Boys Don't Cry

by Jennifer Melzer

  “I took a nap this morning,” I shrug.

  “Ahuh…” he nods. “And you showered… when?”

  “I don’t remember. What day is it? Tuesday?”

  “It’s Saturday.”

  “I showered on Thursday.”

  “You think maybe today’s the day to do that again? Maybe?”

  “Maybe.”

  “We kinda miss you.”

  “I guess it’s good practice for when I’m gone to Austin.”

  “So you’ve made a decision then.”

  “Sure, why not? I put the envelope in the mail yesterday.”

  “Did you?” His brow furrows, and he lets that question hang in the air for a moment. “So that’s it then? You’re just gonna run away?”

  “I’m not running away. I’m doing what I’m supposed to do. What I planned to do when we left Austin, which was go back to Austin.”

  “What about Art?” he asks. “You think he’s gonna just stop needing you?”

  “Dad, I can’t follow Arthur around for the rest of his life making sure he’s content. It’s an excuse. I realize that now. It’ll be good for him to start figuring out how to get along without me.”

  “And Nate?”

  “Nate broke up with me.”

  “Really?” His lips purse and he itches his fingers through three days of beard growth. It makes the most irritating scritching sound, and I want to pick up the nearest thing and just throw it at him. “Someone might want to tell Nate he broke up with you. I’m not sure he knows that.”

  “I imagine he’ll figure it out. He’s a smart guy. You know he scored 2048 on his SATs?” Funny, how little things like that just randomly pop into my head, how much they make me miss him and hate him at the same time. “Like, who does that? It was two years ago, but still… he could pretty much get into any college he wanted to go to. He’s got a real bright future ahead of him, if he ever pulls his head out of his ass.”

  “He can’t be all that smart if he broke up with you? I mean, who in their right mind would ever break up with you.”

  “Right? Book smarts really do nothing for idiots.”

  “So they say,” he shrugs and lounges in my bed like he’s comfortable, but I can’t imagine he is. As much as he likes chaos, my room looks like a garbage dump right now, and I imagine it probably smells like one, too. But he doesn’t say anything, he just hangs out, and I kind of love him and loathe him for it because I really just want to be left alone.

  I’ve made my choice, and I should have never let some stupid guy momentarily sidetrack me from my plans.

  “Your mom and I always thought it’d be good for you kids, this life, but sometimes I worry I’ve taught you more about running away than I probably should have.”

  “I’m not running away,” I insist again. “I’m going to college, Dad. And when college is done, I’m sure I’ll find somewhere nice and settle down. Assume a completely respectable life as a mature, responsible, educated adult with a job and bills and...”

  “Ugh…”

  “What? Isn’t that what I’m supposed to do?”

  “Well, yeah, but not like that. You know when I met your mom I had a full scholarship to MIT?”

  “Yeah, and then you decided you wanted to be bohemians, and live in Grandma’s basement while Mom tried to sell paintings.”

  “There is something to be said for the bohemian life,” he sighs, a flare in his tone that suggests he’s not being entirely serious. “But it was about more than that. Your mom really wanted to go to art school and I really wanted her to be happy, so I worked two jobs while she went to school and worked nights. We hardly ever saw each other, but when we did…”

  “Is this going to make me puke, because honestly. All this puking and diarrhea, I’m liable to get dehydrated.”

  “It might. I’ll bring you some ginger ale to settle your tummy. My point is, I thought I wanted to be an aerospace engineer, and don’t get me wrong. That would have been a badass job, am I right?”

  “I don’t think they would have let you build a Millennium Falcon.”

  “You never know, Tal, but in all seriousness that time I took to figure out what I really wanted, to explore all my options and see who I really was—”

  “I already know what I really want. I don’t need to explore any options, Dad. This is who I am.”

  “You are not the same person you were when we left Austin. I don’t care what you say.”

  “So, what are you saying, exactly?”

