Brief Chronicle of Another Stupid Heartbreak

by Adi Alsaid

  The good news was that I’d now weaseled myself out of work, and could focus the next few hours on keeping my entire life from falling apart. So, naturally, I went to Cal’s coffee shop. Look, it was nearby, and sometimes when you can’t decide where to go for a writing session you end up wandering around being nitpicky and wasting entirely too much time, so it was a very responsible decision on my part.

  I walked there listening to that same podcast from the morning, still not listening to a word of what was happening, but happy to have some other noise blasting directly into my brain. Also, it made me look super casual when I walked in, as if I didn’t know where I’d stumbled into. A cute black girl with a septum piercing was at the register, not the cute bespectacled white boy I was hoping for. I ordered a regular coffee which came with refills, set up my computer in a spot that hit all of my checklist items (outlet, view), and only then looked around the coffee shop for Cal. And I swear to the god of reliable narrators that he walked in at the exact moment I turned to the door.

  Which, of course, meant I started staring intently at my computer, setting my fingers on the keyboard and chewing my lip like I was reaching desperately for a word, or mired in the internal suffering of a true artist. My Word document wasn’t even open yet, and I’d paused the podcast, so there was nothing distracting me from the fact that I could see Cal walk toward the register, pause, do a double take, then head my way.

  It was hard to not burst into a smile when he arrived at my table, but I managed to keep the charade going. Then he reached out and tapped my shoulder. I jolted out of my fake focus—my fauxcus—taking a moment to process who’d dared to interrupt my intense work session. He was wearing a gray button-down shirt with his sleeves rolled up, the strap of a laptop bag slung diagonally across his chest. He smiled at me and waved, and I made a show of raising my eyebrows in surprise and taking my silent earphones out.

  “Hey! What are you doing here?”

  “Hey! I wasn’t sure if you’d be here today or not,” I said. Then I pointed at my computer. “It’s deadline day, so I pretended to be sick at work and came here to put the finishing touches on the column.”

  “Oh man, that’s exciting. I can’t wait to read what you really think about us.” He leaned over to sneak a glance at the screen, which made me almost panic and throw the laptop to the ground. Thankfully he didn’t seem to really process the blank Word document I had open.

  “It’s a scathing indictment of your relationship.”

  “I’d expect nothing less.” He chuckled. “I’ll let you get some work done, then. Iris says you’re coming to the party later?”

  “Yup!”

  “Awesome. No piggyback rides though.”

  “Aww, come on. It’s my turn to give you one.”

  “Fair enough. By the way, your face?”

  “Magic, I know.”

  We smiled at each other, and then Cal went back into the kitchen and reemerged behind the counter wearing an apron. I put my earphones back in and stared at my computer screen, feeling so much better than I had all morning.

  For the next two hours or so, I proceeded to accomplish absolutely nothing, even with my phone buried deep in my bag to avoid distractions. I typed a bunch, but it was mostly gibberish or freewriting so that if Cal glanced in my direction I would seem like I was really getting work done. My leg didn’t stop nervously shaking. I flipped through the notes I’d taken over the last couple of weeks, rereading them at least two or three times. Every now and then, I allowed myself glances at Cal steaming milk and grinding coffee beans, chatting amiably with customers and coworkers.

  I checked my email obsessively, half hoping that Hafsah would message and say that she was actually super busy and could I hold off on sending the column until next week/next month/whenever I was ready? I also looked up flight options that combined the cheapest possible ticket with the farthest possible location. I even worked out a formula in a spreadsheet where I’d plug in all the numbers so I could rank the flights in order of cost per mile. I drank so much coffee that my stomach hurt and I got heart palpitations.

  When I looked down at the right-hand corner of my computer screen and noticed what time it was, a fresh wave of panic washed over me. Why the hell had Pete chosen today to pick his little fight with me? Why had Leo left his stupid voice mail last night? I could have been at work focusing on writing. Instead, my brain was mush and the only thing that helped me feel semicoherent was looking up at Cal. I closed out of all my internet windows, put on my favorite playlist to write to, closed the spreadsheet, angled my body a little bit so that I couldn’t look over at the coffee counter without craning my neck.

