I’ve felt sick like this before. Back in high school, when Sean disappeared and my father’s drinking got worse. My mother cried and wanted me to somehow fix it, when I knew I could not. I fell asleep back then apathetic about whether I woke in the morning. I thought this piece of me was gone, but apparently it was only in hiding.
I cry all afternoon. I cry all night. Harper doesn’t come home, which is for the best, except it makes me wonder if Brendan won’t be going home tonight either. I want to vomit when I consider it.
I miss making dinner with him, having sex with him, sleeping beside him. The next morning I open my eyes and discover I miss waking with him too.
I suspect there won't be a moment of my day—even the moments I didn't normally spend with him—that won't leave me missing something about Brendan. And I have no one I can tell—not Olivia, who’d immediately call Brendan and rip him a new one. Not Harper, who doesn’t come home. Not even Sean, simply because he doesn’t answer or return my call.
When I was with Brendan, I was consumed. He was like a drug, and with him I existed in this hazy space of believing the world was good and everything would work out without a shred of proof. It felt like I needed nothing other than him. And now the drug is gone, as I always knew it would be. I have to look at my life again—at the fact that I’m homeless and on my final warning at work—and admit that maybe I didn’t need anything other than him, but I also didn’t have anything other than him.
And I never really had him either.
Harper does her best to cheer me up when she finally comes home. She says all the things women say in these situations: you’re better off without him, he’s going to come to his senses. It doesn’t help, though, because neither statement is true.
“Hair of the dog,” she insists, coming into my room and throwing a thong at me.
I look from the thong to her. “I’m completely not following this conversation.”
“Hair of the dog that bit you,” she says. “It’s the only way.”
“What does that have to do with your slutty underwear?”
“I wasn’t sure if you had any of your own. I’m saying you need to fix yourself up and get laid. Brendan isn’t the only hot guy in the world.”
Except he’s the only one I want. I can’t imagine I’ll ever feel otherwise. And I can’t imagine how he was able to feel otherwise the minute I left.
I get through the next days mostly by dreaming that Brendan will make some grand gesture. I picture him waiting on Harper’s steps so he can tell me he was wrong. Or standing outside my window, playing the song we danced to at the wedding loud enough for the whole neighborhood to hear. Except the guy who can’t even make a small gesture is unlikely to make a grand one anytime soon.
I leave him a message about picking up my stuff—my running shoes, my favorite jeans—and he waits a full two days to return the call. Waiting two days to call is so casual it's almost as if he's had to force himself to do it. I can picture him frowning at the phone, sighing wearily, and deciding he needs to get it over with.
"Hey," he says, his voice completely unworried, nonchalant. "Got your message."
Oh my God. As if we barely know each other.
I was hurt before. Now I’m enraged. He has no right to act like we were nothing—either that or he had no right to act like it all meant something when it didn’t. I’m so angry that it’s an effort to speak normally. My words emerge clipped and precise, as if I’m calling someone about getting my furnace looked at.
"Yes. I need my running shoes. Is there a time when I can come by and get them?"
He yawns. "I’m on my way out, but I can set them outside the door if you want to get them later.”
For the first time in days, I’m glad I have plans tonight. "I can't. I'm getting ready to go out to dinner."
"Oh yeah,” he drawls. “The big dinner with Rob. How's that going?" He doesn’t sound jealous. He barely even sounds interested.
"Fine," I tell him.
I feel spiteful, but it translates, in my voice, to enthusiasm. I’m not getting back together with Rob—I’m certain of it—but fuck Brendan and his ambivalence.
"That's awesome, Erin," he says. "I'm happy for you."
I want to take the phone and smash it against the counter. Or against his head. "Thanks," I chirp. Fuck you, Brendan. Fuck you fuck you fuck you.
"So that's it then, huh? 'Mission Make Rob Pull His Head Out of His Ass' worked like a charm," he concludes.
"Yes, Brendan, I owe it all to you," I say snidely.
"Hey," he says with a laugh. "You deserve a little credit too. You laid there so well."
It felt like so much when we were together, and now he's laying it out in a way that makes it nothing if not ugly and cheap—as if I could have been a blow-up doll for all my contribution to the endeavor.
"Fuck you."
He laughs. "I was just joking," he says, and then his voice grows earnest. "I'm sorry. It was just a stupid joke, babe. I'm really happy for you."
I don’t want you to be happy for me, Brendan. Your happiness breaks my heart.
61
Erin
Present
Rob picks me up later that night, handing me the most gorgeous bouquet I've ever seen.
"You didn't need to do that," I say. His every thoughtful action makes me feel worse.
“I wanted to,” he replies. “I wish I’d done it every day we were together.”
Instead of something fancy, he takes me to my kind of place, a place Brendan might have chosen.
"You actually want to eat here?" I ask. “Ribs and beer?”
“Of course. I like ribs and beer as much as the next guy. And I'm trying to meet you in the middle.”
“You don’t have to do this.”
"Erin,” he chides, “you wanted stuff like this enough that you broke up with me over it. So if it matters that much to you, you’ve got to fight for it a little."
