But I Love Him

by Amanda Grace

  “There’s more to him than you see,” I tell her.

  “Enlighten me,” she says, her voice a little too terse. She’s sitting so perfectly next to me, her back ramrod straight.

  “He’s not on trial, Mom. I’m not going to debate it with you.”

  “I just think you need to meet other people,” she says, reaching out to pat my knee. It’s hard not to jerk it away. It’s hard not to snap right back at her, because I hate that she wants to force us apart. He’s the love of my life. I’m not leaving him. Not now, not ever. I promised him. No matter what.

  “Mom, just stop, okay? Not going to happen.”

  And then I reach for the nail polish but only succeed in knocking it over, and it pools over the wooden side table, a big splotch of red.

  “Just think about it. Aim higher.”

  And then, before I can say anything coherent in response, she’s gone and I’m left cleaning up the mess.

  January 30

  Five Months

  My hair is piled atop my head in curls and I have a pretty necklace around my neck. A little diamond pendant Connor bought me two weeks ago.

  But I’m all dressed up with nowhere to go. Just sitting on the couch near the door, waiting.

  I don’t know where he is.

  I’m not sure I want to know. Maybe it’s better if he never calls to tell me, and I just sit here and wonder.

  His dad has been on a drinking binge for two days, and I know that is the problem. I know he’s off somewhere dealing with it, dealing with his mom, trying to sort out the problems that never leave him.

  I know Abby is going to figure it out. She’s going to look everywhere for me. She’ll stand at the door to the gym and watch expectantly for me to round the corner in the beautiful green dress she helped pick out.

  But I’ll just be sitting here, waiting for him, and he’ll never show up.

  I don’t know why I thought this would work. Why I thought Connor could do something … teen like this.

  Connor lives in a world made for people much older than his eighteen years. He lives in a world that ages him faster than is fair.

  It’s why I feel as if I’ve been with him for years and not months. Because everything is accelerated and intense and real, and high school dances are childish and silly and pointless.

  But I still wanted this. I’m still near tears as I sit here, with my forty-dollar updo and my newly polished nails.

  An hour in the salon chair, and no one’s even going to see my hair.

  The disappointment tastes bitter. Tonight he was going to talk with Abby and laugh with me, and for once it was going to be different. Things were going to be like I thought they were going to be when I met him five months ago. He was going to be a piece that fit into my life and made it whole, not the piece that forced the rest of it all apart.

  Connor wanted to take me to this, wanted to be there for me, and his father ruined it, and he has to save his mom even though she will never save herself.

  And yet I still wait, as the night sky darkens and the house goes quiet. It is not until eleven, when the dance is over, that I go back to my room and slip off my dress, hang it back in the closet where no one will ever see it. I shove it far back to ensure that, because maybe if I never see it again I won’t remember how this feels.

  I sit at my vanity and pull the pins from my hair, watching as it tumbles down around my shoulders. I wipe my face clean of the makeup I’d so painstakingly applied and I climb into my bed, my skin still tingling with the cleanser.

  Winter Formal has come and gone, and I was not there to see it.

  August 30

  One year

  I listen to Connor plead with me through the door, my forehead still resting on my knees, my eyes closed.

  He must be getting soaked out there. Knowing him, he’s not even wearing a jacket—probably just a thermal underneath a T-shirt.

  Thunder rumbles from somewhere distant, grows louder, and then disappears again.

  Connor is shouting to be heard over the storm.

  I lift my head up and look at the window, and watch the rivulets of water streaming down the glass. I wish it was as easy to wash away the pain.

  He lowers his voice a little as he pleads with me. “I promise you. I swear, I will never do this again. I’ll get help this time. I went too far, I know. I’ll go to anger management or counseling or something. Anything. Please, Ann, just let me in. Let me take care of you. I need you.”

  I rest my forehead on my knees again.

  I know he needs me.

  That’s the problem.

  He needs me to fight away the wars he wages with himself. He needs me to hold him together so he doesn’t crack right in half.

  I used to think I could do it.

  I don’t anymore. People don’t change because you want them to. They aren’t clay, ready to be molded.

  Connor might as well be steel for all the good my efforts did.

  The only one who changed was me.

  It’s been so long since I walked around smiling, laughing, holding my head up high. So long since I’ve looked forward to the future. So long since I even dreamt of a future at all, one beyond rain clouds and fights and never-ending gray.

  And if I open the door right now, it’ll always be that way.

  Unless …

  Unless this is rock bottom. He has to know, now, that getting anger management and counseling is the only option left.

  He hurt me. It isn’t just a bruise this time. I think something is broken. My entire body throbs.

  I close my eyes tighter and wish that the sound of his voice on the other side of the door wasn’t so loud inside my head.

  I’ve survived so far. And I have a choice to make.

  I have to decide who I love more: me or Connor.

  January 20

  Four Months, twenty-one days

  Connor’s parents are out this afternoon, and so we take full advantage of it, spreading the newspaper and applications and resumes all over the floor, trying to decide the best plan of action. Organization has never really been my forte, but today I’m equipped with highlighters and sticky notes and a legal pad.

