Brief Chronicle of Another Stupid Heartbreak

by Adi Alsaid

  One of the dudes in the button-downs looked away from his phone and toward us, staring for a moment and then glancing too-quickly away to show he hadn’t meant to hear anything. I could spot the maneuver with ease because I employed it often when I was eavesdropping.

  “I don’t have a crush on anyone, Pete. I’m writing about a couple. And, yes, becoming friendly with them. But that doesn’t mean I suddenly wanna bone him. Or her, for that matter. Or them.” I was going for a laugh, but Pete didn’t provide one. He kept his Irish brooding up at full capacity. “They’re interesting, cool people. I think they might be my friends. That’s what’s happening here.”

  Pete clicked his tongue. It looked like he wanted to say something else, but then he just leaned back against the wall and crossed his arms, looking everywhere around the station except at me. I mimicked his pouty stance, hoping again to defuse whatever this was with a laugh.

  The minutes ticked away. The train arrived with a rumble and a sweep of stale, warm air. We climbed into a different car than the buttoned-down white guys, into one with only three other people in it. Pete and I still had about fifteen stops or so to go though, so when we took our seats I thought I’d try to convince him that he was reading too much into things.

  “I know it looks like I fell into a weird friendship with them really quickly. I get that it’s weird I’ve been spending so much time with them. But remember what happens if I lose my job? I don’t qualify for the scholarship? My whole world falls apart? I spend the rest of my life at the theater, mumbling about the life I could have had. Like a high school athlete reminiscing about the glory days.”

  Pete had a Gaga-level poker face going. I sighed and leaned my head back against the train window. I closed my eyes, a wave of tiredness spread over me like a blanket.

  I don’t know how long it was before Pete spoke up again. I wasn’t even sure he had spoken at first, since the rumble of the train was so loud. I opened my eyes and looked over at him to find him glancing down at me. “Maybe that’s how it started, Lu. You were interested in them. And I’ll grant you the fact that they’re cool people. I liked spending time with them tonight. But you’re pursuing this so diligently because of him, probably as a stand-in for Leo, and I think it’s gonna cause you pain. Or at least sadness.”

  I put my hand over his. “Pete, hon. You’re wrong. You’re imagining things.”

  He looked at me for a long time before turning away. “Good,” he said.

  * * *

  Over the next two days, I kept meeting up with Iris and Cal. First together, then individually. Despite pages of notes, I still didn’t have a column written that I could send to Hafsah. When I tried at the end of the day to sit down and get something cohesive written, my thoughts refused to focus. I’d start thinking about Leo’s eyes. I’d start thinking about sex. About when I’d have it again. I’d start thinking about college breakups, and even about the very idea of love and what that meant. God knows you can’t write something concise with that kind of shit on your mind.

  All this felt increasingly terrifying, especially when I received an email from the foundation that was giving me my scholarship. They needed some paperwork from me. I’m not sure exactly what paperwork, since I panicked when it all started feeling too real and closed out of the email.

  Iris and I met up first. She was still spending her days photographing as much of the city as she could, and making her way around Brooklyn on Wednesday. We met in Bushwick, at a hip Caribbean restaurant with a sweet rooftop patio, which made me look forward to the days when I had enough money to spend at rooftop patios in Brooklyn. Well, I did do that, but I couldn’t afford any of the food. Not after our last foray out on the town.

  It was, if I’m being honest, the most journalistic I’d been around her. I came with a specific list of questions prepared, everything that I thought could flesh out that goddamn column which should have been written weeks ago. I was focused, and had even arrived at the restaurant with the idea that it was a professional meeting and not a friendly one.

  I tried not to be too enamored with her cool composure, the way the pain of her oncoming breakup seemed to roll right off her, not in a callous way, but because she seemed to understand pain was a natural and often transient part of life. I tried not to imitate that hair-fluffing thing she did, or appreciate how well she continuously pulled off her pinup model look. Instead, I tried to pry as much as I could. I wanted to get stories from their relationship, not just facts.

