Ended?

by Kilby Blades

  I knew it was selfish, but I wanted him to slip—to give me some sign this was as hard for him as it was for me. Even awkwardness would have done, or—even better—putting his foot down like he did in the train station, insisting that us being just friends was horribly, terribly, wrong.

  But the moment never came. Jagger was adoring, but platonic; reverent, but respectful; doting, but mindful of boundaries. He still gave amazing hugs that surrounded me with his affection and filled me with his scent, but were no longer followed by kisses.

  He still played piano for me, but from new music he had learned, and not a single bar of my song. We still sat in the window seat of his music room, talking until the sun rose, but he now took me home at daybreak instead of letting us snooze in his bed. We still listened to music together, but the upbeat kind—nothing with lyrics that got too deep.

  Crueler still was being around Zoë, Gunther, Annika, and Declan. I loved them dearly, but some moments were just too intense. They were all kind enough to be sensitive—to not flaunt how well things were turning out for them. They were all happily un-broken-up.

  Before arriving back to Providence from break, I had dreaded another excruciating goodbye—imagined Grand Central all over again, but in the far less romantic environs of Logan Airport. There were no tears this time—not ones that I let shed until I was on the train, listening to the single song he'd sent me minutes after we’d parted. It was Ordinary World, by Duran Duran. The lyrics were hopeful, but it had felt like goodbye.

  “Don’t be mad,” Jag whispered in my ear as we approached gate C35. It was time for us to board the plane. I’d heard him ask the counter attendant whether we could get seats together, which she’d confirmed, and I was just about to refresh my boarding pass on my phone.

  “Mad about what?” I asked distractedly, pausing where many passengers were already standing, waiting for their group to be called. But Jag pulled me forward, walking me toward where only three or four people were boarding the plane.

  “I got you an upgrade,” he said.

  My eyes widened. “Jag—“ but he cut me off.

  “This calls for celebration, don’t you think?”

  He plucked my phone out of my hand, continued navigating to my digital wallet and pulled out my boarding pass. He refreshed the screen and handed it back over. My eyes snapped to the screen. Sure enough, it said I was in seat 2C.

  Still gob smacked, I followed him blindly, scanning my QR code at the terminal, then following him down the jet way, then into a leather seat bigger than my dad’s recliner back home. The flight attendant was already serving the others from a full tray of champagne in stemless glasses. I was guessing that when you paid ten times the amount for a plane ticket, no one cared if you weren’t twenty-one. Jagger accepted on both of our behalf.

  “So what are we celebrating?” I asked absently, still inspecting my luxurious seat. I, for one, was celebrating not having to sardine myself in a coach seat for the next six hours.

  “Surviving a year we weren’t sure we could survive.”

  My hands halted on the recliner controls and my gaze snapped up to Jag. His eyes were as somber as his voice. Last year, neither of us had been able to shut up about it. This year, neither of us had talked about it out loud.

  “It doesn’t feel like something to celebrate,” I choked out, my voice suddenly and suspiciously quiet, and on the verge of breaking.

  “It was better than the alternative.” But he didn’t sound convinced. “Now we’ve been in it. We know it for sure. The long distance thing never would have worked.”

  Going to UCLA together would have, I thought but didn’t say. If we’d gone there, maybe we’d be winding our way up the Pacific Coast Highway in his Tiguan, en route to Trinity County, right now.

  “To sacrifices…” he toasted, lifting his glass and looking at me intensely—the way he’d looked at me on only one other night. “…giving up what you can’t have now, and waiting for things to be set right in the end.”

  12 I'm Not in Love

  I'm not in love, so don't forget it.

  It's just a silly phase I'm going through.

  And just because I call you up,

  don't get me wrong. Don't think you've got it made

  I'm not in love, no, no…it's because.

