by Penny Reid
And this is how Sam found me that night after breaking up with Martin.
She paused when she opened the door to our room, the light from the suite area spilling across my bed, and I met her eyes as they scanned my splotchy, swollen face. The corners of her mouth turned down as she pressed her lips together.
“Anyone die?” she asked.
I shook my head and pressed my face to the damp pillow, my words muffled, as I responded melodramatically, “No. But I want to.”
“You want to die?”
“Yes, I want to die.”
“Why?”
“We broke up.”
Aaaaand more crying. I hiccupped on a ragged sob.
“Well…shit.” I heard her sigh, then say gently as she rubbed my back, “I’ll be right back with stuff for ice cream sundaes.”
The door clicked shut behind her. So I cried and wrapped myself in the chaotic thoughts that had plagued me since leaving Martin.
Maybe I was being selfish.
Maybe Martin’s revenge was more important than my mother’s reputation and providing affordable Internet service to millions of people.
Maybe we could see each other in secret and no one would find out.
Maybe we were just taking a break for four months and we’d pick right back up once his master revenge plan was set in motion.
Maybe I was turning into a pathetic creature grasping at straws because I missed him with every cell in my body and the thought of never seeing him or talking to him again made me want to light myself on fire.
Not actually light myself on fire, but do something drastic because I just freaking hurt so very, very bad.
And it had only been five hours.
Sam returned sometime later while I was in the middle of replaying my conversation with Martin in my head for the hundredth time and therefore second-guessing my decision for the millionth time.
She flipped on the light, making me groan, wince, and wish more fervently for death.
“Katy, take the pink pills by your bed and drink some water. You’re probably dehydrated.”
“What’s in the pink pills?”
“Ibuprofen.”
I struggled to sit up, reached for the pills, and started to cry. “Okay,” I said through my tears, “I’ll take the pills, but nothing will ever make me feel good ever again.”
Sam tsked sadly and I heard the clatter of dishes and spoons, the rustling of a plastic bag, and the sure sounds of an ice cream sundae being prepared. After I finished taking a gulp of water and Sam tossed me a new box of tissues, she placed the bowl in my hands.
“Eat your ice cream and tell me what happened.”
I shrugged, squinted at the mint chocolate chip and fudge in my bowl. “I don’t know what to say.”
“Do I need to hire a hit man?”
I took a bite. It tasted good. I was numbly amazed that anything could possibly taste good. “No. I broke up with him.”
“You broke up with him?”
I nodded, pushing the ice cream to one side so I could get a spoonful of fudge.
“Does this have something to do with your mom?”
I nodded again, my throat tight. Suddenly I didn’t want fudge because fudge wasn’t Martin, and fudge would never be Martin.
Stupid fudge.
Holding her own bowl, Sam insinuated herself next to me on the bed and wrapped an arm around my shoulders. “Kaitlyn, tell me everything. Talk to me. Let me help.”
“Nothing will help.” I knew I sounded emo and morose but I didn’t care. Being dramatic was the only thing that felt right.
“Then tell me because I’m nosey. Tell me what happened.”
So I did. I told her all about Martin’s pariah parents and how he’d grown up being used and humiliated—though I didn’t share the specifics—and about the impossible situation with my mother, and a vague description of Martin’s plans for revenge.
It took me an hour because I had to stop every once in a while to sob like an infant. Talking about it was reliving it again and I experienced fresh pain with each word. However, when I was finished, when my tale of woe was complete, I felt somehow different.
I didn’t feel better. I just felt less…despairing.
Despairing, desolate, dejected, depressed, hopeless, inconsolable, miserable…
“I’m sorry if this makes things weird with you and Eric.” I said this to my melted bowl of ice cream because it hurt to lift my eyeballs.
“What do you mean?”
“I’m just saying, I hope this doesn’t put you or Eric in an awkward situation. You shouldn’t let my break up with Martin affect your relationship.”