  I cracked my knuckles because that’s a thing that helps according to writing montages in movies. “Okay,” I told myself, “no distractions, get this thing done.” Then I got up to use the bathroom because I’d had approximately twelve cups of coffee and my bladder was not happy with me.

  To get the key to the bathroom, I had to go ask someone working. So of course I found myself talking to Cal. “How’s it going over there? You look like you’re in the zone.”

  “I’m in a zone alright.”

  “Almost done?”

  “Is a piece of writing ever really done?”

  Cal used a dishrag to wipe down part of the super fancy espresso machine beside him. “Yes?” he asked, cracking a smile. “I think yes.”

  “I was asking philosophically, you philistine. You know—” I made air quotes “—‘Art is never finished, only abandoned.’” I fidgeted with the silver ladle that they had attached to the key to keep people from forgetting it inside the bathroom.

  “So is that the stage you’re at now? Editing and perfecting?”

  My mind flashed to the image of my computer screen, the word count on my document. “Ish.”

  Cal smiled, and then his coworker with the septum ring came over and said something to him, pulling him away so that he could complete some task or the other. I used the bathroom and then returned to my computer. It was only about noon, so I still had five hours to figure out how to do the thing that had eluded me all summer. No big deal.

  Plus, anytime I let my guard down for a moment, my treacherous thoughts returned to what Pete had said. To what Leo had said. To how he still hadn’t answered my text message. To all the angles and cracks of my stupid heartbreak.

  I looked over at Cal, trying to examine what it was I felt for him. Yeah, he was cute. He was great to hang out with. But a crush? I chewed on my thumbnail and shook my head to rid myself of those thoughts. Of all thoughts. Instead, I looked back down at my notebook and flipped through my notes. Maybe what I could do was start the column with something Iris and Cal had said during that first eavesdropped conversation.

  We have love. What else matters?

  Or, no. What if I started the column with an introduction to them?

  I would have called bullshit on the whole thing from the beginning if I didn’t see both Iris and Cal get the same look in their eyes. Constantly. When Iris hums to herself as they walk hand in hand, when Cal insists on doing the dishes at her parents’ house, when she underlines whole paragraphs in novels then simply has to voice her appreciation for what she’s just read, and how he’ll stop whatever he’s doing to listen, even if he clearly has no idea what she’s talking about.

  One eighteen-year-old gets that look, you start feeling sorry for them. Two of them give that look to each other and no matter what kind of cynic you are, you start thinking only teenagers really understand love. How insane it’s supposed to be.

  Ooh. That wasn’t bad. Except Hafsah wouldn’t let me get away with using bullshit. I deleted the word and brainstormed possible replacements for it. Which led me to click over to the internet for a few seconds to find a thesaurus, decide that I could just use bull instead of the full version, but then continuing to click around the internet instead of go
ing back to my Word document. Before I knew it I was plugging more flight options into my spreadsheet.

  There was a crazy cheap flight to Nairobi out of Newark leaving the following month, which I’m not entirely sure how I found. I had enough money saved up to get myself on the flight and then maybe pay for a place to stay for a couple of weeks, and pay for meals, according to a quick search on the currency exchange rate and cost of living in Kenya. It was satisfyingly far away, and I had a fantasy of getting a job as a tour guide, wowing Americans with all the Kenyan knowledge I’d accrued over the course of a few short months, how seamlessly I’d slipped into the culture, my nuanced understanding of how things were different and how they were the same. My familiarity with the best restaurants and food stands in the city would become legendary, and my tour group would become highly sought after as an exploration of Nairobi’s culinary highlights. On one of these tours, I’d meet a boy. A Spanish boy. Sparks would fly. We’d spend a night walking around the city talking, ending up on...quick Google search for the best views in Nairobi...the roof of the Best Western Premier hotel, watching the sunrise as we made out. He’d cancel his flight back to Madrid to stay with me a little longer. We’d become more and more intimate, eventually coming so close to one another that we could really see who the other was. Until one day he finally brought himself to ask me about what brought me here, what did I run from in America. I’d go really quiet and stare off into the distance. He’d put his hand over mine. “Hey, it’s okay. You can talk to me.” A single tear would drip down my cheek, and he’d rub it away with his knuckle, softly palming my cheek and moving my head so I could look into his beautiful brown eyes. “It’s in the past. Whatever happened, it’s okay. It’s over. You have me now.”