  “When did you first know?” I asked her when we were done with our food, our plates pushed to the side in defeat.

  Iris stirred her virgin daiquiri, beads of condensation dripping off the glass and forming a ring on the wooden picnic table. “Know what?”

  “That you loved Cal.”

  She paused, did that hair-fluffing thing, then told me that it had been such a tiny thing that made her realize that she had almost missed it. It was just like joy in that way: if you didn’t pay attention you might not know it was ever there, or believe that it had been there at all.

  Cal had borrowed his mom’s car for a date, and they’d driven out to Long Beach for the day after a recent snowfall. The idea had been to build Calvin and Hobbes–esque snowmen near the shore. They’d purchased thermoses of crappy gas station coffee near Montauk, then wrapped themselves up in their best snow-proof gear and trekked out to the beach.

  “Look!” Cal had called out. “White sand beaches!”

  They’d done their best to re-create the grotesque snowmen from the books they’d both loved as kids, mostly failing.

  The cold reddened their noses and stiffened their joints, and whenever they would stop to kiss, the warmth of each other’s mouths kept them close for long periods, almost causing them to forget the snowmen entirely.

  They went back to the car and turned down the music, rolled up the windows, and got the heat started. A quiet moment passed, their breathing normalizing from the mayhem and the laughter, fogging up the glass. Iris looked at Cal’s face and felt something within her shift. He was smiling, leaning back against the headrest. Then he pulled his glove off, warmed his hand against the vent, and then moved it to Iris’s knee. He sighed pleasurably, as if he were punctuating their day.

  “That’s when I knew. At the sound of his sigh, with his hand on my leg. It was a feeling before I knew what to call it. As distinct as hunger, originating somewhere similar, but entirely different. Only a moment later the words came to identify what it was, and as soon as they were there, I moved my hand over his, and leaned back into the seat, knowing what it was I’d found.”

  “And you’re letting it go,” I said. Not a question, but a crowbar, meant to slip into the crack and unleash all she might be hiding. Tears would be good, or maybe even a confession that the feelings she felt weren’t actually as strong as how she described them. That a part of Iris and Cal was the version of themselves they portrayed to the outside world. A fabrication on par with books and movies. That the love they had did not really exist. And if it did, it wasn’t ending for the same reasons that my and Leo’s comparatively muted love had ended.

  In that moment, when I had that thought, I tried to dismiss it. I tried to tell myself that the love I’d experienced wasn’t muted just because someone else’s sounded more romantic. But then I had this little flashback, if that’s what you’d call it. It wasn’t a specific memory, just the recollection that, every now and then during our relationship, I’d look at Leo—while he was joking around with his friends, while he was staring at his phone, while he was kissing my stomach—and wonder what it was about him that I was drawn to. It was as if every now and then, I’d simply forget that I loved him.

  Iris didn’t cry or confess after my question. She simply shrugged. “We are.”

  * * *

  When I met up with Cal the next day after his shift at the coffee shop where he worked near Washington Square
Park, I wasted no time in asking him the same question.

  “Jeez. Firing on all cylinders. So much journalism. I’m impressed.”

  “Answer the question,” I said, sliding my phone closer to him. I’d taken to recording our conversations because (a) it made me feel cooler, and (b) not sure you’ve noticed, but my mind tends to wander and that leads to poor note-taking.

  Cal leaned forward on the table, his elbows almost halfway across the wooden surface toward me. He cracked his neck and looked over to the register, as if wanting someone to call him back over to work. Then his eyes met mine, and goose bumps shot down my arms.

  Just because I knew he was about to tell me another incredible story. Not for any other reason.

  Cal let out a breath and clasped his hands together into a double fist, which he brought down gently onto the table. “She came over to my house for dinner, and to do homework together. At that point I hadn’t known what exactly we were, but I knew I loved that. Sitting at the kitchen island with Iris, each of us focused quietly on our own thing, music playing from Iris’s computer. Knees touching, cheesy as that is.” He chuckled, as if no one had ever acknowledged that touching knees is a cliché of love that we all nevertheless indulge ourselves in.