She was quiet for a moment, and I felt her eyes on me. “Kaitlyn…Eric and I aren’t in a relationship.”
Even though it hurt, I lifted my scratchy eyes to her, knew my face betrayed my confusion. “You’re not?”
“No, hon. We’re not dating.”
“Then…then what happened last week?” My voice was nasally and a little squeaky.
She shrugged. “Nothing of significance. I mean, yeah…we had a good time together, but we’re not dating.”
“Did you sleep with him?” I didn’t know I was going to ask the question before I asked the question, and I winced because it was rude, and sounded judgmental and demanding.
Her half smile was just north of being patronizing. “Yes. We slept together. And we hung out and made out and had a lot of fun. I like him a lot, but I’m not looking for a relationship and I told him that at the beginning of the week. Between school and tennis and now needing a summer job, I was looking for a good time. So we had a good time, but I doubt I’ll see him again.”
New tears flooded my eyes and I blinked them away, tangentially amazed that I could still cry. “Am I a bad feminist? You can tell me the truth.”
“What are you talking about?” Sam chuckled and tried to untangle a patch of my hair near my ear.
“Because I fell in love with Martin. I started falling in love with him the moment he kissed me in the chemistry lab. I am totally weak for him. And the thought of sleeping with someone without being in love…I don’t know. It makes me want to throw up.”
“Kaitlyn, you and I are two completely different people with completely different temperaments, experiences, and personalities. Not all women can—or should—have casual sex. Just like, believe it or not, not all men can have casual sex. And your inability to have sex without deeper feelings doesn’t make you a bad feminist any more than my love for lace panties and the color pink makes me a bad feminist. Do you see what I mean?”
I nodded, still feeling like a bad feminist. But more than that, I still hurt. The absence of Martin screamed in my ears and the acute pain of sudden loss tortured my soul…ugh! Now I was contemplating my tortured soul. I was pathetic.
I groaned. “What is wrong with me? How can I be this upset over a guy I was with technically less than a week?”
“First of all, stop beating yourself up for what you’re feeling.”
“I’m pathetic. I’m a drama llama. I’m that girl. I’ve spent years judging that girl, and now I’m her and I feel so terrible for judging her because, if she felt one tenth of the agony I feel right now, then I need to write her an apology letter. I should punch myself in the face for being so judgey.”
“Kaitlyn, we are all that girl sooner or later. You can’t know or understand another person’s pain until you’ve lived through a similar experience. You fell hard and you fell fast. It was dating boot camp on that island, and you were all in. Girl, you just lost your virginity two days ago! Give yourself some time to adjust.”
“Oh, Sam, how am I going to make it through the rest of my life when almost six hours post breakup I’m already contemplating death by fire as a preferable alternative to the ache in my heart?”
Sam sighed and wrapped her arms around me. She laid her head on my shoulder and said softly, “Kaitlyn, stop and think about this, really, really think about what’
s going on. Think about what you know about this guy.”
“I know he loves me and I broke up with him and I don’t even really know why.”
“You know why. You broke up with him because he was unwilling to do the right thing.”
“But he loves me and—”
She made a sound in the back of her throat that reminded me of Marge from the Simpsons and interrupted my whiny tirade. “Here is the truth, and I’m sorry if it hurts, but here it is: Martin is never going to choose anyone—even you—over himself.”
I winced because… Gah, right in the feels.
I pressed a damp tissue to my face. “Gee, thanks.”
“I’m not saying this to be hurtful. You are beautiful and amazing and so smart.” Sam paired this with a squeeze. “And did I mention beautiful? But the thing is…” she lifted her head and searched my face, “the thing is, he doesn’t know how to love. He doesn’t. You said it yourself, his parents are pariahs. He knows all about self-preservation, and he’s thinking only of revenge. He’s the Count of Monte Cristo.”
I gave a pitiful laugh and shook my head. “I know you’re trying to help, but you don’t know him like I do. I know he loves me.”
