“Okay, Lizzie.” Ryan pulls me into a hug, and finally he doesn’t feel like a stranger anymore.
“Please believe that I cared about you,” I whisper into his shoulder.
“I do. Th-that’s why I’m not angry anymore. You gave me so m-much—exactly what I needed.”
I start to cry, so Ryan holds me close a second longer. When he pulls back, I see tears in his eyes, too.
“I wish we had had m-more time together,” he says. “But Lizzie, if it can’t be me, p-please let it be him.”
I ask Ryan not to walk me back to my apartment, because I need to be alone. He stands up and gives me a peck on the forehead, and I hold on to his hand for an extra second before he lets go. I wish him luck and happiness, and then he walks off into the night.
Ryan
Dear Jude,
I know you’re probably angry, but I couldn’t do this any other way. I didn’t want to see the hurt and the disappointment as you read this. And I didn’t want you to try to stop me, because I might have let you. I guess I understand Lizzie’s “Dear John” letter a whole lot better right about now.
You’ve always told me to get out more, so I’m finally listening. Don’t worry; while I’m gone, you’ll still be with me, nagging me, giving me strength, pushing me forward. I’ve taken a lot of that for granted—in fact, I took most of your childhood right along with it. I know you were willing to give it. But hopefully, when I come back, I’ll have more to give to you.
I’m going to ask Lizzie to check in on you and giving her my blessing for whatever might happen. I have a feeling she’ll tell me to go to hell—kind of hoping she will, actually. The thing is, way back at the beginning, when you said you didn’t care if I dated Lizzie, I knew you were lying. I went after her anyway because I wanted her. I justified it to myself, but mostly I put it out of my mind, and I’m sorry for that. I hope you find your way to each other.
Either way, no matter what, on a scale of one to ten, you and I will always be an eleven.
Ry
Jude
Day seven of Ryan’s Japanese adventures—I suppose it was nice he had the courtesy to e-mail me and tell me where he would be for the next year—and things are chugging right along. I go to work, I go to bars, I eat alone. I don’t bother to cook, because what’s the point? The first few days I was numb, but now I’ve graduated to furious. Ryan with his fucking letter, as though he knows what’s best for me. I love that he wanted to take off, but he had to wrap it up in a whole lot of self-sacrifice to justify it. That’s so him.
I head outside to the backyard—a place that’s now filled with a lot of bittersweet memories.
The thing that makes me the angriest is that he was right. He would never have learned to fend for himself with me around. And here’s another uncomfortable truth: I am so bored and lonely, I can barely get through the day. I have no real friends, no girlfriend. Shit, I don’t even have many hobbies apart from playing poker—with Ryan’s friends—or playing basketball, which I’m doing right now by myself. That’s a lot of fun.
I throw the ball as hard as I can against the fence, and it makes the wood sag. That feels fucking fantastic, so I do it again.
“When the hell was I supposed to get hobbies?” I scream out in the backyard, and I laugh like a crazy person because I’m yelling at myself. Was I supposed to take up photography while working thirty hours a week, going to school, and making sure my teenage brother didn’t become a crack addict? Now I’m twenty-six and living like a fifty-year-old empty nester. No fucking way.
I sit on top of the ball in the middle of the court, letting sweat drip from my face. If Ryan were sitting here making all of these excuses, I would tell him to grow a pair. Yeah, I’ve had some tough times in my life, but who the fuck hasn’t? So why didn’t I ever take the time to figure out who I was?
I practice some free throws. For each one I miss, I have to come up with a real reason why my life is so lame. I step back to the free-throw line, line up my shot, and let the ball fly. It makes it in the basket, and I let myself exhale. I get the ball, line it up again, and this time, I miss. Shit.