  Then I snapped out of my fantasy, wondering what I would do for the next month until that flight. How would I hang around the house without telling my mom that my scholarship was gone? I checked for a flight leaving tomorrow. The price went up three thousand dollars. Damn it.

  I clicked back to my Word document, reread my introductory paragraph, feeling okay about what I had until I saw the time. One o’clock. Four hours to go.

  I slammed my forehead down on the table.

  * * *

  At four forty-five, I shut my computer.

  I had just emailed Hafsah, and did not want to think about the contents of that email, or the lack thereof. Another apology, another failure to save myself. I finally pulled my phone out of my bag to distract myself. Within the slew of notifications I saw Leo’s name, and I clicked to that first.

  LEO

  Idk. I’m sorry. Can I see you sometime?

  I typed out a dozen different responses, deleting them all as soon as I read them back to myself. The longest-lasting one was, Do you really still love me?, which I stared at for almost a full minute, my thumb hovering over the send button before I decided that I was in no condition to be thinking about this stuff. I threw my phone back in my bag and walked up to the register, where Cal was counting out tips from the two different jars (one of those cutesy do-you-prefer-this-or-that ploys which I always fall for).

  “Finally taking off,” I said.

  He looked up from the pile of singles and quarters. “Yeah? The column’s done?”

  “Oh, I’m done alright.”

  “I can’t wait to read it,” he said. “Wait, what time is it?” He pulled his phone out of his pocket. “Oh sweet, I’m almost off. You doing anything between now and the party?”

  I shook my head.

  “You mind waiting? I’ll be done in like ten. Iris was trying to think of what to do before the party. Maybe we could grab something to eat to help soak up the booze.”

  “You’re such a responsible drinker.”

  He laughed, rubbing the side of his face with his hand and then taking off his glasses to clean them on the hem of his shirt. I don’t know why, but I had the sudden urge to help him. I wanted the familiarity of being able to reach over to him, gently pull them off his face, and clean them for him.

  “Okay,” I said. My voice came out soft and shaky, like I’d just been woken from a dream. “I’ll wait for you outside.”

  * * *

  Cal and I rode the subway all the way up to the 103rd Street station. Our knees didn’t touch, not really, but we were sitting side by side, and other parts of us were in nearly constant contact. Not that I was hoping for that, or whatever. But I did notice. I’ll grant Pete that. I noticed Cal’s laugh too, and how I felt like myself around him.

  We met up with Iris at Xi’an Famous Foods on Broadway, not too far from the party. When we saw her, Cal’s eyes lit up with joy, but a little bit of sadness too. Which made sense. She looked fantastic, but he’d soon be me.

  He leaned in and gave her a kiss on the cheek, and we headed inside for some insanely delicious hand-pulled noodles. We sat at the counter looking out at the street. Somehow I got the middle seat, which meant I didn’t feel like a third wheel at all. I felt like I was the center of their attention. It felt natural, and comfortable, like by writing about them (or at least meaning to) I’d somehow carved out a little place for myself in their relationship.