  “The thought came quickly. Just like that. I can’t even tell you what spawned it, at what time, how long into our night. Just that I knew. Without a doubt, all at once. What I’d previously thought was true is wrong. Soul mates are not about finding the one person meant for you. ‘The one’ does not mean the only one. It’s just that...there are others, but they are lesser. They have their qualities, but if you add them up they don’t equal the qualities of this person you’ve found, this one person who has so many things you crave, so many joys to provide. Not all the things you crave, but more than anyone else does.” He took a sip from the coffee he’d ordered when he arrived.

  “I did not know love would be this calm. That was my thought.”

  I stared, because, duh. How was I the first to write about these people? How had Cal not already been featured in numerous Misnomer articles and Jane Austen novels? I set my pen down. “I think I have all I need.”

  Cal raised his eyebrows, smiling. “Yeah? Article’s all done?”

  “Probably. Just needs typing,” I said. I even tucked my notebook away inside my bag and set it at my feet. I looked at my phone. “I still have time to hang, if you do.”

  Cal shrugged. “Sure.” He took a sip from his iced-coffee-frappe-concoction thing, which he’d loaded up with extra flavors and caramel drizzles because he got them for free. “So, now that you’ve gotten what you need from us, you’re gonna stop hanging out, huh?”

  “Oh, one hundred percent. You guys are lame.”

  “I guess it makes me feel special in a way. That I’ve been screwed over by a writer, my trust betrayed.”

  “There’s a support group that meets Tuesdays at Jefferson Market Library.”

  “Damn it, I’m busy Tuesdays.”

  “Ha! I screwed you again.”

  Phrasing, Lu.

  The door to the coffee shop opened behind us, letting in the noise of Washington Square Park, along with two girls that walked in talking about whatever meal they’d just had. For some reason I was blushing again when the door shut and Cal looked back at me.

  “So,” he said, his voice trailing off. His eyes caught the light coming in through the windows, a pretty glint of auburn in his irises. I remembered the bathroom again, and found myself reaching up to the scrape on my cheek. The scab had subsided to the point where I felt the urge to pick it away, bit by bit. What is it about scabs that make us want to peel them off and leave scars behind? What evolutionary purpose could there possibly be for that? “What should we do now?”

  20

  DOING NICE THINGS WITH CAL

  There’s something about walking aimlessly with a person that passes the time like nothing else. That could be another instance where movies have worked their influence on me. Watching characters talk as they wander, smooth cuts that make it seem like they’ve been transported to a whole other place in a city. Before Sunrise, which is basically ninety minutes of walking and talking, is one of my favorite movies because that’s the basis for how everyone falls in love, the basis for humanity. I think 90 percent of our existence is spent walking and talking.

  We left the coffee shop, talking for the first time without my having to worry about writing everything down or even remembering it. Then we were passing through Canal Street’s jam-packed sidewalks, stores overflowing with knockoff sneakers, loaded up with electronics and racks with cheesy T-shirts aimed for a very specific kind of tourist. Before I knew it, we had ended up at the South Ferry piers, sweaty from walking in the heat. “Why is lower-back sweat the worst feeling in the world?”

  “Ugh, I know,” Cal said. “We should start a summer fashion trend where T-shirts have that part cut out. Get a nice draft going back there.”

  Without thinking about it, I reached for the back of his T-shirt and gave it a tug, pretending I was trying to rip it.

  “Oh my God, yes. You just gave me a little draft. That felt so good.” He stopped walking and spread his arms out, his eyes closed.

