be texting me right now…who might know that I am just getting up.
And I’m right.
Unknown Number.
Sigh. Count. Open.
Check your email. Please.
Ugh. No point in trying to fight it. If I don’t go check it now, I’ll just keep wondering what he has written. And I won’t get anything else done. I get up and head over to my laptop, waiting for my inbox to open, for my message from DA Blake to appear.
And here it is.
One. Two. Three. Click.
No “Hello” or “Dear Callie” or anything. Just three questions.
1.) How are you getting to the conference?
2.) Who is making you go?
3.) Do you want me to come?
{Quietly, Damien R—}
No, Callie. He left.
He left.
He left.
I count, click reply, and ask my stomach to stop jumping all over the place.
{Damien is still singing softly. I try to pretend that he isn’t.}
I type quickly.
1.) Plane
2.) Dr. Gabriel and my advisor
3.) No
Count, oh so fast. Send.
For a few minutes, I sit and stare at my computer screen, at the little box that says that my message has been sent.
Well, I think it says that. I can’t really see the screen anymore. I can only see a pair of dark…miserable…blue eyes. I imagine him opening my curt, blunt email. I imagine his face falling and—
Before I start to feel too guilty about my response, I remind myself that he probably won’t care that I said no—he was probably only asking to be doctor-like.
Quickly blinking my eyes away from the computer, I begin my morning program of events.
THE REST OF MY DAY is pretty full. Confession. Lots and lots and lots of working with Anna Karenina. Printing my paper. Checking my email. Worrying about having to see Tony. Worrying about going to the conference. Worrying about not having any new emails…
When I eventually start my night routine, I don’t get very much done. I am interrupted three different times as different family members call to talk about the conference. As I try to convince each one of them (Mom, Melanie, and Jared) that I’m not worried about going, I briefly wonder if they have a new form for these conference phone calls—a special Callie is being forced to travel and stay in public accommodations-type form…
Somehow, I end each of these phone calls…somehow I manage to finish my night routine, even though I keep pausing to answer the phone and to check my empty inbox…and somehow I end up in bed once again dressed in old pajamas.
SUNDAY MORNING. I WAIT UNTIL after I get home from church to do the task I’ve been trying to avoid. I dig into the way back corner of my closet, past a bunch of dresses organized by color and neat rows of shoes, to find the brown rectangular box that hasn’t come out for air in years…that wasn’t ever supposed to see the light of another day.
{Maroon 5 jumps in with the refrain of “Daylight” but not without a fight from Damien Rice, who has been singing to me all morning.}
I take the box over to my bed, where I sit down and shake my head. I can’t believe I’m doing this.
I lift the cover of the box. And then it’s all here, right in front of me—the remnants of my relationship with Tony.
{Maroon 5…and Damien Rice…continue to sing.}
And, really, as I look at it all now, it seems sort of silly that I kept all of this stuff. Seriously, what was I thinking?
As I start to lift the items out of the box one by one, I remember what I was thinking. I remember packing this box years and years ago. And I remember a blurry mix of tears and mascara…barely even seeing my hands as they placed each item in the box—letters, pressed flowers, a mix CD of Tony’s favorite music, my copy of our prom picture, birthday cards, a little stuffed bear, a comb and contact lens case that he accidentally left in my dorm room when he rushed out after breaking up with me, and…there it is…his spare set of car keys. Keys that he only gave me because he accidentally locked his keys in his car during his first visit to Pierce and then had to wait forever for a local company to unlock the car…and then got really pissed…and then vowed that such a thing wouldn’t happen again.
I pick up the keys and remember how he made me promise not to lose them before he handed them to me. Like I was an irresponsible child.
Dickhead of the century…that was him.
Yeah, but you’ve agreed to see that dickhead in a few hours, Callie.
I make a quick decision. An important decision. I pick up my old box of Tony stuff, run it downstairs, and throw it in the trash. I don’t need any of that stuff anymore.
Feeling pretty proud of myself, I go back upstairs. I get my phone from my purse to see if Mandy texted me while I was at church. She was supposed to text me this morning to give me a leaving time for today. I turn my phone on and find three messages waiting for me. A Words with Friends message from Tony. A text message from Mandy. And a text message from Unknown Number.
Even though my now jumpy stomach would probably prefer I start elsewhere, I open Mandy’s text first.
We’ll leave around 2:45 p.m.
We’ll leave around 2:45 p.m. So I can go see Tony. Mandy doesn’t know that, though. Last night, I told her that I wanted to meet a high school friend in Oakland before dinner. I figured she wouldn’t mind since we’d already be heading to Oakland to pick up Josh for dinner. And she didn’t…doesn’t mind. And she didn’t question my story. My lying worked. Again. And next week, next Saturday, I’m going to have to confess lying. Again.
I quickly text Mandy back, thanking her and reminding her to be careful driving back from her morning sorority study session.
Then I move on to another message—my Words with Friends message from Tony.
