Auctioned to Him_Damage

by Charlotte Byrd

  I take a deep breath and step onto the battlefield.

  Dylan’s lounging on the couch in a pair of flannel pants and a white t-shirt, which accentuates his toned physique. He’s really hot. Just focus on that, I say to myself. Juliet is standing next to the hot plate with a guy I’ve never seen before. She introduces him as Brandon from her acting class. Tristan is sitting at the dining room table, eating cereal with one hand and scrolling through his phone with another. When I come in, he gives me a brief nod and quickly gets back to his phone.

  “So, in acting class, they have us do these breathing exercises,” Juliet starts talking. What I’ve learned about Juliet in our brief time of being roommates is that she does not believe in preambles. Juliet simply starts in the middle of a conversation betting on the fact that everyone else will catch up to her train of thought. In this case, I do.

  “They’re so strange, aren’t they Brandon?”

  Brandon’s arms are wrapped tightly around her torso. His lips slide up and down her neck. How long have they known each other?

  “Brandon?” Juliet pushes him aside jokingly. “Did you hear what I said?”

  “Yeah, yeah,” he says pulling her closer. He has a quiet, smoldering voice. Very sexy. “They are strange. Makes me feel like I’m going through labor.”

  “Oh yeah, and how would you know what that’s like?”

  Brandon shrugs and buries himself in her chest. Juliet tilts her head back from pleasure and then flashes me a smile.

  “What are you cooking?” I ask.

  All throughout this courting display, Juliet continues to stir something on the skillet on the hotplate.

  “I’m making s’mores for everyone.”

  I nod, as if that’s a perfectly normal thing to cook on the stove.

  “Oh and you know what else, Alice? Get this. My assignment for next week’s class is to write a thank you note.”

  “A thank you note? To whom?”

  “To whom?” Brandon lifts up his head from Juliet’s breasts to make fun of my proper grammar.

  “To anyone. It’s some sort of gratefulness exercise. The teacher is this real new-agey woman. So we’re supposed to write a thank you card, on an actual card and everything, for something we’re thankful for. A person or a thing. It’s supposed to make us more present in real life, or some shit like that.”

  I look around the room and wonder what Juliet’s teacher would think of how un-present we all were in this moment. There’s Dylan’s on the couch, glued to Sports Center and their analysis of what had already happened in the world of professional sports. There’s Tristan who missed bringing the spoon of cereal into his mouth on a couple of occasions because he’s too busy looking at something online. Then there’s Juliet, who’s taking multi-tasking to a whole new level. She’s got a guy kissing her neck and feeling her up while she’s making s’mores and talking to me about her teacher. And then there’s me. I’m not really doing anything, but I’m also not present. I’m an observer who’s not really in the moment any more than any of the rest of them.

  The s’mores are finally ready. Juliet had melted the marshmallows in between the crackers and the chocolate already. Tristan’s done with his cereal and puts the dish in the kitchen sink.

  “Want one?” she asks. He nods. She hands him two.

  “Give this one to Alice,” she says.

  I look over from the couch when I hear my name and watch Tristan take the s’mores into his hands and make his way over. But then something happens.

  “Oh shit!” he says. The s’mores are lying on the carpet with their marshmallow chocolate goo spilling over the sides.

  “Don’t worry; I’m making more.”

  I drop down next to him to help him clean up. Carefully, we pull the crackers with most of the s’more off the floor.

  “Wow, they’re hot!” I say.

  “Of course, they’re hot,” Juliet yells. “They were just on the skillet, you geniuses!”

  Her tone makes me feel like we’re in trouble and she’s about to call our parents for a parent-teacher conference. I look at Tristan. And after a moment, we both crack up laughing.

  Tristan and I were not able to get every last part of the s’more off the carpet. The harder we tried, the more it disintegrated and the stickier the spot got. And when I walk over it the following morning on my way to the kitchen sink, my shoe sticks a little in the spot where the s’more was. But stepping on this spot makes me smile nevertheless. It was here where things between Tristan and I started to feel normal. And it was here that I started to feel like I could really do this: the whole Tristan and I, exes but roommates thing.