  “I don’t know. I just know if I hadn’t given your mom the chance she deserved, there wouldn‘t have been a Tali. No Arthur, no Gwen. I’d probably be on the moon right now building gravitational systems to sustain the first lunar housing units. Mom would own some upscale art gallery…” He pauses, eyes rolling toward the wall behind him as he stretches back and picks at a chip in the paint. He’s grinning when he sits up again, saying, “Ah, who am I kidding. That would have been a great life, much better than what I have now.”

  “Yeah, pretty much any life without Art would have been a better life.”

  “For you, maybe, but not for me. I kinda like Art. Just like I kinda like you, even when you’re a miserable little shit who abandons hygiene because of some dumb guy, whose been desperately trying to reconnect with you since whatever happened between you happened, by the way. You know he’s been over here at least three times a day since Monday? Frankly, I’m getting a little tired of seeing his ugly mug, but he just won’t go away. No matter what we tell him.”

  “His mug’s not ugly,” I say distantly. “Maybe you could threaten him with bodily harm.”

  “I could, but coming back to my point, my life wouldn’t have been any good without all this. And it certainly wouldn’t have been worth living without your mom.”

  “So, you’re saying I should skip out on college, abandon my dreams and shack up and have babies with a guy I’ve known for less than two months? Who, incidentally, I sort of hate right now.”

  That lengthens his face a little, a hitch in his giddy-up as he realizes I’ve completely missed whatever point he was trying to make. “Really? That’s what you took away from everything I just said to you?”

  “How long did you know mom before you knew she was the one?”

  “Twenty minutes.”

  “No, seriously.”

  “Twenty minutes.”

  “That’s absurd.”

  “And here we are twenty-three years and three kids later. Totally absurd. Look, I’m not saying you have to go downstairs and talk to him. God knows, if I were him and I smelled you right now I’d have second thoughts about wanting to talk to you ever again. I’m just saying that you had doubts about Austin before we left. It’s a long way from your family, which isn’t necessarily a bad thing. It’ll prolong Art’s life, statistically speaking, if you go. But I don’t think you should decide to run eighteen hundred miles from here just because it’ll get you away from someone who hurt you.”

  “I want to make games, Dad.”

  “I know you do, Tal, but can’t you learn to do that anywhere? St. Edward’s has a great program, but so does Penn State, which is only two hours from here, rather than three days nonstop driving in a car. There are art schools in Philadelphia and Pittsburgh. Still far enough away from home to be on your own, but able to come home on the weekends so Mommy can wash your clothes.”

  “Mom hasn’t washed my laundry since I was twelve.”

  “I’m just sayin’.”

  “And you say I could come home, but how long will this even be home, Dad? How long before you’re done with this place and ready to move onto the next one?”

  “I can’t answer that,” he says honestly. He’s never hidden his passion for this, never felt bad because he loves what he does, even if it does move his family from one town to the next on what feels like a whim for everyone but him. I respect that, I always have, but sometimes it’s so hard for me to relate. “Maybe this’ll be the one where we se
ttle down, maybe not. I don’t know. The only thing I do know is that we’re gonna be here a while. This place is a beautiful disaster.” He groans as he rises to his feet and stretches the muscles in his back. “Just think about it. Think about it in the shower for God’s sake, and brush your damn teeth.”

  “Fine.”

  “Good.”

  Starting toward the door, he stops as he leans against the frame and says, “You know I love you, yeah?”

  “Of course. But you can’t possibly love me more than I love you.”

  “Oh, I do so hate telling you when you’re wrong.” Then he leaves me alone, closing the door behind him.

  It is getting kind of gross in here. And my hair is really heavy. Swiping dirty clothes off the floor, I toss them into the laundry basket and start gathering paper plates to stuff them in the trash and make a path. Nate’s shirts are in a heap beside the bed, and I realize they must have fallen out when I was taking my nap. I pick them up and toss them back into the unmade mess, grabbing my phone and plugging it into the jack so it can charge. Then I head to the shower.