So why don’t I have friends? Because Ryan is my best friend and I leaned on him like a crutch. I shoot again, and I miss again. Second reason I’ve never examined my life closely: I’m scared shitless that I don’t know what I’ll find if I start to dig. Is there anything worth finding under all of this? I shoot and make it, shoot and make it, and then I shoot and miss. Last reason I never formed interests, got friends, or let myself fall in love? I didn’t know any better. But now I guess I do.
I see Megan the next day at work, which reminds me that I haven’t spoken to her in a while. She told me once that she considered me a friend, and I proceeded to ignore her. Not hard to see why people think I’m a dick. I stop by her desk, and she glances up at me in surprise.
“Hey, there,” she says.
“I wanted to congratulate you on graduating. I saw you walk across that stage like you owned it.”
She laughs. “That was so much fun. We had a great party that night, too. I would have invited you and Ryan, but . . .”
“Yeah, I get it. Hey, can I buy you lunch today as a graduation present?”
“Seriously?”
Jesus, I’ve let people’s expectations of me get really low. “Yes.”
I take Megan to a café down the street, and we talk about the new guy she’s seeing.
“You gonna crush this guy too, Megs?”
She fidgets with the salt and pepper shakers. “I’ve been thinking about that. I like him, and I’m thinking of trying something different.”
She laughs like she’s embarrassed by what she just said.
“Makes sense,” I say.
“Does it? I thought you were the no-commitment guy.”
“I thought so, too.” Now I’m the one fidgeting, as I push my food across my plate.
“Jude, if there’s something I can say to Lizzie . . .”
“No. Please don’t. I’m not even close to being what she needs. I’m sort of a work in progress right now.” Shit, this is starting to feel like an Oprah interview.
Megan is quiet for a second, and then she seems to come to a decision. “In that case, there’s a group of us at work that gets together sometimes. You should hang out with us.”
“You might come to regret that, because I’ll take you up on that offer.” I set my fork down. “Can I ask you something? Why did you bother trying to be friends with me after we stopped seeing each other? Even after I was sort of an ass to you?”
“I guess because it takes one to know one.” She picks up her glass. “To new beginnings,” Megan says, and we toast to that.
CHAPTER 17
Elizabeth
I adjust my headband so that it holds the hair back from my face. Sam is standing next to me, adjusting her shirt in the mirror.
“This shirt makes my left boob look bigger than my right.”
I laugh. “Maybe you’re lopsided.”
“Hurry it up, chicas,” Angel says, grabbing her purse.
The three of us head out Angel’s door and into her car. Ever since graduation, we’ve been making an extra effort to go out and have fun, especially now that summer is winding down and Sam and I will be heading back to a grueling class load. At least I only have one more year; I don’t know how Sam does it, with all the years of studying still ahead of her.
I need a night of laughter and joy more than ever. Mrs. Diamato died today.
I wasn’t on duty when it happened, but my coworker told me her family was around her, including her much-loved grandkids. The time I spent with Mrs. Diamato—hearing her stories—meant a lot to me. She reminded me that life can be a long journey. If you’re lucky enough for that to be true, then there is going to be a lot of bitter mixed in with the sweet, but it’s all precious, and even necessary. I don’t want to be sad about her death. I want to be excited that she lived—that I’m alive.
We head
to Tamara and Stephanie’s house. They are friends of Angel’s, and they are a riot. We pile into Stephanie’s Suburban. Angel has to hoist herself up to get in, which makes Stephanie and Sam break into hysterics. Angel flips them both off.
“Tamara, you taking Professor Maciel again this year?” Stephanie asks, once we’re in the car.
“Shit, no. I swear to God, he got hard last semester talking about Eleanor Roosevelt,” Tamara says. “He was such a perv.”
Stephanie laughs. “Yeah, he used to leer at my boobs like he had X-ray vision.”
“Everyone stares at your boobs like that,” Angel replies.
