Blue Rose (A Flowering Novel) (15 page)

32

Even though we had agreed at the beach that it was basically over, s
aying goodbye to Dave was harder than I expected. We agreed that I wouldn’t go with him to the bus station, instead saying our goodbyes the night before. We had sex and I tried to be present, but it just felt even worse because we both knew it was final. After, he asked me if I thought that Jack and I would pick up where we’d left off, once he was gone. I didn’t know how to answer, so I pretended to be asleep. Then he told me that he loved me and that there wasn’t enough distance or time to change that.

He was gone when I woke up in the morning, without a note or anything.
I walked home and, during the walk, I decided I couldn’t let it end like that. My mom was out of town for work, but she’d rented a car so I still had a means of getting to the station. I didn’t have much time and I showered and dressed fast, deciding I didn’t need great hair and makeup to say goodbye. However, I definitely needed to say goodbye. I had thought it would be fine this way, but I’d had a dream that Dave had died overseas and I couldn’t live with myself if I let him leave like this.

The station was really crowded. There’s nothing good in a bus station. It always feel like everyone is carrying their burdens in their luggage and the sense of hopeless
ness permeates the place. I hate bus stations, and that day was the worst. It was also raining and dark and I felt more like I was walking into a funeral than into a transportation hub.

Dave was alone on one of the benches. He was looking at his cell phone and I realized that he was probably waiting for a message from me. I couldn’t believe his parents weren’t there. I knew that his father wouldn’t show, but I was surprised his mom hadn’t, either. He didn’t see me and I watched him for a while. I knew that he was going into training and then probably off to war or whatever the hell they called it, but he looked so young. I couldn’t imagine him at war, carrying a weapon, hurting anyone. Even though he was a big guy, he was still my friend. And I couldn’t picture my friend killing another human being.

I didn’t want to sneak up on him, so I took out my phone and
I texted him. All I said was that I missed him already. When the message popped up on his phone, he smiled, and it was heartbreaking. I saw in his smile that he loved me in a way that no one ever had. And I hated myself because I couldn’t run to him and tell him that I felt the same way. I just didn’t. I cared for him and I would miss him, but I didn’t love him. Not in a long-term way. And when I saw him smile, I realized that I couldn’t fake it enough. I couldn’t walk over to the bench where he was and pretend, because he’d see right through me. I didn’t want him to leave with that memory. Instead, I wanted him to leave with the memory of holding me in his bed, telling me that he loved me, and then believing there was hope for later, even though we’d both agreed there wasn’t.

He texted me back quickly. “I thought we agreed to let this be goodbye.”

I stood in the doorway, where passengers were coming and going, and I watched him. I drafted a hundred replies in my head, but I didn’t send any of them. And then they announced that his bus was boarding. I watched him walk away, still staring at his phone and waiting for the reply that would never come. And then, he was gone.

I got his only letter a few weeks later, and it was clear that any doubt he had about
us being over was gone. He didn’t say much about how he felt about the army. He just said that he was moving on, and I let him. I made the choice in the station, in not replying to his text or his letter, and really in every step of our relationship to that point.

33

The bus station looks exactly the same as it did a couple of years ago. Except someone had the brilliant idea of adding holly and greenery to the ticket windows, because nothing says Christmas cheer like a dirty bus station.

Dave’s supposed to be in around 4:00, which means I have twenty minutes to wait. I get a coffee and sit down, watching the arrivals and departures board and thinking about time.
I don’t know what’s different really, except that I opened up and I’m trying. Having Owen around has helped, because he’s getting me to trust him. Then, seeing Jack with Lily and seeing how different they are and yet how open they are with each other gives me hope. All combined with finally feeling comfortable with a therapist and maybe there is a new path forming in front of me.

I’m not delusional. Dave and I have a lot to work through, but I’m also relieved that we waited until now. I don’t think I was ready and at least I feel like I can be honest with him. Our conversations have been short, but I get the impression
that he’s looking forward to seeing me.

