Anatomy of a Boyfriend (23 page)

12:20 a.m.

My head is still dangling over the toilet, now filled with an acid and enzyme puree of the night‘s takeout veggie burger dinner. This is the first time I‘ve thrown up in almost a year, since the day I met Wes at the EFM football game, and I forgot how disgusting it feels. I hate my body for being so weak and frail, for mirroring my emotions rather than rising above them. Soon the dry heaving takes over.

12:34 a.m.

My back is sore from my barfing spasms. My throat‘s raw from all the puke. With my stomach knotted from shitting and my neck strained from crying, I no longer have enough range of motion to extract my limp body from my vomit-and mucus-encrusted black polyester funeral dress. Too worn out to cry anymore, I crawl on all fours from the bathroom to my bed. At some point in the middle of the night I fall into a still sleep and don‘t dream.

37

A
t half past nine I wake up with my usual thoughts of Wes. I feel calm and excited for our birthdays until my memory floods back. Yesterday really happened. My lower back is sore. My throat is dry. My right hand is lifeless without the mood ring. But other than that, I feel…okay.

I‘m eighteen. I‘m eighteen today.

I stretch my arms up and look out of the window over my headboard. It‘s beautiful outside. I cling desperately to the hope it brings. I really need to pee, but instead of rushing to the bathroom I dive onto the floor to retrieve my cell phone. It‘s chipped on the right side and the display is cracked, but it‘s still working. No calls. I race to my computer and check my e-mail.

My heart literally rattles in my chest when I spot Wes‘s name couched between two birthday e-cards sent by Tulane friends. There‘s no subject line, and it‘s only one kilobyte.
Please, please
make this say what I want it to say!
I click open the message.

Subject:

Date: Sunday, December 22, 1:02 a.m.

Dom, I‘m really sorry how things turned out. Please don‘t hate me. W

After rereading it a few times, I clickREPLY .

Dear Wes (a.k.a. Fucking Bastard),

Please don‘t
hate
you??!! I hate that I
love
you. Loving you made me waste a year of my life.

Loving you made me be passionate about nothing but you. Loving you made me take risks I never would have otherwise. Loving you made me give it up to you. Loving you made me neglect my parents and Amy. Loving you made me not care that my grandma just died. Loving you made me turn out bitter and hopeless like her. Loving you made me hate myself for being dumped by you. Loving you made me deluded, irrational, inconsiderate, and a liar. And because I love you, you‘re always going to haunt me.

I‘ll never be able to have another birthday without wondering how you‘re celebrating yours. I‘ll never be able to think another guy is more handsome, talented, intelligent, or worth loving than you, despite all your faults (and there are many). I‘ll never be able to check my e-mail without praying I‘ll find a message from you with the subject line
I love you, Dom—please come back to
me.
Meanwhile, every corner of this city is laced with memories of us together, and I‘ll never be able to leave the house without hoping and dreading that I‘ll run into you. You stole Fort Myers from me, and I lived here first, you fucking thief. You actually may be one of my last thoughts when I die.

It‘s really no surprise you suck at relationships. As an English major and a trackie, you devote yourself to activities that require no real teamwork. You don‘t know the first thing about what it takes to play off of each other and achieve a common goal. You were on the bench the whole time, leaving me with all the exhausting work of keeping our relationship going until you just called ―game over.‖

So fuck you. Have a happy fucking birthday.

Dom

P.S. Remember the night before Thanksgiving? I faked it!

Before deleting the e-mail, I print it out and stuff it in the Wes trash bag in my bathroom, I guess in a symbolic attempt to throw away my feelings for him.

Suddenly I wonder if Wes‘s dumping me is some sort of karmic retribution for my rejecting Calvin so callously. Then I think how a true scientist would never be so superstitious. I immediately grab my Operation board game and also shove it in the trash, not because it reminds me of him, but because it reminds me of how pathetic I am.

Finally, I park on the toilet and let myself pee for the first time this morning, and I can feel myself fall into despair, deeper than ever. I‘m still in my black dress, and I smell.

After stripping I trudge to the shower. I try to shave my legs, but my hands shake so much I keep cutting myself. I watch the blood trickle down my shins. Even this reminds me of Wes, of the day he pulled me from the mud. My knees still have scars from that fall. I‘m always going to have them.

I increase the temperature of the shower until it‘s scalding, and I force myself to stand still under the stream. I want to be cleansed, reborn, exorcized, revirginized, something. All I get is overheated.