  11

  Before my first class that morning, I go to the fancy paper store on Riverside Drive and buy myself a pack of thank you cards. I’ve been thinking a lot about Juliet’s gratefulness assignment and decided that I should give it a shot myself. Because in reality, I have a lot to be thankful for. But the stress of everyday life makes it difficult to remember all the great things that I really have.

  I sit on the bench outside of the library with a cup of tea and open one of the cards.

  * * *

  My mind goes blank. I had all of these thoughts swirling all around in my head last night and this morning. I couldn’t wait to get those thank you cards in my hand. But now that I’m ready, pen in hand and all, nothing comes to mind. I flip the card over. Little yellow clouds and blue flowers grace the cover. They’re drawn in a whimsical cartoonish way that makes me smile. But when I open the card again and stare at the white space within, nothing comes to mind.

  Okay, Alice. There has to be things that you’re grateful for.

  Something.

  Anything.

  I pick up my phone. I look up “how to write a thank you note” on Google and discover a slew of advice about proper etiquette of thank you cards. Not exactly what I’m looking for.

  “How to keep a gratitude journal.” A little bit more appropriate of a search. Pages of advice follow.

  Don’t just go through the motions. Go for depth. Get personal. Savor surprises. Don’t overdo it.

  Sound advice and all and yet I’m still no closer to knowing what I want to say.

  Okay, Alice. What’s the purpose of this? I ask myself. The purpose is to force yourself to take in some of the good things in life that I would otherwise take for granted. But what does that mean?

  My mind meanders and stops on the one person it has focused on for the last three weeks.

  Tristan. Again. Fuckin’ Tristan.

  I’m angry with him for being here. For being my roommate. For complicating this crazy experience of my first semester of college. As if the whole thing weren’t going to be complicated enough.

  But what if there was another way to look at it? What if instead of focusing on Tristan, my ex-boyfriend, and his uncomfortable presence in my life, I could see the whole thing in a different light?

  I opened the thank you card again.

  * * *

  Dear Tristan,

  Thank you for being here at Columbia with me. Less than two weeks ago, you’d broken my heart into a thousand little pieces. I had loved you for two years and you’ve been my best friend for five years. When we broke up, I couldn’t imagine my life without you. I thought that I would love you for the rest of my life even though I never wanted to see you again.

  And then less than a week ago, I came to school and discovered that you were one of my roommates. I wanted to get away from you. But not because I hated you (I realize that now). I wanted to get away because I never thought that I’d be able to get over you. I felt like you were invading my life. A part of me still feels that way. But with every day, my feelings for you, those bad, ugly feelings, fade just a smudge more. And so, I’m writing you this note because I want to thank you. I want to thank you for being here and being my roommate even though it’s probably the last thing you’d wanted as well.

  And also, I want to thank you for breaking up wit
h me. I’m still in pain, but the more days pass, the more I realize that our breakup was the beginning of something new for me. If we were still together then I wouldn’t have the opportunity to have the real college experience. The one where I go out with my friends, flirt with guys, meet someone special.

  Perhaps it’s futile to hope that things between us will get less weird and that sometime in the near future we can actually be friends. But you know me; I’m a sucker for the underdogs.

  I hope you have a great semester and a great life. I hope you find what you’re looking for and that all of your dreams come true. Thank you for being such an important person in my life up until this point.

  * * *

  With all of my love,

  Alice

  * * *

  I close the note. I can’t believe that I wrote all that. The words just poured out of me and I had to re-read the note to really know what I wrote. I can’t believe how gracious I sound. Is this all true? I wonder. It came out of me like a flow, as if some sort of muse was guiding my hand, so it must be true. No truth was ever reached through over-analysis. It’s the things that we do and think on impulse, with our subconscious minds, that are really true. Or so some people argue. I sort of think they’re right.