Hey, Angel. 4:00 still okay?
Yes, asshole. Stop calling me Angel.
I respond with a yes, leaving out my term of endearment.
And then…then it’s time.
I count a slow one, two, three. Open.
Check your email again, please. I’m worried about you.
{Damien. Just Damien.}
My eyes stare at his second sentence—for I don’t know how long…long enough for all of my nail polish to disappear…and then a few minutes after that.
Eventually, I move my body…all of my heavy limbs…over to my laptop. In the middle of about five spam emails that my filter should have caught is a message from DA Blake. Slowly, I move my mouse up to his name, his email.
Count. Click.
Another list of three questions sits in front of me.
1.) When is your flight?
2.) Are you staying at a hotel?
3.) Are you sure you don’t want me to come?
I stare at number three. And for just a moment, I let my mind go where it shouldn’t…to a just built hotel with a brand new, spotless room and an immaculate, untouched bed—well, untouched except for the person between the sheets. Dark hair. Heated blue eyes. Arms reaching out. So close…so—
CALLIE!
I blink my eyes a few times to try to evict the image from my mind. I try to think instead about what it’d really be like—me standing in the middle of a gross, infested hotel room, trying not to touch anything…and him standing outside the room, knocking on the door every ten minutes or so to make sure I haven’t killed myself yet…
I quickly count and hit reply.
1.) Don’t know yet
/>
2.) Yes
3.) Yes
Count.
Send.
BEFORE I KNOW IT, IT’S time. Time for my meeting with Tony. Mandy stops her car right in front of Dawson’s Grille. It’s 3:45 p.m., which is perfect. Tony shouldn’t be here for another fifteen minutes (at least—he was always late when we were dating). There is no way that Mandy should see him.
Before I close my car door, Mandy smiles over at me. “Enjoy your soda.”
I just smile back and shrug before closing the door. Mandy thinks it’s funny that I’m meeting a friend (so she thinks) for a drink when she knows I won’t have a “real” drink in a bar that pretty much only serves beer. She probably wouldn’t find the situation very funny if she knew what I’m really up to…
As I walk up to the door of the restaurant, I do my best to avoid all of the people walking around me. Such a crowded street. College students are everywhere. I stand by the door and wait, holding my purse close to my body and praying that no one accidentally brushes up against me…or talks to me…or spits on me…
I don’t know how long I stand, how long I pray, but it must be long enough for God, because he grants my request. No one touches me. No one talks to me. No one spits on me. And Tony is coming toward me now, a big, stupid smile on his face.
I continue to stand, both hands clutching my purse, now worrying that Tony might try to touch me. Please don’t touch me. Please don’t touch me. Please don’t touch me. God only knows what he’s been up to over the last few years. Dirty stuff. Disgusting stuff.
He walks closer and closer, still smiling. He’s only a few feet away.
My stomach feels like it’s just been punched. My body doesn’t move. Please. No touching.
{Cue Carrie Underwood with “Jesus, Take the Wheel.”}
Tony takes a few more steps toward me, and—
And he stops right beside me. Not touching me.
Thank God. {And thanks for your help, Carrie.}
My body releases a tiny bit of its tension.
Then the tension comes right back because I realize that I am obviously the one of us standing closer to the restaurant door…so I am the one who should probably open it.
And I do have tissues in my pocket…but I can’t use them in front of Tony. I won’t. He’ll make fun of me…like he did in the past…and I don’t want to hear that right now. Or ever again.
So I make myself do something else instead. I speak. “What—no chivalry?”
I’m not proud of my method here, but it works. Tony gives me a silly smile and rushes in front of me to pull on the door handle. {How about a nice church choir rendition of “How Great Thou Art”? Let’s send this one up, way up, as a thank you for another answered prayer.} We go in, and Tony asks for a table. I hear him request to sit downstairs so we can talk…and hear each other (the bar area is surprisingly busy for a Sunday—I’m sure it has something to do with football). The waitress smiles and leads us downstairs. Tony nods for me to walk ahead of him and then he follows behind. Still no attempt at touching me.
{Let’s do another verse of “How Great Thou Art”…because, really, Tony could’ve tried to hug me, or touch me, or take my hand…and, seriously, I haven’t seen him in years…he could’ve slept with dozens of girls in that amount of time…shared hundreds of needles…used countless disgusting public bathrooms…}
As I slowly walk down the steep steps, carefully balancing myself without touching the railing, I can’t help but remember the last time I was here…and then I can’t help but think about this morning’s email. {And then I can’t help but allow Damien to slip back into my head.}
When we get down to our table (the one right beside the table I sat at last time I was here), I quickly inspect my seat as Tony messes around with his phone—texting someone or taking a turn in a game or something? I don’t know.
We sit. The waitress appears. Tony orders a beer and I order a diet soda.
When the waitress leaves, Tony smiles. “Still not drinking, huh, Angel?”
