Brief Chronicle of Another Stupid Heartbreak

by Adi Alsaid

  18

  THE SUBTEXT SNEAKS IN ANYWAY

  What should have been a night of feverish writing and transcribing all I’d learned about Iris and Cal, unleashing all that pent-up desire to tell their story, unpacking everything I’d been wanting to say about relationships through the specific lens they existed in was instead spent curled up in bed trying to empty my brain of thoughts. My laptop was set up on my laundry hamper playing cartoons on Netflix, my notebook forgotten beneath a cup of water and some discarded tissues. I’d purposely left my phone charging in the bathroom.

  The next morning, all I wanted to do was see Iris and Cal. Even in passing, from afar, for a single moment. It was strange how specific that desire was, almost like a craving for a favorite dish at a restaurant.

  At work too I was thinking about Cal, reliving our night in New Jersey. Or I was thinking about Iris, and our adventures in Manhattan. Or I was thinking about them stargazing, kissing on the sidewalk, cardamom and the heat of vindaloo on their lips. This is what inspiration felt like, and if it hadn’t been for Leo, these thoughts would have already turned into writing. I just needed to give it a little more time.

  Thoughts of them slipped in between my breaths, in the space between my words when I was talking to customers, in the accidental brushing of fingertips when I handed people their change or their popcorn. It was hard to focus on anything else, and I wondered how the hell the world was in such relatively good shape, if everyone who was in love was constantly distracted like this.

  Not me. Them. Everyone out there, constantly in the throes.

  Or maybe those people weren’t in love either. Maybe that’s why teenage love got its reputation for being more intense and all-consuming, and “adult” love was tapered and comfortable, focused on compromises and commitment. Teenage love was the real version, but the world wouldn’t be able to function that way. People gave up on it after the first time or two, because they couldn’t get anything else done. They opted for something that left room for other activities. Like breathing, and conversing with people who are present, and purchasing movie tickets. They loved in a way that made the heartbreak less severe, in a way that made the love less suffocating.

  I spent my shift not in the least bit present, constantly being nudged back to attention by Pete and other coworkers. Pete acted normal for the most part, although the fact that we were avoiding each other felt as obvious as if we were both dressed in lucha libre outfits. Or I guess I wasn’t aware enough of my surroundings to really say that for sure. Pete could have been talking at me all shift. Come to think of it, when I snapped out of it, he was standing right next to me, looking expectantly, as if maybe he’d said something that, in a typical social interaction, might have elicited a response.

  “Sorry, what?”

  “Your plans today?” He leaned back and shoved his hands in his pockets, staring at a crowd of people letting out of a theater, a trail of spilled popcorn at their feet. His eyes followed along with someone, and I turned to see who it might be. An attractive group of girls, an attractive group of guys, some dude in a tracksuit to add to our running tally (544). Hard to tell, it had been a full theater, and everyone had exited at the same time. “Starla said she got some advanced copies of winter releases and that we can go sort through them.”

  “Coolio,” I said.

  Pete eyed me sternly, then sighed. “Don’t invoke the holy one’s name when you’re clearly not Coolio. You haven’t listened to a word I’ve said all day.”

  “Whaaat? I’m a great listener.”

  “Name three words in succession that I’ve said today.”

  I bit my lip. “That’s so many words though.” I looked around the theater for ideas. “Oh! I know. ‘That’ll be eight dollars.’” I smiled smugly, sure that he at some point said that, since it’s what most of our concession items cost.

  Pete looked around for a moment, as if looking around for someone, then stuck his hand in the nearest popcorn machine and tossed a fistful at me. “Hopefully that’ll snap you back to our reality.”

  “One of us is gonna have to clean that up, you jerk.”

  “No, one of our coworkers will. We’re off in fifteen. Seriously, where’ve you been all day?”