  12

  Unbeknownst to me, our whole floor erupted in a party that Friday. I came home right after my 2 pm class let out, changed into my pajamas, and made a plan to stream Netflix like a zombie until they asked me if I was still there or not. But by seven that night, my plan has been all shot to hell. The music and the voices get so loud outside my door that I have no other choice but to venture out.

  Reluctantly, I take off my comfy flannel pajamas and stuff myself back into my skinny jeans, regretting drinking all that soda during my impromptu vegging out session.

  “The rule is don’t start vegging out until you know for sure that you can spend the whole night doing this,” I say under my breath. “Otherwise, you fall in danger of having to reapply makeup and put on uncomfortable clothes and act like a human being again without proper preparation.”

  Agh, the stupid jeans are tighter than ever! I grab onto the belt loops and pull them over my butt. For Christ’s sake, they fit this morning!

  Suddenly, the door bursts open and Juliet and a strange girl I’ve never seen tumble in, catching me mid-jump. I turn away from them. Juliet laughs hysterically.

  “Peyton, this is my roommate, Alice,” she introduces me when she catches her breath.

  I smooth out my shirt and shake Peyton’s hand.

  “Nice to meet you.” Peyton nods. Peyton’s got large brown eyes that make her look a little bit like a doe. She has thick long chestnut hair and full red lips. She looks like one of those girls who’s gorgeous, but for some reason doesn’t seem to really know it. Looking at her, I get this strange feeling like I’ve known her my whole life.

  Juliet freshens up her makeup. I sit down on my bed to put on a pair of boots. But Peyton continues to stand in the doorway.

  “Here, sit down. Sorry the room’s such a mess,” I say.

  “Yeah, I’d apologize too, but it’s pretty much always like this,” Juliet says. I’ve always thought that I was a slob, and in comparison to my older sisters and my mom, I am. But Juliet takes being a slob to whole other level. The other night, she climbed into bed and slept under a huge pile of clothes instead of moving them to the chair or, God forbid, the closet.

  “So you’re Dylan’s girlfriend, huh?” I ask.

  “Yep.” She nods shyly.

  “Peyton from Yale,” Juliet chimes in. It’s some sort of inside joke that I haven’t been a part of.

  Peyton smiles uncomfortably. Clearly, she did not have as much to drink as Juliet.

  “I heard that you started some sort of foundation. That’s what Dylan said,” I say.

  Her eyes light up.

  “Oh, he told you about that? Yes, my mom was diagnosed with M.S. when I was in ninth grade and I didn’t really know how to help her or what to do with my feelings over the whole thing. So she suggested that I start this foundation. Raise money for M.S. research.”

  “Wow, that’s impressive.”

  “Last year, I hosted my very first gala and we were lucky to raise $100,000.”

  One hundred grand. That is impressive. I look at Peyton as she continues to talk about the importance of research as well as awareness for multiple sclerosis. But only a part of me is listening. Another part is wondering how the hell we’re the same age. This girl started a foundation and ran events for a good cause. And not just an event, a fucking gala! I wouldn’t even know how to go about doing that. I’ve never even hosted a party. Of course, I’ve been to plenty of parties in the past. But hosting one? What did that entail really? Food. Drinks. Atmosphere. The right theme. The right party favors, decorations.

  “So what’s it like?” I ask. “To host something like that. Intimidating, right?”

  “Naturally. But honestly, can I tell you something? My mom was always big into philanthropy and giving back. She used to host these lunches for her girlfriends every month. Growing up, I always thought they were really lame. Like she wasn’t really living a real life because she was busy hosting parties and going to events. She didn’t really have a career. But doing that gala, that was the first time I realized how much work event planning really is. And how wonderful it is when it all goes well.”

  “Yeah, I can imagine.” I nod even though, frankly, I have no idea what she’s talking about.