We laugh all the way to the restaurant, a swanky place with minimalist decor and local California cuisine. I feel a bit like a hick when I walk in. We get seated right away, which is a shame because they have a fancy bar. It is a long expanse of dark oak with hundreds of different bottles lining the shelves. I notice Megan sitting there. I wave at her enthusiastically, until I see Jude sitting right next to her—all pressed suit, dark hair, and long legs. My hand shoots back down to my side, but Megan gets up and walks over to me.
“Just come say hi,” she says.
“I can’t.”
“He already saw you. You won’t die. I promise.” She tugs me over to the bar and puts me in her seat. Then she disappears. I see the girls watching from their table.
“Sorry about that,” Jude says. He’s pink with discomfort, and that’s not a shade I’ve ever seen him turn. “She’s made something of a project out of me, and now I can’t get rid of her.”
“I’m glad you two are happy.” I know I’m lying. He knows I’m lying. Everyone in earshot knows I’m lying.
“I told you before, Elizabeth, it’s not like that. We’re just friends.”
“Oh.” He orders me a martini, and I sip it in silence, unsure what to say.
He scans me up and down. “How are you? You look really good.”
“You too.” And, Lord, does he. His hair is longer, and he has a slight beard. Leave it to Jude to make being unkempt sexy. “I’ve been okay. You?”
“I’ve been . . .” He stops to actually think about it. “I’ve been making new friends. I’ve been having poker parties at my house. And I joined a pickup basketball league.”
“And how’s that been?”
“Weird, but good. It’s nice to have the company. It’s still hard to come home to an empty house, but I’m learning to live with that, too. Sometimes I even like it.”
“Wow. You just gave me a straight answer. No smart-assing in sight.”
“That’s not a word,” he says, smiling. He pauses and runs his finger around the rim of his glass. “I, um, I’ve been seeing a therapist.”
I don’t bother trying to hide my surprise. “How’s it going?”
“Good, I guess. It’s made me see some things I didn’t before. Like how I’ve been in survival mode for such a long time that I forgot how to live.”
I can tell that’s as much as he wants to say about it right now.
“I’m glad. Therapy helped me a lot. I still go sometimes.” I play with the rough edge of the bar. “Thanks for telling me.”
“Well, if not you, then who? But don’t worry, I’m still a total shithead. You just caught me in a rare moment.”
“I never minded.” And oddly enough, I didn’t. I always saw the warmth beneath his frost.
Jude starts to straighten the bowl of nuts in front of him. He lines it up so it’s aligned perfectly with the bowl of olives. He lifts up his drink and starts smoothing the napkin it’s sitting on.
“How is he?” I ask, unable to avoid it.
“He likes it in Tokyo. Sounds like a total madhouse, but he’s making friends and learning a lot. He loves the kids, even though he doesn’t understand most of what they’re saying. We don’t talk a ton. The distance is good right now.” Jude studies me for a moment. “Do you still . . .” Jude shakes his head.
“What?”
“Well, I was going to ask if you miss him, but I guess what I really want to know is if you’re still hung up on him.”
“He came to see me before he left. We said everything we needed to say.”
“That doesn’t answer the question.”
“I know.” I take another sip of my drink. “I missed him. I still do, but not in the same way. But then, I was never in love with him.”
Jude takes a big gulp of whatever he’s drinking and sets his glass down. “Shit, this is hard.”
My hand is shaking, so he steadies it with his own.
“Maybe we shouldn’t put each other through it then,” I say.
“I know we can’t be friends, but this nothingness is unbearable.”
I let his hand stay on mine. “It’s not nothing. I haven’t forgotten us.”
“I haven’t either.” His voice is raw and jagged. “I’m trying to put myself back together, and you don’t need any part of that mess. But I wish I could still at least know you.”
I reflect back on the man I first met. Where did he go? I guess some years are pretty quiet in a person’s life, and others really strip away the layers. I know which one this has been for all three of us.
As I sit here watching Jude, I can’t help but long for those nights out in his backyard swapping stories. I miss him. Even when I saw Jude all the time, I wanted to know him better. But then, he’s just figuring himself out, too.