―Happy birthday to our now legally adult girl!‖ Dad exclaims when I plod into the dining room.

Mom‘s bustling around the table, affixing balloons and streamers to the wall. She comes down from the stepladder and walks over to hug me. I raise my arms in stiff reciprocation. I can tell from her puffy eyes she‘s been crying about Grandma, but she manages a weak smile as she asks, ―How does it feel to be eighteen?‖

So far, it sucks,
I want to scream in her face.

―Whatever. Same as always.‖

―You all right, Dom?‖ Dad asks from his place at the head of the table. ―Sure you don‘t want to talk about—‖

―Yes, Dad,‖ I grumble through gritted teeth.

―You‘re still up for fishing, I hope? It‘ll get your mind off things.‖

―Yeah, maybe.‖ I take my usual seat and pour myself some ice water even though I have zero thirst.

Mom carries in a colorful assorted fruit platter. As she‘s serving me she says, ―Be sure to sit up straight, honey.‖

I almost drop the pitcher out of shock. I thought that whole posture business died with Grandma.

Instead, it‘s been passed on. And Mom‘s not giving me a break, today of all days! I know I should take the high road and fake being happy, but when she asks a minute later what I‘m planning to do for the rest of the break, I lose it.

―Well, Mom, I was intending to spend my highly anticipated and well-earned vacation with my boyfriend. But since my winter break has turned into a winter breakup, I guess I‘m going to have to come up with a Plan B. Thanks for reminding me that I‘ve just been dumped, Mom. How sensitive of you.‖

I run back to my room, lock the door, and flop down on the bed. I can‘t hold it in anymore, and I start sobbing again.

―Dom, it‘s Dad. Please let me in.‖

―No,‖ I cry. ―Leave me alone.‖

―Let me in, Dom. I‘m not leaving.‖

―Jesus. Fine!‖ I scream as I open the door.

He‘s standing there with a small wooden lockbox. He says softly, ―Dom, sit with me a minute. I want to show you something.‖

―Please, I want to be alone.‖

―Just look.‖ He closes the door behind him. ―This won‘t take long.‖

I grab a tissue and reluctantly plop down on the bed next to Dad. He lifts open the top of the lockbox and takes out a photograph.

―Is that you?‖ I sniffle, pointing to a thin man with brown hair and a wide smile.

―Yeah. I was twenty.‖

―Who‘s that?‖ I point to a blonde who has her arms around Dad‘s waist.

―Sandra, the girl I was engaged to before your mom. We went to Florida State together.‖

I immediately stop crying. ―You were engaged before Mom?‖ I study the image more closely.

―Yech.‖

―C‘mon, Sandy was attractive.‖

―Mom is so much prettier.‖ I study the woman, the woman Dad wanted before Mom. ―So, why didn‘t you marry her?‖

―I wanted to. We were together for five years, but she broke it off.‖

―Five years?‖

Dad nods. ―At the beginning, we were crazy for each other. I never stopped being crazy for her, but she just grew apart from me, I guess.‖

After a silence I ask, ―How long did it take for you to get over her?‖

―A while, and—I won‘t lie, Dom—it felt like taking a bullet.‖

―Great,‖ I say dejectedly as I start picking at the new scabs on my legs. ―Why did I have to love him so much if we‘re not going to end up together?‖

Dad sighs as he shuts the box. ―It‘s one of life‘s mysteries. What baffled me about Sandy was I wanted to be with her even though I could‘ve made a list of a hundred good reasons why we were wrong together. Anyway, after she left, I realized that even though I couldn‘t control my feelings, I had complete control over my actions. It hurt, but I chose to get out there again and see other women, and then I met the right woman. Whatever I felt for Sandy eventually went away.‖

―I just feel so stupid I‘m in this situation at all. All the thoughts I‘m having—it‘s like I‘m insane.‖

―You‘re not, take my word for it. I know from my Sandy days what a roller coaster this is for you.‖

―Mom doesn‘t get it, though. She‘s never been through this.‖

―That‘s true, and I feel kind of sorry for her.‖

I look at him incredulously. ―You feel sorry for Mom that she‘s never been heartbroken?‖

―In a way. She‘s never experienced the big lows that make the big highs so much better.‖ Dad‘s looking off into space now and pats the lockbox with his hand. Finally he punches my shoulder gently and says, ―C‘mon. Let‘s go back to the table, and you should apologize to Mom for yelling. Remember, she just lost her mommy. She‘s putting on a brave face, but you gotta be extra good to her.‖

―Yeah, okay.‖

―And don‘t tell her about Sandra.‖ He pats the box again. ―She doesn‘t need to know.‖

―I won‘t. And Dad?‖

―Yes, Dom?‖

I hug him. ―Thanks.‖

38

O
ur fishing trip lasts only twenty minutes because I can‘t stop regurgitating breakfast over the side of the boat. Then the next two days continue my vicious cycle of sporadic crying, puking, checking e-mail, writing e-mails I don‘t send, hoping, wallowing, and bitching to Amy about Wes. I guess I‘m testing her patience because she‘s being unusually quiet on the phone, and I have to keep reminding her to give me her opinion.