I don’t bother to tell him that I do drink margaritas now…or that I’ve tried several different kinds of beer and I’m just not a huge fan. There’s no point in telling him. And we don’t have much time right now. Mandy will be back right after she picks up Josh—so in like twenty-five minutes.
“I brought your keys.” I get to the point, starting to dig in my purse. After finding the keys, I reach over and place them on Tony’s side of the table. Before I can pull my hand away, Tony starts to reach his own hand out…to touch mine…
My stomach begins to turn at the thought of that hand touching me. That same hand that pinched the side of my stomach years ago right here in this restaurant.
Trying to hide my discomfort (because if he sees it, he’ll probably try to touch me again or maybe ask why I don’t want to touch him, or, I don’t know, think about trying to “fix” me and my OCD again), I give him a tight smile and pull my hand to the safety of my lap.
“What are you doing, Tony?” I try to keep my voice steady, not nervous, as I speak.
Tony smiles a big, oblivious to my discomfort (of course) kind of smile. Then he shrugs. “I don’t know—it’s just been so long.”
I don’t have anything to say back to this and, fortunately, I don’t have to think of anything because the waitress picks this moment to bring our drinks. After she places my diet soda in front of me, I busy myself with opening my straw, placing it in my glass, and taking a long, slow drink.
Tony gulps down some of his beer…most of his beer…and then starts to talk again. “So…” He stares at me, but I don’t let him keep hold of my eyes. I give him another tight, closed-lip smile and then look down to watch my fingers as they stir the straw in my glass.
“Seeing anyone?”
What?
I can’t help it. My eyes lift and my hand stops stirring. He’s grinning.
Pretty inappropriate, Tony. Pretty inappropriate.
I just roll my eyes and hope his question will go away. I take a sip of my soda and try to further bury the topic.
Tony moves his head down, down, down to catch my eyes (which were pleasantly focused on the table).
He continues to talk. And smile. “There is someone. Isn’t there?”
I don’t answer. I just give him an annoyed look.
And now he’s laughing. “How does he feel about getting tested?”
My mouth does the cliché thing and drops open a little. I can’t believe he just said that.
I pull my purse on my shoulder and stand to go. Before I can get anywhere, though, he is right in front of me…still with that stupid grin on his face.
“Angel, Angel, Angel, Angel. Calm down.”
Please don’t touch me. Please just let me go. Please.
Some rational part of my brain acknowledges the fact that he will be more likely to let me pass if it seems I have “calmed down”…if it seems like he can’t get to me anymore. I listen to that part of me, attempting to push the pissed off look from my face.
I try to speak calmly. “Whatever, Tony. It’s fine. But I’ve gotta go. Mandy will be here soon, and you got what you came for.”
He’s still standing right in front of me, blocking my way. We must look ridiculous just standing like this in the middle of a restaurant.
My head starts to pound. Do not touch me. Do not touch me. Do not touch me.
Tony blinks his eyes and makes a face that I’ve seen many times before—a pouty, I’m hurt face. I hate that face. I fell for it when we were in high school, but I stopped falling for it in college when he started to use it for everything (yes—everything).
I just stare at him and wait for whatever else he feels needs to be said. A second later, he stops pouting and opens his mouth to speak.
Here come more words that will probably annoy me.
“I brought your stuff too, Angel. Don’t worry.” He says it as though he’s soothing me, as though I would’ve been crushed if he forgot to brin
g our old prom picture with him. He continues. “It’s all in my car, though.”
I just nod my head, not quite looking at him…not quite seeing through my now fuzzy eyes…not quite sure if he’s ever going to move.
Fortunately, he does move. He turns away from me.
{The Beatles are back, now with “Here Comes the Sun.”}
He waves over the waitress, asks for our bill, and promptly gives her some cash to cover it. Then he motions for me to go first, for me to start to walk upstairs and out of the restaurant. I move slowly, carefully using the little bit of space he’s put between us to maneuver myself without brushing up against him. I walk up the stairs, through the top level of the restaurant, and right to the door. I push it open with the bottom of my shoe and then head outside.
When we both get outside, Tony leads me right to his old car, the Stratus he’s about to sell. As he digs around in the back seat, my mind takes me back…back to multiple arguments and various make out sessions set right here in this car…many times both happening on the same night…
I wonder how many girls he’s had in here since…
I don’t have a lot of time to come up with a number, because soon Tony turns around, holding a small cardboard box overflowing with stuff, overflowing with our relationship. My pink Pierce hoodie…Friends Season 1, his copy of our prom picture…
He holds the box out to me like it’s a huge, beautifully wrapped Christmas present. “Here it all is, Angel.”
I manage yet another tight smile, and then I use both of my hands to grab the top of the box—touching an area far away from his hands, his arms.
He smirks, staring at the awkward placement of my hands. “Still funny about germs, aren’t you?”
Yes, Tony. Still “funny” about germs.
I just give him my, like, three hundredth tight smile of the afternoon. “I don’t want to talk about it, Tony.”
Checked Again (Checked Series) Page 9