Except that’s not how I’m programmed. I’m never going to fight for something so minimal as where we eat and if we sit outside when we do it.
After we’re seated, he reaches across the table for my hand. “I know you’re not ready yet. I know I fucked up. But I just want a chance. I want the chance to prove to you that I’ve changed.”
I stare at the tablecloth, so guilty that my voice rasps when I speak. “You didn’t fuck up.”
“Yeah, I did. I should have talked to you about the trip, I should have made sure you were okay with me staying. I should have come back for Olivia’s race. I definitely should have told you about Christina. I’m so, so sorry I didn’t.”
Anything that happened with Christina is now so minor compared to my own failings that I can barely stand to glance up at him. “It’s okay. But look, about this other guy—”
He squeezes my hand. “I’m begging you, Erin. Do not tell me. You didn’t get home ’til 5 AM the other day, so it’s pretty obvious that things I don’t ever want to think about happened. So can we just agree it’s all behind us? That I did stupid shit, and you did stupid shit, and now it’s over?”
I nod, but I wonder if he’d feel that way if he knew exactly what stupid shit I did, and who I did it with. Especially when not a moment later he asks if I’ve seen Brendan.
I hate lying, which is ridiculous when you consider just how many lies I’ve already told him. My heart thrums in my ears.
“No, not lately. Why?”
"It seems like he’s avoiding me. Maybe he’s just busy with this new girl he’s dating.”
"Girl?" I ask, my stomach going into freefall. "Brendan doesn't 'date' anyone."
"Apparently he’s made an exception,” Rob says. “It’d be cool if he’s finally met someone.”
It’s only been a few days. He couldn’t have moved on that fast.
He couldn’t have, yet he did. And how is that possible? How could anything they have be better than what we had? What does she have that I don’t?
That night, afte
r Rob drops me off, I don’t cry. Instead my tears sit caged inside me, and I long for something that will set them free. They’re like a blister that needs to be popped, and God, I want to. I want something to make it all go away.
I thought this kind of sadness and desperation was behind me. I thought I was better. As it turns out, I was simply numb. Brendan is the only thing with the power to bring this version of me to the surface. I tried to make myself hate him after the wedding. I tried to make him hate me too. I should have kept doing it.
Being numb, not caring, everyone says that’s a bad thing.
But to me, right now, it sounds like bliss.
The next day when I get home from work, there’s a bouquet waiting on Harper’s front porch, with my name on the card. For one insane moment I allow myself to hope it’s from Brendan. I half-laugh and half-sob at my own stupidity when I find Rob’s name instead.
Another bouquet is delivered to work the next day, and again to Harper’s the day after that.
“How long are you planning to keep this up?” I finally ask him.
“Until you give me another chance,” he replies.
He texts me frequently. He asks how I am, when he can see me. He is the anti-Brendan: he wants to give me everything. It matters to him that I exist. That shouldn’t sway me, and it’s not a reason to date him again, but there’s something comforting about it.
He returns to Amsterdam for a week, but the flowers keep coming.
“My house looks like a florist’s shop,” says Harper. “And believe me, I’m not complaining. But how long are you going to let this go on?”
“I already told him to stop.”
“I don’t mean the flowers. I mean you. You’ve been the most miserable human alive now for going on two weeks. Something’s got to change. If Brendan is out of the picture, why aren’t you going out with Rob?”
“Because I slept with his best friend, for starters.”
“So what?” she asks. “Rob told you he didn’t care, and you know he slept with Christina. Sure, he’d be pissed off and hurt if he knew about Brendan, and he’d probably never talk to him again, but it wouldn’t change how he feels about you. He’s obviously in it for the long haul. Either way, it’s time to move on.”
Moving on. I want that too.
I remember when I first met Rob—at Will and Olivia’s engagement party—how it felt like a relief. I was tired of wanting Brendan, tired of fighting it. I wanted it to end. I want it to end now. It has to, because while all of those high points with Brendan were amazing, I can no longer live with the lows.
62
Brendan
Three Years Earlier
Somehow I get Gabi outside of the bar. She’s crying, but it’s the sheer devastation on her face that kills me. She expected better of me, and I allowed her to expect better of me when I should have told her the truth up front, which is that I am exactly the guy I knew I was: incapable of commitment, careless with others. And I’ve been more careless with her than I’ve ever been before because I allowed her to think we meant something.
She goes boneless when we get outside, sliding down the bar’s exterior wall into a heap on the sidewalk. “I thought you loved me,” she weeps. “You said you loved me.”
We’ve only got two days left, and I know I should say something to smooth things over, but I just don’t have it in me. I’m tired, and I’ve put up with more tears and drama in two months than most people do in their lives. I’m done.
“Gabi, you’re leaving. I just think it’s run its course.”
“I’m not leaving,” she says. “I deferred for a year. For you.”
My entire being cringes. How long ago did she do it? Was it weeks ago, when I was busy counting the days until her departure? She will now start medical school a year late, entirely because I allowed her to believe things that weren’t true.
“You shouldn’t have done that.”
“I thought you’d be happy,” she cries, burying her face in her hands.