  -10cc, I’m Not in Love

  * * *

  Jagger (Sophomore Year)

  It was 8:20 PM; I was ten minutes early for my rendezvous with Roxy on Skype. I'd eaten dinner, triple-checked my appearance, poured myself a drink, and bribed my roommate to stay the hell out. The carefully-selected playlist hummed at an acceptable volume in the background—I wondered whether Roxy would pick up on its clues.

  I smirked when I caught an eyeful of myself in the reflection of the window. Roxy was going to love my costume. We had an 8:30 date to play a little game: guess which rock icon I am for Halloween? And, when I say "date", I mean totally platonic appointment that will be the highlight of my week with a woman who is, technically, my friend.

  Don't feel sorry for me. Whenever I start wishing we were more, I remind myself of last year. I deserved a Tony for my theatrics at Christmas when I pretended I was handling things just fine. That trip took so much out of me that when I returned to New York, I was catatonic for days. I holed up in my apartment, drinking too much, eating too little and not answering my phone, straight from New Years to Martin Luther King.

  Those were dark times, last winter. I'd pulled away from her then, as much as I could without having her see through how it pained me to keep her in my life. That all changed the Thursday night she called me, near tears, after some creepy dude had followed her home from a party. Her roommate was away for the weekend, so she was scared and home alone. Don't think I didn't borrow a car and make it to Providence before dawn because I certainly fucking did.

  It was the longest drive of my life, forget that I drove so fast I shaved an hour off the time. It had taken about five seconds of hearing her voice on that call before I snapped out of my months-long daze and got some fucking perspective. Roxy was alone, in a strange city, keeping company with people she'd just met, half of who were horny little pricks who would try to fuck her. It wasn't like in Rye, where all the boys knew that me or her father would crush them if they looked at her the wrong way.

  She was so strong and independent—so much larger than life to me that sometimes I forgot she was just a girl, a girl who called because she needed her best friend. And, thank God she did. Thank God she called me even though I'd been acting weird for months. But, all of that was over. I knew I would never let my feelings for her put me in a position to fail her again.

  That weekend changed things—set things right between us—as right as they could be. For the first time in months, I held her without worrying whether my embrace was too close. For the first time in months, I slept with my arms around her in bed. Nothing happened—nothing even came close— though I felt the current of attraction, strong as ever, between us.

  By the end of the weekend, after I'd dragged her around Providence buying her a pocket Taser, a pepper spray keychain, a cute little flask so she wouldn't have to take any strange drinks, and enrolling her in the best self-defense class in the city, it became clear what had changed. Eight months of college had taught us the same lesson: this new lifestyle was rich with acquaintances but almost bankrupt of friends. And we couldn't throw that away—couldn't let wanting something we couldn't have get in the way of us taking care of each other.

  So I focused on carving her out a new, unnamed place in my life, and on being the best friend that I could. When I got back to New York that Sunday night, I’d gotten my recording equipment out and headed straight for my piano. Ignoring my homework, I’d made her a recording of Wicked Little Town and sent her a recording. My phone had chimed just as I was getting into bed—she'd sent me a song on, too. I ‘d let it lull me to sleep. It was Cyndi Lauper's Time After Time.

  My Skype phone chimed, jarring me fr
om my memories—Roxy was trying to video call me. Rather eagerly, I picked up. I smiled as her video image came up on my screen. In response, she burst out laughing.

  "Ziggy Stardust?" she laughed. "Technically, not a rock star, but whatever—your costume is epic! Who did your lightning bolt?"

  I grinned, thrilled that my costume had earned her approval, and also because I loved seeing her smile and hearing her laugh. Even with the eye makeup and crazy wig she was wearing concealing her natural beauty, my girl was still absolutely gorgeous.

  "Eric," I admitted, referring to my roommate. "And I believe we said rock icon, not rock star."

  "Fair enough," she agreed, still chuckling a little.

  "So, who are you?" I asked, already knowing the answer, a cheap ploy to make her get up and turn around. She backed her desk chair up a few feet so I could get a better look.

  "Uh-uh…" I tutted. "I need the full effect.”