  It was exactly what I needed, eating spicy noodle soup with Iris and Cal. They didn’t pry about the column, they didn’t bring up Leo, they didn’t even touch on the not-so-distant future in which they’d be broken up and I’d be dropping out of college before I could even begin. August 4 was three weeks away, but rather than delve on that future heartache, they knew how to appreciate the happiness they had in front of them. They joked, talked about each other’s days, laid hands on one another in small but deeply affectionate ways. There was no subtext to the conversation, just two people who loved each other. I was in awe and thankful of their presence. It would get a little more complicated than that by the time the night was over, but at that point, I didn’t want to be anywhere else but by Cal and Iris’s side.

  23

  THE TRUE MEANING OF PARTYING

  The party was at a swanky apartment with its own rooftop terrace. It wasn’t huge, but there were about thirty or forty people around, split up evenly between the living room and kitchen inside, and the terrace outside.

  A blue-haired girl with a pixie cut let us in without much fanfare, and then Cal and Iris led us straight to the kitchen where the bottles of booze and soda were lined up.

  “Mmm, alcohol,” Iris said, wiggling her eyebrows at me. “‘Drink up, young man, it’ll make the whole seduction part less repugnant.’”

  “Solid reference,” I said.

  “Wow, first time someone’s caught that,” Cal said, reaching for a bottle of whiskey and the stack of red plastic cups.

  I eyed the bottles for what I should drink. Again, I swear I don’t go straight to the bar at every party, and I’d definitely been given reason to think twice about doing it now. I didn’t even believe that drinking could drown your sorrows or worries. Those jerk feelings are good swimmers and will just be there to greet you in the morning. But if there was any night in my life that I needed an artificial way to push them down, it was that night. “So, who do you know at this party?” I asked, pouring myself some tequila and grapefruit soda, which is a concoction Cindy discovered while doing a semester abroad in Mexico.

  “Not a soul. Pretty smooth party crashers, right?”

  Iris smacked Cal on the shoulder. “Don’t listen to him. It’s our friend Monica’s party.” She pointed across the room to an Asian girl wearing jean shorts and a plaid shirt sitting on the couch’s armrest. Just then, Monica looked over at us.

  She stood up and waved. “Clarice! You made it. Come play twenty-one with us!”

  We finished pouring our drinks and went over to her, where hugs and excited hellos were thrown around briefly and then I was introduced to Monica and a handful of others around. “Why Clarice?” I asked.

  “Eh, I’m into couple na
mes. Cal and Iris don’t really mesh well with each other, so I had to really stretch for one. It stuck, though.”

  “That’s not true,” Iris said, “no one else calls us that.”

  “I didn’t say it stuck universally, did I? Just with me. Which counts.” Monica smirked, and then she led the group over to the dining room table. “Okay, everyone who’s going to play twenty-one, come now!” She called out over the music, which was playing loudly but not ridiculously so.

  About ten people gathered around the table, six of us sitting down, the rest standing or squatting wherever they could. Cal had been sitting next to me and Iris, but gave up his seat for a guy with crutches, and ended up standing on the other side of the table, where I could slyly stare at him every time I drank or made a joke or just kind of wanted to.

  I tried to follow the rules of the game, which involved counting to twenty-one one by one as a group, but every time we succeeded, the last person had to come up with a new rule for a number. For example, Cal came up with the rule that instead of saying “four” you had to name a city that started with the letter F. And for “twelve,” Monica came up with the rule that we all had to stare silently at each other for five seconds without laughing. Any time someone messed up a rule or the wrong person counted, we all drank and had to start over.

  Needless to say, my goal of forcing my sorrows to swim in a deepening pool of alcohol went pretty well. Now, we all know people that put “I love to laugh” on their social media profiles and senior yearbook pages and online dating profiles, and hell has a special eye roll reserved for those people. But holy crap did laughing on that particular Friday feel like a godsend.

  The game was nonstop hilarity. I can’t recall accurately whether it was merely drunken hilarity or an honest-to-goodness great time, but who really cares about the difference when you’re in the moment.

  Eventually the game lost its steam, as we’d all become sufficiently sloshed, at least for that time of the night. We were now ready to party.