  I held on to his shirt, fanning it gently. We were at Pier Eleven by the water, near a pretty stretch of colorful flowers that had been landscaped into the structure. A breeze hit us, and Cal smiled, his eyes still closed. The breeze blew a little stronger, and Cal almost seemed to lean into the draft. My knuckles, gripping the inside of his shirt, brushed against his lower back, which did not feel sticky with sweat, but warm and thrilling. I gave myself the liberty to keep them there for just a second, just long enough to let the sensation sink in and take hold of me. Then I pulled away, letting his shirt drop. Pete didn’t know what he was talking about.

  “A-plus draft making, Lu.” He opened one eye and smiled at me, and we kept walking to the edge of the pier. There we leaned against the guardrails and looked out at the sun shimmering on the Hudson, and the boats zipping their way across the river, streaks of white in their trail. New Jersey in the distance, an uninteresting skyline of drab buildings. Even Jersey was looking pretty good.

  “Do you think human beings are overly obsessed with love?” I asked.

  “Overly?” Cal shrugged. “It’s better than a lot of other options, I guess. We’re obsessed with plenty of other things.”

  “Like porn?”

  “Yeah, I was thinking of porn specifically. So many types.” He chuckled. “What makes you ask?”

  “It’s just been on my mind lately. I have a weekly column where I get paid to share stories about love, or just my thoughts on the subject. And people read it. I’m far from the only one too. It’s all over the world, almost every story you hear, love’s at the core.”

  “What else would be worthy?”

  I turned my back to the water, wanting to make eye contact without craning my neck to see him. “Piggyback rides?”

  “Definitely.”

  “Doing nice things for others. Helping bring joy into others’ lives. That’s a pretty worthy obsession. Have you been keeping up with it?”

  He grimaced. “Not as much as I’d like.”

  On the pier, a handful of people milled about, same as everywhere. Tourists, mostly. “What about one of these fine folks?” I gestured to the crowd.

  Cal smiled, then turned to face the same direction as me, leaning his elbows back against the railing, scanning the pier.

  “What do you look for when you’re trying to find someone to be nice to?” I asked.

  “People with signs that say Help Me are ideal. French tourists looking at maps.” I smiled at the memory. “It’s kind of hard to find obvious ways that people need help. I gave my shoes to a homeless guy, which is an easier one to figure out, but I only have so many pairs of shoes.” He pushed off from the railing an
d we started walking again down the pier, toward the street.

  “Have you tried just asking people if they need help with something?”

  “No, Lu, I’ve got social skills.”

  “Well, then, it’s probably not a surprise that you haven’t done as much of the being nice to strangers thing as you wanted to.”

  “But just approaching and talking to people is terrifying. They’ll think I’m selling them something.”

  “Yeah, but you get used to it. I do it all the time for my pieces.” We walked off the pier, strolling along the path near the water. There were plenty of joggers out, and a few people sunning themselves on the grass. “When Iris still wasn’t on board for the column, I was getting close to my deadline and panicking about not having a topic, so I was at a coffee shop kind of harassing everyone who looked remotely like a couple.”

  “Judging from the fact that you haven’t had an article in a while, I’m guessing that didn’t go well.”

  I stopped walking. “How do you know that?”

  “Oh, it’s this thing called the internet. It allows you to find out stuff about people’s lives. Crazy, right? You should check it out.”

  “You’ve read my stuff?”

  He squinted as if I’d just suggested something immensely stupid. “Yeah, dude. I showed it to Iris and it helped convince her. You’re a great writer.” He took up the stroll again, hands in his pockets, turning his head back and forth as he gazed.

  I had to jog to catch up to him. “Thanks.”

  He may not have heard me though, because as soon as I said it, Cal approached an elderly Asian couple that was walking hand in hand toward us, shuffling their feet, adorably wearing matching long-sleeve shirts and floppy hats. “Excuse me,” he said. “Is there anything I can help you with?”

  They looked at each other and then at him. “What?”

  “My friend and I are just wondering if there’s anything we could do for you.” He gestured to me, probably trying to show he wasn’t a murderer, like his introduction suggested. “See?” his gesture meant to convey, “here is a person I know whom I have not murdered. Now please answer my normal question.”