  Our mission, should we choose to accept it, is to get Connor a job. A decent one, not a minimum wage one like he’s had before. Those jobs aren’t making an impression on his savings account.

  He wants to move out. Bad. So we’re going to find something that pays enough for him to get out of his parents’ house, and once he’s in his own place, everything is going to change. Finally, we can put them behind us. It will just be us and we can forget the things they’ve done to him, and he’ll just think of me and our future. Nothing will touch us.

  I pick up a piece of the classifieds. “What about this? ‘Day laborer wanted. Busy construction co seeks hard worker. Starts at nine dollars an hour.’”

  He wrinkles his nose. “I don’t know … nine bucks isn’t much if it’s hard work.”

  I shrug. My mom only makes me work in the summer, and even then, I think it’s just to keep me busy while she works. She puts half my money into savings for college and I spend the other half on whatever I want. I’ve never really had to labor. I guess I can’t judge him for that.

  “Okay, how ’bout this one? ‘Electricians Assistant. Pay DOE, some experience preferred.’ I mean, you don’t have experience really, but if they don’t get anyone good they might give you a shot.”

  He shrugs and I know he’s not into it. I guess it’s kind of a long shot. Connor doesn’t have much job experience, just some short stints at a couple restaurants and some summer work at a landscaping company. All the drama at home kind of ruins his reliability, and people don’t really care what problems you have, they just want you to show up every single day as if you haven’t spent all night keeping peace between your mom and dad.

  I hand him the paper. “Okay, well, look through here and I’ll work on the applications then. My writing is neater.”

  And
so I pick up the first one, for a hardware store, and I painstakingly print his name, birthday, address, and phone number. It’s all memorized.

  When I get to Reason for leaving last position I have to get a little creative. For the landscaping position, I print No opportunities for advancement. It’s mostly true and I’m sure no one will ask. What kind of opportunities could there be? He mowed lawns all summer.

  The whole thing is an exercise in creative writing. By the time I get to the end, I’m not sure if there are more truths or lies. But they’re only white lies and omissions, and he needs a job to get away from here.

  Once he’s been at the new job for a while, he’ll have a whole new history and he’ll be able to move up and forget all these silly little things. We’re going to rewrite his past, one year at a time. Once I’m out of college, we’ll both have clean slates and bright futures. It’ll be perfect.

  I didn’t manage to apply to UW like I’d always planned, so it looks like I’ll start off by going to community college. I haven’t said anything to Connor yet, but sometimes I want to ask him if he’ll go with me, take a few classes and build something for himself. Maybe it would give him something to look forward to.

  By the time we’re done, I have six applications written in neat little block letters, and four more places to drop resumes off. My hand is aching, but I feel good about this.

  Connor’s mood lifts once he sees our progress and realizes that maybe a new job will be reality. I realize all I have to do is show him how to put his dreams into practice, put things into motion, and he’ll see how easy it is. He doesn’t have to just dream, he can do it. Nothing can stop him.

  Nothing can stop us.

  December 15

  Three Months, fifteen days

  I grab the last of my textbooks from my locker, and when I slam the door and see Abby standing on the other side, staring straight at me, I’m so shocked I jump back.

  “Oh, God, you scared me. Don’t do that.”

  I laugh, but she doesn’t join in. She just keeps staring, that solemn look on her face.

  “Is it that shocking to see your best friend?” she asks.

  It should be a joke, but it’s not.

  “I know you called me yesterday. I’m sorry.” I stare down at my books. “I was going to call you.” When did I grab the physics text? I don’t need that one.

  I turn back to the lock and start spinning it, looking for number thirty-two. I don’t know why, but I feel like I’ve done something wrong. Like she caught me with my hand in the cookie jar or something.

  “I called last week, too. And the week before.” There should be an edge in her voice, but there’s not. I don’t think she has it in her to be mad at me, even if I am ignoring her. She steps closer to me. “We’re supposed to turn in the outline for our project in three days and it’s only half done.”

  I swallow and keep staring at the numbers on the dial, but I swing right past six and have to start over. Guilt wells up in my stomach.

  I shouldn’t keep avoiding her like this. Abby and I were inseparable three months ago.

  Three months. That’s how long I’ve been with Connor, and that’s how long it takes to forget what it’s like to hang out with your best friend every day.

  I take my eyes off the lock and look at her. She’s so close I can see right into her pupils. It’s almost worse to realize she’s not angry, just hurt. I shouldn’t keep abandoning her like this.

  “We can do something. Soon. Email me the outline and I’ll add to it.”

  “That’s what you said about the resources page. I had to complete it myself during math class because you forgot.”

  I cringe. “I know. I’ve been a crappy friend. We’ll work on it soon, I swear.”

  God, what is wrong with this stupid lock?

  “How ’bout tonight?”

  I stop on thirty-two again. I knew she’d ask that. It’s why I have such a hard time talking to her now. It used to be every night we’d hang out. No notice, no asking, we just knew. So when Connor came along, I disrupted all that.