  She rolled her eyes, but took the bait. When she got up, I saw that she was wearing the tightest, sexiest leather pants I had ever seen.

  I was instantly hard, as would be any other man who saw her tonight. She'd gained two-thirds of the freshman fifteen, supplying her nicely with a few more curves. Stuff those curves into some kick-ass pants, high-heeled shoes, and Joan Jett's requisite scowl, and men would be lining up to get a piece. I did not want her going out like that.

  "Seriously? You don't know yet?" she asked in disbelief, taking her seat back at her desk. "And, don't even try to get me to sing you a clue."

  I liked the thought. "Come on, just a few lines," I begged.

  She stuck out her tongue.

  "Very mature, Joan Jett…" I retorted with emphasis.

  She put her tongue back in her mouth and her hand disappeared from view momentarily—long enough for her to lift her cup. She tipped it at me and I raised my own.

  "What are we drinking to?" I asked, still smiling.

  "To all of the rock and roll greats."

  We settled into a conversation then, talking about everything and nothing, from how school was going, to politics, to friends. Her father had gotten back together with Sadie the nurse—Roxy thought it was getting serious; Zoë was doing costume design for some big-deal Civil War reenactment thing she and Gunther were a part of; Annika had done a one-eighty on going pre-law and switched her major to gender studies; Roxy planned on submitting an essay to a literary magazine.

  Whenever we talked, I looked for clues as to how she was doing. Did she look healthy? Was she getting enough sleep? Would she give it to me straight, or would her voice betray her eyes? Did she really like it there? Was she happy? If she was, was it because of a guy? Our don't ask, don't tell policy on dating never stopped me from wondering what might be going on.

  "You know those pants'll have every guy in the place all up in your shit," I remarked when I knew our conversation was close to its end. Her creepy roommate Jane had breezed in moments before, saying something to Roxy, and interrupting our perfectly good time. "Please tell me you're not going to this thing alone," I begged, silently hoping that any planned chaperone was not a guy.

  "Didn't you see Jane's costume?" Roxy asked, craning her neck to see where her roommate had gone. "She's going as Cherie Curry."

  No sooner had the words exited her mouth than did a drunk-looking Jane land in Roxy's lap and plant a kiss at the corner of Roxy’s mouth. Jane looked right at me, into the camera.

  "They were hooking up, you know."

  God, her eyes were scary.

  "Erm…"

  Roxy pushed Jane off her lap and looked at me apologetically. "I think I gotta go."

  "I'm not kidding, Rox.” I said in a voice that was trying for threatening but that came out as more of a plea.

  She knew what I meant. Don't let any guys get fresh with you.

  "Jagger, thanks to you I'm a green belt in Tae Kwon Do," she pointed out with more than a hint of compassion. "And, I am Luke Vega’s daughter."

  I lowered my voice. "Roxy, what you are is smoking hot, and some drunken moron won't see far enough past your ass to care whose daughter you are."

  She blushed as if I'd paid her a compliment and not stated a simple fact.

  "You know I only worry because I care about you, Rox. I just want you to be safe."

  She smiled a little and whispered, "I know."

  It was moments like this—moments when I could practically feel her—that I wanted to have last forever.

  "You be careful, too. You rock that Bowie the right way and it won't just be the girls after your sexy ass—so watch out for those boys."

  I chuckled. "I will."

  "Roxy, come on!” shouted Jane's voice from somewhere off camera. I suddenly hated that crazy woman.

  "Good night, Jag."

  Her eyes were soft as she said it.

  "Good night, love."

  Yeah, sometimes, I slip.

  13 Silver Spring

  Time cast a spell on you

  but you won't forget me.

  I know I could have loved you

  but you would not let me.

  I’ll follow you down until the sound

  of my voice will haunt you.

  You'll never get away from the sound

  of the woman that loved you.

  -Fleetwood Mac, Silver Spring

  * * *

  Roxy (Junior Year)

  "I think that's his train," I muttered biting my nails in anticipation, trying not to bounce in my seat at the outdoor café.