  I’m in there for almost an hour because despite my hesitation to succumb to humanity again, it feels good. The ache in my muscles from inactivity begins to subside, the crust of my tired eyes melts away as I scrub my face and my hair rejoices when I lather it up not once, but twice with shampoo. When I get out, I brush my teeth and then slip back into my room to find my phone is still loading messages. They ping across the screen, buzzing each time a new one comes through and I wonder if they’re all from Nate.

  On the edge of the bed, I pick up the phone and slide the screen open, tapping the messenger and seeing a few from Malik, one from my friend Cassidy in Austin, and the tab beside Nate’s name shows over six hundred new messages.

  How am I supposed to read that many sorries? And will it even make a difference?

  I press the box to open it and it takes me four minutes to scroll up to the first message I ignored.

  TWENTY-FIVE

  Nate: I am an asshole.

  You think?

  Nate: That is not me feeling sorry for myself, it’s me telling the truth. I said I didn’t want to hurt you, and I did anyway. I told you I’m not very good at this. I don’t think I ever was. I was really good at reeling girls in, but keeping them around wasn’t really my thing. I was really selfish, I guess I still am. But I want to make this right. Can we please talk? I want to tell you everything. That terrifies me more than you can even begin to imagine, because I meant it when I said I don’t want to see the look in your eyes when you learn the truth about the things I’ve done.

  Nate: So I guess that’s a no on the us talking thing. I deserve that. I shouldn’t have pushed you away. I’m so sorry. Please, Tali. Talk to me. Even if it’s just to tell me to go away.

  I roll my finger through more of the same. Days’ worth of messages I ignored, escalating in their depression and desperation, but he never stopped sending them. Little tidbits, mostly. His worries, his fears. On day three I come to this:

  Nate: I can’t sleep, Tali. I’ve been sitting here at my window for two hours just staring up at the light in your room. I keep looking for you, waiting for just a glimpse of you because I’ve convinced myself that if I could see you even for just a second I’ll be okay. I’ll be able to relax and maybe close my eyes, but it’s like you’re not even there at all. I can’t tell you how much that terrifies me because I start worrying irrationally that the last few weeks of my life was just a dream. Maybe there is no you, and I made you up and fell in love with the very idea of something that never existed. That’s crazy, right? But the thought of living without you, even after just a few weeks makes me feel broken inside. Is it supposed to be like this? I don’t know, and that’s the honest to god truth. I’ve never felt like this before. Is it supposed to hurt this much?

  Several times he tells me he doesn’t think his messages are being delivered, and if I don’t show some sign that I’m even reading them he’ll be forced to write me a letter and have Art stick it under my door. He begs me not to force him to do that because I wouldn’t ever be able to decipher his terrible penmanship.

  He’s come over every day, but it’s always the same. I don’t want to see him, and he doesn’t blame me, but he wants so bad to make it right, even if there’s nothing in the world that could ever make up for the things he’s done. Feeling for those five weeks like he’d been given a second chance to be a good person feels like a trap now, and it makes him want to crawl into a hole and hide forever.

  Nate: Remember how I said I was an asshole before? Like a way bigger asshole than you probably think I am right now. I know, hard to believe, right? How could I possibly be worse than I was Saturday night, or the first night you let me inside you and I ruined it by pushing you away instead of holding you close the way I wanted to and telling you how much it terrified me to be falling in love with you so fast. I shouldn’t have pushed you away either of those times. I wanted to let you in, but I’m so afraid. I think I finally understand how I made other people feel when I was a bigger asshole than I am now… Not that I think you’re being an asshole, I just… Just please talk to me.

  The last message was sent today at 4:42 p.m., exactly twenty minutes ago.

  Nate: Art says your dad told him it was okay to lie and say you were sick, and that it would be several days before you were fit for human consumption. I don’t think he even realizes what consumption means, or how absurd it is that he would even say that. Are you sick? Really? Sick of me?