  But all I think of all day is hanging out with him, seeing him, and it’s what I want most. How can I tell her that?

  I can’t. “Call me tomorrow and we can get together. We’ll get a bunch of junk food and catch up on the project. Maybe we can even get ahead, you know? I’ll stay all night, I promise.”

  I get my locker open and cram the physics book inside it and then slam it closed and turn toward her. I hate the look on her face as my words register. I hate that I’m putting her off again. But Connor already told me he has a surprise for me tonight. And he said he was thinking about hanging out on the beach this weekend. I’m just booked up, is all. I really do want to hang out with her, just not right this minute.

  “Okay. Fine.”

  “Okay?”

  I don’t know why I ask again. Why I think if she says it’s okay, it really is.

  “Sure. See you later,” she says, then turns and walks away before I can say anything else.

  And as I watch her retreat, I wonder how long I can keep ignoring her before she no longer considers me a friend.

  December 10

  Three Months, ten days

  I’ve come to expect his calls. I’ve turned down my phone so the ringer can’t be heard outside my bedroom door, and then I leave it on the windowsill, just on the other side of my pillow.

  If he calls, I will answer before the first ring has gone silent. And my mom won’t hear it.

  Sometimes I don’t sleep well, waiting for it. Waiting for the phone to scream in my ear, and my heart to thunder to a roar as I go from dreamland to reality in a half second.

  I’m prepared when it rings. I grab at the phone and when I pick it up, the buttons light up the dark. “Hello?”

  My voice is not groggy. It never is. No matter when he calls, I’m always wide awake for him.

  “Ann?”

  I don’t have to read the tone of his voice to know his mood. It is 1:50 a.m. He only calls at this time because he’s depressed. Because he needs me.

  “Yeah. I’m here.”

  I roll over onto my back and blink into the darkness.

  “I’m not … I can’t handle this anymore.”

  His words sit there. I don’t respond for a long time. I just blink some more and stare into the darkness. I know that is the wrong thing to do, but I don’t want to say the wrong words. “Talk to me.”

  “It’s just not … I just can’t handle this. I have nothing.”

  “You have me,” I say. “And I love you.”

  “I know, but I’m so tired of this. You have no idea, I’m so tired of this.”

  Me too.

  “Just talk to me, okay? You have a lot to think about. Your uncle set you up with that interview. And if it doesn’t work out, we’ll get a newspaper and apply for every job in the classified section. You’ll be able to move out soon. I promise. It will get better.”

  “I wish I’d grown up in your world. I wish he didn’t exist.”

  “You can’t change the past. You can only change the future.”

  “I know. But sometimes I don’t know how to do that. I’m just going to repeat history. I’m just going to be a loser like him.”

  “No. You’re smarter than him. You know you are. You’ll be a success. You’ll go so far.”

  I don’t know what to say to him during these conversations. I’ve said every version of everything I can think of. It used to be that just talking to me was enough. His mood would shift a soon as I answered the phone.

  But more and more, I have to talk him into it. More and more, I have to be clever and smart and I have to lead him down the path to get him to see it.

  “I want to walk to the bridge,” he says. The words break through my daze as if he literally shook me awake. There’s no threat in his voice. Just a promise. Just reality.

  I sit up in bed and wrap the blanket around my shoulders. “Don’t do this, please.”

>   “I have nothing, Ann. You don’t understand.”

  “Just don’t do this,” I repeat. “You have so much. You know you do.”

  He sniffles. I know he’s crying. Even though there are times he seems whole, the cracks still show. And today they are spreading and splintering, and today he may crumble.

  “If I come over, will you wait for me?”

  The silence is deafening. I think I may have lost him already.

  “I’ll wait for you.”

  “Be there in ten.”

  And I hang up before he can argue, before he can change his mind. I find yesterday’s clothes and pull them on, but take my time opening my door. My mom’s bedroom is on the opposite end of the hall. I can hear her snore.

  She has no idea.

  I slip down the stairs and write a note on the notepad on the fridge. “Went to school early. Cramming for Lit class.”

  I know my mom will get up at six thirty. I know it doesn’t make sense that I’d be gone by then to go cram for a class, but I don’t care.

  And I know she will know. But she can’t prove it. And sometimes I think she’d rather just believe everything is perfect than question it all and admit it’s not. Her way of dealing has always been avoidance.

  Our driveway is sloped, so I let out the emergency brake and my car glides backward into the street. And then I start it up and drive away.

  My car is silent. I don’t touch the radio or the heat; I just shiver in the quiet as I pass under the streetlamps and past all the dark houses. I wonder what everyone else is doing right now. I wonder if they are warm and secure in their beds, if they know things like this are happening all around them.

  When I arrive at his house, the front door is unlocked, and I slip back to his room, past his parents’ door.

  He’s lying in his bed, the radio playing a haunting piano melody. For a moment I just stand at the door and stare, because he isn’t moving and I think he might be asleep. But then I see him move and rub his eyes.