  I had a miniflashback to the daydreams I’d had throughout our shift: me, Iris, and Cal riding bicycles through a meadow, happy pop music playing in the background. The three of us in a car with the windows down and our feet sticking out, sunlight dancing on our toes, wind getting whipped around everywhere as we headed somewhere vague yet adventurous, happy pop music playing in the background. There was even one fantasy I had—brief, and quickly dismissed by the rational part of my mind, even though it was fun to be in its illogical clutches for a while—where the three of us were living in the same Brooklyn apartment, exposed brick on the walls, sparsely but tastefully decorated, so comfortable with each other that all of us walked around in our underwear without batting an eye. Happy pop music, of course, played in the background.

  Pete waved a hand in front of my face. “I mean, what happened, Lu. Did you get hypnotized?”

  “What? Sorry. I’ve been...um...brainstorming. You know I’ve got this column due. I’m just an utmost professional and it’s been hard to think about anything else.”

  Pete cocked an eyebrow at me, then rolled his eyes. “Right. So, should I tell Starla we’re swinging by?” He raised his phone up to show me the texting screen he was on. I knew I’d been a less-than-ideal friend lately, and I’d been spending plenty of time with Iris and Cal and should probably let them have a day off from me. But I wanted to have my damn cake and eat it too.

  “Sure,” I said because I’m considerate but also a coward. Plus, I hadn’t talked to Iris and Cal all day, so assuming that they’d be down to hang out would be a little presumptuous, even if it felt like we’d been hanging out all day in a golden montage of carefree, adolescent good times.

  When we clocked out, I called my mom to let her know I wasn’t going to be coming straight home.

  “Is that you, Lucinda? It’s been so long, I can hardly remember what your voice sounds like,” she said because she’s a goddamn comedian.

  “Very funny, Mom.”

  “I’m not being funny.”

  “Well, then, you’re being dramatic. I’ll be home for dinner,” I said. Then added a quiet, “Probably.”

  “Now you’re being funny. I know it’s been a while since you saw me, but I haven’t aged enough that you can sneak in that ‘probably’ and expect me to miss it. What are you doing that’s so important you’re abandoning the woman who cares most about you in this world?”

  How to begin? “Well,” I said, choosing to go with the easy answer first, “you know how Pete’s leaving for school in August? I want to make sure I’m being a good friend and spending time with him.”

  There was a pause on the phone, and I thought maybe she would complain about the fact that I was making time for Pete and not her. “I hate to admit it, but I did a good job with you.”

  “Why would you hate to admit that?!?”

  “Anyway, since I’ve been granted the generous gift of your voice, at least over the phone, tell me, how are you?”

  “I’m good, Mom.”

  Another pause, which meant either Mom was getting distracted or she was gearing up for some sort of lecture. Since I was hoping for some leniency during the afternoon, I motioned to Pete to give me a second. He mouthed, “Tell her I say hi and also...” And then he quietly continued mouthing a speech about—I think—US foreign policy.

  “Lu, are you depressed?”

  “Um,” I said, because Mom had just taken the conversation from about a three to a nine.

  “Because I know that boy broke your heart, and if you have to get out of the house a little more to help with it, that’s okay. But I want you to know that you can stay home and talk to me about it
too. Or stay home and not talk to me about it. Whatever you need.”

  I felt that pressure behind my eyes that could only mean that my emotions had also gone from a three to a nine. I turned away from Pete, who was still mouthing words, so that he couldn’t see me tear up. Instead of staying at a nine along with my mom, though, my stupid brain somehow decided that what it really wanted to do was deflect. “So I can go to that all-night warehouse rave with all the drugs? Thanks, Mom, you’re the best!”

  My mom sighed. “Very funny. That’d be a great way to get disowned.”

  “Love you too, Mom,” I said.

  After I hung up, Pete and I went to The Strand and loitered at the information desk with Starla. Pete sorted through advanced copies while Starla leaned her chair back against the wall. I stood by, trying to remember if there was something specific I was supposed to be doing other than aching to hang out with a couple I’d met recently.

  “What’s with the notebook and the idle pen, girly?” Starla asked.