“I’m sure, on some level, in Martin’s universe of one, he’s willing to make room for you. I’m sure he does love you, as much as he’s capable. But, that’s just it. It’s a universe of one, and giving you a corner isn’t what you deserve. You deserve a universe of two, and a pedestal, and cabana boys to peel your grapes.”
Tears squeezed out of my eyes even as I snorted. I wiped them away with my tissue, which was basically just lint at this point.
“I don’t want cabana boys. I just want…I want…” I glanced at the ceiling and shook my head.
“I know. You want Martin Sandeke to choose you over his mastermind revenge plot, a revenge plot that’s occupied his mind since he was a teenager and toward which he’s been working since he reached the age of reason.”
I nodded and added sarcastically, “Yes. Exactly. Why can’t I be more important to him than a life-time ambition?”
Sam wasn’t at all sarcastic when she squeezed my hand and said, “But don’t you see? You should be. You’re not asking him to do anything wrong or illegal, you’re not asking him to choose you over his convictions. You’re asking him to do the right thing, the good thing, the honorable thing. If he really loved you, really and truly loved you, then you would be more important to him than revenge.”
I stared at her until she grew blurry in my vision and added absentmindedly, “But I’m not.”
“But you’re not,” she echoed, giving me a sad face, then pulled me into a hug, whispering again my ear, “And you should be.”
***
I texted my mother on Monday and told her that Martin and I broke up. She texted me back that she would arrange through the chemistry department for me to finish my lab credits without a lab partner. She also said she was looking forward to seeing me over summer break.
When I received nothing else from her—no call to ask how I was, no thank you or recognition of what the break up cost me—I became irrationally angry and played ‘Killing in the Name’ by Rage Against the Machine on my acoustic guitar until 2:37 a.m. I only stopped because Sam came home from a late night study session and needed sleep. When she left the next morning, I picked up my guitar and played it again.
But playing angry music on an acoustic guitar is completely dissatisfying, so I stopped. What I needed were drums.
The next week was really strange. Sam said I was in mourning, but somehow I felt like the one who was dead. Life became mostly periods of calm detachment infrequently interrupted by flashes of intense and painful chaos.
Toward the end of this endless week of insignificant moments, I wondered why anyone would want to fall in love. Falling in love sucked—figuratively, it sucked the life out of me, left me hollow, a desolate wasteland of suckage.
Except when I played my guitar.
So I played my guitar, but instead of playing angry music, I played guitar suites—mostly classical—but somehow made them sound angry.
I also ignored George’s messages about the Sunday family agenda. As well I skipped the Sunday call, though I did give my cell phone the double finger salute when it rang. Then I played my guitar.
On the Monday one week after the break up, I was a hot mess. I hadn’t been showering…much. But I took comfort in small accomplishments, like brushing my teeth once a day and making it to my classes.
Going to class gave me something to focus on. As well, before my vector calculus class, I received a huge shock when I overheard that someone in Martin’s fraternity had been kicked out of school and arrested for attempted rape and assault of a minor.
“Who?” I asked loudly, not caring that this question would label me as an unabashed eavesdropper.
The two guys glanced over their shoulders at me, apparently found me harmless in my sweatpants, tangled hair, and stained Lord of the Rings T-shirt, then turned toward me so I could be included in the conversation.
The ginger spoke first. “One of the crew guys, Salsmar. His picture is in the paper if you really want to know and there’s supposed to be a video. They’re not releasing the name of the girl ’cause turns out she’s underage.”
Benjamin Salsmar. Ben. Ben the rapist.
Oh my God!
My stomach dropped. I felt like such a terrible person. I should have called the police about Ben as soon as I arrived back on campus. But I’d forgotten and given myself over to personal drama and now someone had suffered because of me.
Ugh…just, ugh!
“Just another fraternity fuckup,” the darker-haired boy said derisively. “It would be news if this kind of shit didn’t happen all the time. Show me a fraternity guy who doesn’t rape girls, that would be a shocker.”