  I looked to Jane hopefully. She rolled her eyes before pulling out a Camel Light.

  "We're not in Switzerland, Rox. We'll probably be here another hour. These Spanish trains take their goddamn time."

  She lit her cigarette and inhaled deeply. I sipped my sangria in defeat. We were at the train station in Donostia, better known as San Sebastián, waiting for Jagger and his friend. I was starting to get antsy—his train was already forty-five minutes late, and we'd be together for fewer than thirty-six hours.

  I'd been in San Sebastián for the first part the summer doing research for a professor writing about terrorism paradigms worldwide. I was charged with deconstructing the role of ETA and other Basque separatist efforts in the corresponding regions in France and Spain. My primary contact was my Brown professor's colleague at the University of the Basque Country. In that short time, I'd already fallen in love with Spain, and my Spanish was improving.

  My six-week assignment had ended the week before, and it was already the first week in July. I spent a few days exploring the coast with Beatriz, a friend I'd met two weeks after arriving in Donostia. Beatriz and I had returned on Saturday, just in time for me to meet up with Jane. In the two days since, we'd been catching up and I'd been not-so-patiently waiting for Jagger.

  Contrary to Jane’s initial cynicism, it was—indeed—a train. What seemed like far too many people got off. I tried not to seem overly-eager as I scanned the crowd and didn’t see a trace of Jagger. I didn’t want to think about how disappointed I would be if something had happened and he hadn’t gotten off.

  "Kaixo, preciosa," said a smooth voice behind me before strong arms pulled me up and into a tight hug.

  I inhaled his scent and sighed contentedly. Trust Jagger to know how to greet me flawlessly in Basque.

  "Kaixo, querido," I murmured into his ear, every cell in my body overcome with relief.

  We hugged for a long time. He smelled wonderful for someone who'd been on an all-night train and his arms around me felt predictably amazing. I made no effort to pull away, but when we finally did, he cradled my jaw in his palms. I got a good look at him then. It no longer surprised me that he only got better-looking with time.

  “Cato, this is Roxy," he said, not taking his eyes off of mine.

  Oh, that's right—we're not alone.

  Remembering my manners, I stepped forward to greet Cato with four very European kisses on the cheek. Jagger, ever the gentleman, did the same with Jane, though I happened to k
now she kind of freaked him out.

  She was definitely weird, but somehow, Jane had become one of my best friends. We were planning to get an apartment together during our last year at Brown, as we'd both be gone Junior year due to study abroad. We'd spend the next three weeks touring Northern Europe until we parted ways in Paris. I'd spend two weeks there with Zoë until heading to Scotland. My study abroad was at the University of Edinburgh.

  Jagger, meanwhile, was doing a semester in Vienna at yet another impossible-to-get-into program for musical prodigies. Determined to hit all the best summer festivals, he'd insisted we meet in Pamplona for the Running of the Bulls before he and Cato headed south to some concert in Morocco. We had tentative plans to meet up again for Oktoberfest, but if that didn't fly, this would be it until Christmas.

  By nightfall, my face hurt from laughing so much—such was always my time with Jagger. The country I had already come to love became one more magical with him. That first night was a late one. We'd driven together to Pamplona and immediately joined in on the festivities. The carefree spirit of the Spanish was contagious, and we’d eaten well, drunk better, and made new friends.

  I awoke in his arms, in his small single room in our hotel, to the sounds of people already gathered on the streets. We lay in easy silence, smiling into each other's eyes. He kissed my nose and informed me that I still talked in my sleep. Coaxed out of bed by Jane's ribbing ("Dry your dick off and get dressed!" she had cried. "It's starting in half an hour."), we got up. Jagger needed no such grooming, as we'd simply enjoyed a fully clothed slumber in one another's embrace.

  "Today's gonna be great," he whispered in my ear, holding me protectively in a recessed doorway once we finally made it to the street.