  “Right, that’s what I’m supposed to be doing.”

  I opened it up randomly, landing not on the pages of scrawled notes from the other day, but on the one lame attempt at a poem about Leo I’d written post-breakup. Eyes the color of desert cliffs. Ugh. I’d never even seen desert cliffs. I threw the notebook down on the help desk.

  “You gonna tell me what happened with Leo?” Pete asked, halfheartedly reading the back cover of a fantasy novel. “You can’t throw around the word developments and then not fill me in for a whole day. It’s too loaded.”

  “Are we still talking about fart boy?”

  Pete widened his eyes and nodded dramatically.

  “Such a lingerer,” Starla said, wrinkling her nose.

  “To be fair, I think last time we talked we’d decided that I was the fart. Or my pain was. I don’t know, I’m foggy on the details.” I uncapped my pen and started fiddling with it, just to give myself something to do. I didn’t want to talk about Leo, he had delayed my writing long enough. And if I brought up Iris and Cal, Pete would probably disown me, if that was a thing that friends could do to each other. “Friendship breakup” doesn’t seem like an adequate description.

  “Also, I don’t want to be rude,” Starla said, looking at my face in a way that made it easy to guess what she was about to say next. “But what happened to your face?”

  I propped my elbows on the desk, then rested my chin in my hands, cupping slightly so that my cheeks pressed together and muddled my words when I answered. “Drunken piggyback ride.”

  “Oof. Kids these days, so irresponsible. When I was your age we—”

  “Had the highest ever rate of drunk-driving accidents?” Pete chimed in.

  “Probably. Stop being clever around older people, we don’t like it.” Starla smirked. She stopped as a customer approached the desk, putting on her professional smile. But the customer had a change of heart and awkwardly walked past us, pretending to check her phone as if she’d just gotten a text that instructed her not to talk to us. “Lu, you were saying?”

  I mumbled some more into my hands, not wanting to reduce the memory of that night to a funny, somewhat embarrassing story.

  Starla furrowed her brow, clearly not understanding my mumbling. She turned to Pete and asked him if he wanted to translate. He shrugged. “I don’t know this story yet. We haven’t had the chance to catch up.”

  They both turned to me expectantly, and since it would at least allow me to talk about Cal and Iris (or at least Cal) without judgment (er, mostly), I told them about the party and the regrettable transportation choice we’d made on the way back to my dad’s place. There were moments from that night that I didn’t share, of course. The way Cal had cared for me. Sitting out there on my dad’s back porch with him, my face sore but tingly with Neosporin, the hum of summertime bugs in the New Jersey night, the deliciousness of a cool glass of water nursing me back into sobriety. I wasn’t embarrassed by these moments or anything, I just didn’t know how to include them without causing some intense eyebrow raising.

  “Wait, do I know who this Cal person is?” Starla asked, her bracelets jingling as she gestured.

  “I don’t even know this dude. One of her eavesdropping victims. It’s this whole thing.”

  My phone dinged with a text message at that point, which was cartoonishly good timing because it was the exact moment that I was struck by a brilliant idea. “Pete, you are so right!” I said, as cheerfully as I could manage.

  “Um,” Pete said, backing away a step because I’m not a normal person. “What’s that thing your voice is doing?”

  “You should get to know Cal. That’s a great idea.” I grabbed my phone and unlocked it. “What a crazy coincidence, Cal just this moment texted me to see what I’m doing.” This wasn’t true. It was my mom sending a string of emojis that equated to: Every moment you’re away from me breaks my heart. “Why don’t you and I go hang out and you can get to know him! Yay friends coming together!”

  Pete looked legitimately scared. He turned to Starla. “I think she’s been body-snatched.”

  “Ooh, you know Body Snatchers? Good flick. You just got old people points.” She held out her fist, and Pete tapped it.

  While they did that, I texted Iris and Cal in a group message.

  LU

  Sorry to be clingy, but I’m thinking I need just a little more for my column. Are you guys free?