“Yeah,” the ginger nodded, adding, “it’ll be newsworthy if Salsmar actually gets convicted. Usually these guys get a bailout from their daddy and a slap on the wrist.”
“But with the video?” I pressed. “If they have a video, then surely he’ll see some jail time?”
They both shrugged, like power, money, and influence mattered more than hard and tangible evidence. Then class started and our impromptu gossip fest was over.
But I couldn’t focus on class because I had ants in my pants. I was sure Martin had orchestrated Ben’s arrest, or at least had been responsible for making sure it was caught on tape.
***
By the end of the third week after the breakup, I was showering semi-daily and I hadn’t cried in seven days. I’d also lost fifteen pounds…not even cookies could hold my interest. I hadn’t returned any of my mother’s calls, nor had I participated in Sunday family meetings.
I was once again hiding in closets. After class I would walk back to my dorm, step into my closet, and shut the door. Sometimes I would bring my guitar and play my own compositions and improvisations. All the songs were morose.
I hadn’t seen or heard from Martin and everything still hurt. His absence was everywhere. Therefore, sitting in the darkness and enjoying the lack of sensation, the lack of feeling was a relief.
I was not getting better; things weren’t getting easier. Life was various levels of blah and horrifically painful.
As such, things went from blah to horrifically painful in the middle of the afternoon on Thursday. I was walking home intent on spending some quality time in the blackness of my closet when I saw him.
My feet stopped moving on their own, and I told myself not to blink or breathe, just in case he was a mirage. I didn’t realize until that moment how hungry I was for a glimpse of him. Even though it hurt to the depths of my melodramatic and tortured soul, I stared at Martin.
He was sitting in the student union at a circular table. His big hands were in his hair and he was studying papers on the table before him. Next to Martin sat a very pretty blonde in a grey business suit, a black leather attaché case on the chair next t
o her. I noted that she looked about ten or so years older than me, but I wondered how much of that was the suit and makeup and air of professionalism.
Meanwhile he looked just the same. His hair was a little messy, but that was probably because he’d been pulling his fingers through it. But his color was fine. He looked fine. He looked perfectly fine.
I forced myself to take a breath and move to the wall, out of the flow of pedestrian traffic. My brain re-booted after close to a minute of standing and staring like a crazy person at my…at my Martin.
But he wasn’t my Martin.
A fresh wave of pain pierced my chest and I struggled to inhale. It felt like someone had stabbed me, right through the heart. Every beat was a sluggish ache.
He wasn’t my anything. And he looked perfectly fine. He was fine and I was a mess because he’d never loved me and I’d allowed myself to fall completely in love with him…like a complete idiot.
Cold certainty and acceptance was a bitter but necessary salve to the open wound I’d been carrying around. It was just as Sam said: he wasn’t capable of love. I was wasting my time, both staring at him now and pining for him over the last three weeks. Everything about my time with Martin Sandeke had been a waste of time.
A truly desolate yet comforting numbness wrapped around me like a blanket. I embraced it. Hell, I slathered myself in it and wanted to have its babies. It was armor and a weapon, and finally, finally a tool to combat feeling like an exposed nerve. I was so tired of being vulnerable and helpless.
At last, after indulging myself with one more look—noting with calm detachment that he was now smiling at the woman, and she was laughing at something he’d said—I shook my head to clear it of his image and turned away.
I hadn’t smiled in over three weeks. But I hadn’t cried in seven days and I wasn’t going to cry today. Furthermore, I decided I was never going to cry over Martin Sandeke again.
I decided to take the long way through the student union building rather than walk within feet of his table. The long way took me by a cluster of vending machines, so I stopped and decided to grab a bottle of Dr. Pepper and some peanut M&M’s. I couldn’t actually remember the last time I’d eaten and that was completely unacceptable. I loved food and I’d allowed Martin-anguish to eclipse every facet of my life.