  “You see, what I found out was that an event is a living, breathing organism. And it needs just the right combination of factors to be successful. The right theme, the right atmosphere, the right mood. All of these things have to be established before anyone really shows up. The guests are important, but they’re mainly props in the overall flow of things.”

  I smile. “So are you planning on hosting any other galas in the near future?”

  “Not if I can help it,” Peyton says, bursting out laughing.

  Eventually, the three of us go out and join the roaring party outside. This one is very different from Peyton’s elegant, swanky gala. Dance music is blasting from someone’s room, but the hallway is so loud that I can’t even make out where it’s coming from. The hallway is filled with people. Some standing, some sitting on the ground, some dancing, three kissing. Peyton and I giggle, stepping over the kissers. After making a quick round, getting some drinks at the punch bowl, we make our way back to our suite. Here, the party is raging. Through the sea of people, I spot Tristan and Dylan in the kitchen pouring drinks and handing out beers.

  “Wow, Grey Goose? How did you get Grey Goose?” I ask Dylan. The kitchen island is full of expensive bottles of alcohol.

  “Dylan’s got mad connections,” Tristan says. By the way he’s swaying his hips, I can tell that he has been drinking. A lot.

  “Oh babe, do you want me to make you a martini on the rocks?” Tristan asks. That’s my favorite drink. I take a sip of the punch that I got in the hallway and spit it out. It tastes like sugar water and some sort of alcohol someone makes in their bathtub. A martini with Grey Goose sounds good.

  “Babe? Did you hear me?” Tristan asks.

  I wasn’t sure if I’d heard him right the first time. But now, I realize that I did. He actually called me babe. WTF?

  “Yeah, sure,” I say. I really need a drink now. I look at Juliet and Dylan, but both are too buzzed to notice.

  “Are you okay?” Peyton leans to me. Thank you! At least, someone sees what’s going on.

  “Um, yes, I guess. I don’t know,” I mumble. Tristan hands me my drink.

  “Do you want anything?” I ask Peyton. “Tristan makes great cocktails.”

  “Cosmopolitan?” she asks shyly.

  “One cosmo coming up!” he says enthusiastically.

  13

  While Dylan and Juliet try to organize a game of beer pong, Peyton and I climb out onto to the fire escape for a moment of quiet. Peyton has such a
calmness about her that I feel the need to open up.

  “So Tristan called me babe back there,” I say. “You don’t know this, but that’s like one of the only things he has said to me in…I don’t know how long.”

  “Really? Why?”

  I tell her my sad story.

  “So what do you think is going on now?” she asks afterwards.

  “I don’t know. He’s drunk. Forgot himself or something. But he did do it twice,” I say.

  “Do you want to get back together with him?” she asks.

  “No!” I say a little too enthusiastically. It feels like I’m trying to convince her as much as I’m trying to convince myself.

  “I don’t know.” I shrug, admitting the truth. “He really hurt me. But I can’t lie. I want him to want me back.”

  And then I catch myself.

  “Oh my god, I’m so sorry. We’ve just met. I don’t know why I’m putting all my crap on you.”

  “No, it’s okay,” she smiles. “Breakups can be so complicated. I should know.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, Dylan and I are no strangers to breaking up, let’s just say that. In fact, one of the reasons that Dylan’s not allowed in his dad’s Central Park apartment anymore is because of one of our many break ups.”

  “Do tell.” I lean closer and take a sip of my martini.

  “Dylan and I have had kind of a volatile relationship. Nothing bad, really. We’re both just impulsive and crazy sometimes. Keep each other on our toes, I guess. So that week, he got mad at me for going on a trip with one of my exes. He didn’t want me to go and I wanted him to actually admit it, but he wouldn’t. The details are not important. But what is important is that Dylan was staying with his dad that week. We were on spring break from school. I’m not sure what day this was, but his dad had a date. She met him at his apartment. But then Dylan’s dad got called away on some Wall Street emergency and left them alone.”