  IRIS

  Hmm. When/where were you thinking?

  LU

  Now-ish? Wherever you guys can. I’m the worst, sorry.

  CAL

  Sure! We were about to learn real-world skills making spaghetti Bolognese at Iris’s.

  LU

  No way. My mom cooks that like twice a week. You could basically call me Spaghetti BoLugnese.

  LU

  Please don’t call me that. Please delete that text.

  IRIS

  Ooops we just screenshotted it and tweeted it and now that’s your official nickname. See you soon!

  LU

  Okay if I bring a friend?

  CAL

  * * *

  When I looked up from my phone, Starla was typing something into her computer, helping a young Asian woman find a book. Pete was flipping through more of the advanced copies, avoiding eye contact with me.

  “Pete.”

  “My head’s in a book, Lu. You’re breaking our rule.”

  “Your eyes aren’t even moving across the page.” I could see him suppress a smile. “Now they’re moving way too fast. You’re gonna give yourself a seizure.” I reached out and lowered the book from his grip. “I promise that this is the last time I’ll do this. After today, I have to write the column or I’m for sure fired and my life is over. Then I’ll move on. And I’m really sorry I bailed on you before. That’s why I want you to come with me now.”

  Pete chewed on his lip for a while, eyes up, flitting around the store. “Please tell me they’re not excessively PDA. They sound like they make out more than they breathe.” He brushed his hair out of his eyes and glanced over at Starla, who’d stood up and was going to walk the customer over to find a book, which was our cue to back away from the help desk.

  “They kiss so rarely, they’re practically mouth virgins.”

  Pete winced. “Don’t say mouth virgins.” He sighed, and we started heading toward the exit. “I’m going to come with you,” he said. “But I want you to know that if it sucks as much as I think it’s going to suck, I reserve the right to complain about it for the rest of our friendship.”

  “Pete, darling—” I hooked my arm into his, leaning my head on his shoulder as we walked out onto Broadway “—I will listen to you complain about anything you want.”

  * * *

  When Pete and I exited the subway uptown, the late afternoon light was golden and dazzling,
shaping the people around us into nothing more than silhouettes, the cars and buildings nothing more than glares, everything a canvas for the sun. The air was magically fresh, a slight, natural breeze that carried no humidity and none of the city’s sour summer smells. I noticed leaves swaying gently, people laughing with friends, an old man in a suit whistling as he strolled by, his fingertips trailing the sides of buildings as if reminding himself of the pleasures of touch.

  We got to Iris’s building and I rang the apartment number, expecting the world to literally become rose tinted at any moment. An unfamiliar voice answered, only slightly pulling me out of my daze. I told the intercom that I was Iris’s friend, then struggled to open the door when they tried to buzz me in, because intercoms are hard.

  When Iris opened the door, she revealed a much different scene than when I’d first come over to return Cal’s wallet. The TV was tuned to a baseball game, and a set of twin black-mop-haired boys were at the dining table wielding crayons like swords and speaking to each other at an inhuman volume. Iris’s mom was at the table on a computer, looking like she was somehow managing to get something accomplished despite the ungodly noise of two seven-year-olds interacting. Her dad was on the couch, and he glanced over and waved.

  “Hey!” Iris said. She gave me a quick hug then looked to Pete, extending a hand and introducing herself. Then she introduced us to her family as “some friends,” said something in Spanish, and we went into the kitchen. Cal was seated at the island, looking intently at his phone. When he looked up and saw me, he smiled. I’d forgotten how it felt to be smiled at just for my presence.

  “Your face!” Cal said, still smiling. “It’s healing so well. It’s like magic.”

  He just called my face magic, I thought, triggering my stupid, blushing blood vessels. I turned away so he wouldn’t notice, gesturing toward Pete. “Cal, Pete. Pete, Cal.”

  I let them shake hands and walked around the island to the counters, where tomatoes, garlic, and onions were resting on a wooden cutting board. A pot with water sat on the back burner, the flame set to high.