I muster the self-restraint not to call Amy on Christmas Eve, to give her a break. But she calls me a little after ten while I‘m trying to go to sleep. I‘ve already been in bed most of the day except a half hour for breakfast and a half hour for dinner, which my parents wouldn‘t let me skip.

―Hey, Ames,‖ I choke. ―Merry almost-Christmas.‖

―Dom, I know you‘re dealing with a lot and I‘m so sorry, but I actually really need you right now. Can you come over?‖

―Well, what‘s wrong?‖ I ask, looking at my alarm clock. ―It‘s late.‖

―
I’m
late.‖

After a beat: ―How late?‖

―Ten days.‖

―Holy shit, Ames.‖ In a flash I‘m sitting up and my heart starts racing.

―I‘ve been late before, but never more than four or five days, so I‘m officially freaking out, Dom.‖

―I thought you were using condoms.‖

―We do, but those things can break.‖

―Did you tell Joel?‖

―No. I don‘t want to unless I‘m sure.‖ Her voice cracks. ―Even then I‘m not sure if I‘d tell him.‖

Within minutes I‘m on my bike. It feels good to be outside moving again, though I‘m amazed my muscles are still operating normally after forty-eight hours on my back. On the way to Amy‘s I stop at the twenty-four-hour CVS, the same one where I bought condoms, lubricant, and dental dams in the past eight months. Today, I buy a pregnancy test.

I wait on Amy‘s Papasan chair while she uses the bathroom. Fifteen minutes pass before Amy admits she‘s too scared to pee. I advise her to run the faucet and visualize a peaceful scene of gushing streams and waterfalls. After another ten minutes she manages to squeeze enough drops into a Dixie cup, into which she dips the test strip. I hold her hand for the next three minutes as we watch for the results to take shape. It‘s bizarre to see Amy freaked out about something sex related.

―Dom, what if I‘m pregnant?‖ She undoes the clasp on her heart locket necklace and flings it against the shower curtain. ―Fucking sperm!‖

―Let‘s not worry unless there‘s something to worry about.‖

Soon Amy‘s holding the negative test strip to her heart and crying, ―Oh, thank God! Thank God!

Thank God! It‘s a fucking Christmas miracle!‖ She grabs my hands and jumps up and down on her bath mat whooping for joy. ―I have never wanted to be a nun as much as I do now,‖ she says finally.

―I‘ll believe that when I see it.‖ I laugh. ―Anyway, it‘s probably training for track that did it.

Changes in exercise habits often throw menstrual cycles out of whack. You should see a doctor if you don‘t get it soon, though.‖

―Oh, Dom,‖ she pants, fanning herself with her hands. ―There‘s no one at Amherst I could have gone through this with. You‘re the best!‖

We hug, and I get her a cup of cold water from the sink. She downs the whole thing.

―Thanks,‖ she says while refilling the cup. ―I feel so much better.‖

―It‘s okay. Honestly, as much as this sucked, it was actually kind of nice to have something on my mind other than you-know-who.‖

―Speaking of which,‖ Amy says as she wipes her eyes and sits on the toilet seat. ―Now that I can stop being completely self-absorbed, how did today go? How‘s your back?‖

I sit down too, on the edge of the bathtub. ―It‘s totally sore from all the barfing. Ever since it happened I can‘t keep anything down.‖

Amy nods before taking another sip of water. ―Remember how Mom said lovesickness is like a crash diet?‖

―Yeah, well, I‘d rather chip away at my freshman fifteen in a healthy way. Biking here was the first exercise I‘ve gotten since I hurt my knee.‖

―You should go biking again tomorrow. Being cooped up in your room all day‘s not going to help you.‖

―I know, but at least it‘s a foolproof way not to run into him.‖

Just then the Braffs‘ living room clock strikes midnight. I motion for Amy to follow me back into her room, where I open my knapsack and hand her the art book I bought.