“Text me sometime,” I say before I can chicken out.
“Yeah?” He sounds hopeful.
“Yeah. So we can still know each other.”
“That’s probably the worst idea ever.”
“Oh. Yeah. You’re probably right.” I take one more sip of my drink, say an awkward good-bye, and head back to my table.
Halfway there, my phone dings inside my purse. I open it to see a text from Jude that says, Okay F04A.
He’s right: He is still an ass. What a relief.
Jude
I text Lizzie the next day and ask her if she knows how to make a soufflé.
Why?
Because I am trying to make one, I reply.
Seriously?
Wearing the apron and everything. I send her a selfie.
Don’t jump up and down. That’s all I know about soufflés.
Then she sends me a link to a recipe, and we don’t text the rest of the day.
The next day, she sends me a message that says, How did it go?
Too much work but tasty
She takes a while to write back. I don’t know how to use emojis or I would use one here.
Not rocket science, Utah. Just tap the picture you want.
Can’t tell what faces they are making. Afraid of social faux pas.
Get glasses
Face too wide
I send her an eye-roll emoji.
The next day from her: Mother of god sunburns hurt!!
Beach?
No. Played Quidditch.
I sit with my phone in my hand, totally at a loss for words. In theory, I understand the words she just strung together. I’m still lost in confusion when she texts again.
Ever played?
Sorry. Incapable of typing. Choking on coffee.
Ha! Don’t knock it till you try it, she writes.
Please tell me you don’t run around with a broom between your legs??
I was the snitch, so I ran around campus in a yellow tank top until someone found me.
I am not equipped to respond to this—there are no words. Yet, I’m a sick fuck, because I’m totally turned on at the same time. She is the most bizarre creature I have ever known.
Sweet. I blew your mind, she texts. My work here is done.
It goes on like this for a few weeks, with each of us checking in but never really saying much. Still, I find it comforting and exciting, and I’m reminded why it is I still want her so desperately. Not that I’ve ever forgotten. Her optimism and lightheartedness are infectious. This flirting is a first for me. Checking my phone every
few minutes as I wait anxiously for her reply, feeling my heart speed up when I see a message from her.
But then Monday, I get: Why does THE ROAD have to be so sad? Damn u McCarthy!
Never read it
Holy cow. Read. It. Right. Now. What else do you have to do? Then she uses a winky emoji.
You’ve upped your game!
I have been studying. Now go read so we can discuss, she replies.
The book is so brutal, and hits so close to home, that I’m almost angry at her for making me read it. Wednesday, I write back: Damn you, Utah! Jesus that was torture.
I know, right? But his dad did it all out of love.
Most heartbreaking things are done out of love.
She doesn’t write back right away. Finally: Need to think about that. You’re a dark one.
The next day: Don’t agree. They’re done out of fear envy carelessness etc.
And love, I type.
Yes, and love.
CHAPTER 18
Elizabeth
July and August slip by, turning into the summer of Jude. I find myself texting him a lot—whenever he whips through my mind, like a favorite memory. When I was with Ryan, I spent much of the time fighting—and often losing—the battle to stay away from Jude. So having him as part of my life is a treat. Amazing that I never saw how hard I was working to avoid him, but then, we rarely see things we don’t want to.
Now Jude has opened a window, and I want to jump through it and rummage around inside. I want to tell him about the things that happen each day. I want to hear what he is doing. I want to know what he thinks about books, movies, music. I want to see him.
He never once suggests this, though. He acts like he’s a scratched record no one wants to listen to. But I see the healing that has begun—how far he’s already come. And no one enters a relationship without flaws; it’s about finding someone who will complement and adapt to them. I’m pretty adaptable.
But then there’s Ryan. I know he said he wants me to be with Jude, but could he really accept it? What about once he gets back? Would it be awkward like it was before? How can I possibly be thinking of getting myself into this all over again?
Tell Me How This Ends Page 22