  Drawing in a deep breath, my fingers poise over the keypad, hesitating. What am I supposed to say? That I’m sorry, too? Am I sorry? That I’ve missed him more than I’ve ever missed anything for as long as I’ve been alive, and the fact that the scent on the clothes I stole from him is so faded I almost can’t remember what he smells like anymore. Do I tell him that this morning I dreamed about him, and when I woke up I was crying because he was lost in that dream, and sometimes I could hear him calling out to me, but it was so dark and so confusing in that place I couldn’t find him. And I was scared, which doesn’t seem like it should be possible because how can I be afraid of losing something that was only mine for a few heartbeats?

  I exhale, flip my damp hair over my shoulder and type the words: I let the charge on my phone die.

  He answers immediately.

  Nate: So I guess that explains why it just goes straight to voicemail when I call you. Are you sick? I never know when Art’s making things up. He’s fiercely protective, even when he says he hates you.

  Me: I haven’t slept in like a week, but no, I’m not sick.

  Nate: Me either. Slept in a week, I mean.

  Me: Aren’t you tired?

  Nate: Aren’t you?

  Me: I’m exhausted.

  For the first time, I actually feel it. Really feel how tired I am. I just want to crawl into my bed and sleep for a thousand years, wake up and find myself in another time, out of place in a world I no longer know. At least in that place, I would have a reason to feel as miserable as I do.

  Me: I shouldn’t miss you, Nate.

  Nate: But you do?

  Me: Unfortunately.

  Nate: Do you really hate me?

  Me: I think I’m in love with you. I think that’s actually worse than hating you.

  The ellipsis appears, then disappears, and for several seconds he says nothing. I close my eyes and I swear I start to drift off before the phone buzzes in my slackening hand. Blinking them open, I look down at the screen and see the words:

  Nate: Can I see you?

  Me: Do you want me to walk to the window?

  Nate: No. I want you to come over.

  Me: Over feels so very far away right now.

  Nate: Then I will come to you.

  Me: My dad said he’s tired of your face. Maybe it would be better if I come over there. I have to get dressed.

  And then I drop my phone, ignoring his next message while I dig through my dre
sser drawers for something to wear. I drag the comb through my hair, twist it into a single loose braid hanging down the middle of my back, and then slip into mismatched flip flops before meandering down the stairs. Art’s the first person I see when I pass through the dining room on my way to the kitchen. He gawks at me, wide-eyed and curious, and after I head outside and start crossing the street, I don’t have to turn around to catch him peeking out the curtains to see where I’m going. Little spy.

  Nate’s on the front porch swing, his guitar in his lap and his fingers strumming absently over the strings. He stands up as I reach the steps, leans the guitar against the railing and starts walking toward me as if he means to take me into his arms, but the stiffness of my gait stops him and he just waits until I join him on the porch. He won’t stop staring at me, even after I plop down into the cushioned lounge chair diagonal from the screen door and say, “I’m here.”

  “I’m really glad.”

  Retaking his seat on the porch swing, it moves absently, swaying a little when I allow myself to look into his eyes. It’s like he’s waiting for me to find them, like he wants me to see the sorrow that’s been there since the first moment I saw him through the window in the van. It’s deeper than ever before, a bleak melancholy bleeding deep into his soul. The kind there’s no coming back from unless someone brave enough reaches their hand through the abyss and pulls him out again. I don’t know if I can. I want to, but how much of myself will I have to give up if I do? What will be left of me if I let myself love him that deeply?

  But there’s no turning back because I already do love him that deeply. Even if it shouldn’t be possible.

  “I am so happy right now.”

  “You don’t look happy,” I say honestly. “You look miserable.”

  “Yeah, well…” I watch the side of his mouth attempt to rise, and then he lowers his head, black strings of hair falling in around his face. “It’s my own fault. I shouldn’t have… I was really cruel to you, Tali, and I am so sorry.”