People walking by stare at us, then glare at me. They don’t even know us, don’t even speak our language, yet they know I’m the one who fucked up. And they’re right.
I crouch next to her. “Come on, honey,” I beg. “Let’s just go back to the apartment, okay?”
“Are you breaking up with me?” she demands.
“Gabi, you need to go to medical school. I don’t want to be the reason you’re staying.”
“You’re worth it to me. I don’t even care. I’ll skip it entirely, and we’ll just stay in Italy if that’s what you want.”
I am tempted to lie. I am tempted to say whatever I have to in order to get us back to the apartment, where it won’t be so fucking awkward to sort things out. But I can’t lie anymore. If only I hadn’t lied in the first place.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper. “I’m so fucking sorry. But this isn’t what I want.”
63
Erin
Present
The horrible branding campaign—full of trite phrases and insincere accolades—is finally complete. All the copy has been signed off on. The photo shoots are over. I’m relieved it’s behind me.
Except, apparently, it’s not.
“We need a different group of kids for the cover,” Timothy says, flinging a brochure about the Mitchell Scholars Program on my desk.
I run my tongue over my teeth, searching somewhere inside me for a calmness I don’t feel. “These are the kids who actually won the award.”
“They don’t project the image we want. And we need more diversity.”
“How much more diversity could you possibly want? We’ve got ten award winners, of whom five are minorities.”
“Well, the minorities you chose are not a good representation of the school.”
He has really picked the wrong week to piss me off. I don’t have it in me to even feign civility at the moment.
“I have no idea what you’re trying to tell me,” I snap. “And I didn’t choose them. These kids all won Mitchell Scholarships. How are they possibly not a good representation for the school?”
“Well, to be perfectly frank, none of them look that smart. And the African-American boy is too…urban.”
Patience, Erin. You are not Olivia. You are not Harper. You don’t get to lose your shit with impunity. “How exactly can someone be too urban?”
“The jeans, the T-shirt. Sneakers.” He rolls his eyes as if this is obvious, when nearly every kid featured is wearing some version of that. “I want something more like this.” He hands me a brochure for affordable housing, which features someone lighter-skinned than the kid who won the award, wearing a button down and a bow-tie.
Patience, Erin. Patience… No, fuck it. “The kid in this picture is one of the ten best students in the school, and he’s dressed exactly like the other kids. So basically what I hear you saying is that anyone other than Carlton from The Fresh Prince of Bel Air looks like a criminal to you.”
“I think you need to bring it down a notch,” he says, his nostrils flaring, bleaching the skin white around the base of his nose. “As you are well aware, you’re already skating on thin ice. And I’m not asking for your opinion, Erin. I want a new cover.”
I slide the brochure back to him. “I’m not doing it.”
“If you don’t do it,” he says, “you have no job.”
“Then I guess,” I say, standing and grabbing my purse, “that I have no job.”
I stride out of the office feeling enraged, full of indignation. It takes me only two seconds after the door’s shut behind me to wonder what the fuck I’ve done.
I spend most of the evening certain I’m having a panic attack.
“It’s going to be fine,” Harper assures me. “God, I wish I could have seen his face!”
“It’s not going to be fine,” I insist. “I have no savings, and now I’ve got no job. And no boyfriend. And no home.”
“Of course you have a home. When my roommate gets back, we’ll fig
ure something out. And you don’t want a boyfriend. And you don’t want that job. You never did. Just wait,” she says. “This is the start of something amazing. Your life is going to be so much better.”
I guess I have to agree with her there, because I’m not sure it’s possible for things to get worse.
I wake the next day with a splitting headache, thanks to the shots Harper insisted I do. “Cheer Me Up Shots,” she called them. I’m officially adding her to the list of people I no longer take suggestions from.
I begin to look at want ads, and any enthusiasm I had for the prospect of getting a new job dims. Promoting nicotine patches, computer programs, or energy drinks holds no appeal for me. I want to care about the product. I liked promoting my alma mater.
Which leads me to wonder if I made a mistake yesterday. I know, via Harper, that Timothy’s been stopping by my cubicle all morning to see if I’ve arrived. Around mid-morning he leaves me a message saying that as long as I’m in by noon, we can move past this, though “some disciplinary action will, obviously, be necessary.”
I can’t say there isn’t part of me that glances at the clock, that doesn’t imagine rushing off to put on work clothes and pretending none of this has happened. Except that job was a lot like a long run; I reach the end certain I could keep going if necessary, but once I’ve stopped, once I’ve thrown myself down in the grass and kicked off my shoes, the idea suddenly feels impossible. If my life depended on it, I don’t think I could get up and go back to work for that man. In fact, I have no idea how or why I stayed as long as I did.
Rob asks if he can take me to dinner “as friends” after I tell him about my job. I begin to say no, and then stop myself. Whatever we might lack in excitement, Rob can be a good sounding board. Plus, being around him reminds me of a time when I wasn’t miserable, and that little reminder soothes me—if it was possible to not hurt once upon a time, it’s possible it can happen again. It’s wrong to allow Rob to ease some of the pain Brendan caused, but I allow it anyway. I’m that desperate to begin piecing myself back together.
Drowning Erin Page 22