His bus is early and I see him before he sees me. He’s gotten broader and his head is shaved, but he still mostly looks the same. I think about his body, the way he moves, his eyes, and I feel surprised at how much detail I remember. For a guy
whom I was convinced I only cared for as a friend, I certainly memorized the hell out of him naked. I feel stupidly embarrassed thinking about it here and my face gets warm.
What’s wrong with you?
I think, but that’s all I have time for because he looks up and sees me. His smile is full of two years of questions, but also a look of pure joy. With just a smile, Dave makes me feel like the entire bus station is a stage set and that I’m the only girl who’s ever existed.

He walks slowly toward me and I’m anxious. I feel in my purse for my Xanax, but I don’t take it out. I just wait until he’s close and then he drops his bag at my feet and pulls me into a hug. He smells the same as I remember and his arms engulf me. I just want to curl up alongside him and start over.

“You look amazing,” he says, which is funny because I’m wearing old jeans and a crappy t-shirt. I spent hours going through my clothes, but I kept worrying about the message that each outfit sent. I didn’t want to look slutty in case he thought that I was only coming to see him to start that up again, but I didn’t want to look too disinterested so he thought that there was
no way
we would start that up again. After finally deciding that I hated everything I own, I went with a t-shirt and jeans. And not even nice ones.

“So do you,” I say, because he
actually does. He’s older now, the muscles all seeming to belong on his body in a way that they never did. He used to be big, but it was always the kind of awkward size where it felt like he’d woken up one day in his body and he had no idea how to use it.

“So…”
he says.

Two years is a long time, and neither of us knows what to say. There is so much I want to say and yet, there seems to be nothing worth saying. Not here, in this depressing
bus station. Dave’s smile is so hopeful, so happy, and I feel both confused and excited as he holds me at arm’s length and looks at me. I want to tell him everything, but then, I just want to start over and pretend none of it ever happened. Instead, I stay silent, until he leans down and picks up his bag.

“Do you… I mean, I’d like to spend time with you,” I
tell him.

“Let’s go somewhere. To talk,” he suggests.

I don’t want to bring him to my house. Owen’s been spending a lot more time at the house and there is a whole Christmas theme going on right now there. It’s weird how easily Owen has slipped into my life, and although I still don’t know a lot about him or about his past, I trust him and, while I may never admit it to anyone, I actually like having him around. Still, I don’t want to talk to Dave with Owen and my mom; I want to handle the pieces of my life in isolation from one another. Someday I will be ready to bring them all together, but it’s a slow road to walk.

“We can go to the beach,” I suggest, which probably sounds crazy since
it’s winter, but it’s important to us and he knows immediately what I mean. He smiles shyly and waits for me to lead him to my car. I don’t have a blanket or anything, but when we get to the beach, it doesn’t matter. It’s freezing, but Dave takes off his coat and wraps it around my shoulders. We walk down to the rocks and sit. I feel like whatever I say is going to be the most important thing I’ve ever said and it terrifies me. I don’t get a chance to say anything, though, before he leans over and pulls my face to his, kissing me tentatively. The question implicit in it melts almost immediately, though, and I open up to him. I know he knows it’s different, that it’s an opening up I never gave him in the nearly year that we were actually together. For some reason, the kiss feels like it’s exactly what was meant to happen, even if we took the longest route possible to get here.

“I know I promised
that I would move on, that you didn’t need to wait, but Alana, I still love you. Probably more than I ever did back then,” he says after the kiss.

“I don’t think I really knew what that meant before,” I admit. “The last few years… they’ve been bad. I’ve done things that…”

He takes my hand. “I don’t need to know. I don’t
want
to know. It’s the past. It’s all over. You were the first, you know, and you’ve always been the only one.”

“There’s been no one? In two years?” I ask.

“Well, physically, yes. Things for me have been… different. Especially at first. I wanted to pretend that I didn’t still feel those things and then, you never wrote back and, well, I wanted to remove you from everything I thought of when I came home. I tried to forget you, but I didn’t. I only tried. Don’t hate me. It was just sex. You’re still more than that. You’ve always been more than that.”

I laugh, more out of surprise and the irony of it all. “I’ll never understand why you always thought so. Because as soon as you were gone, that’s all I was, Dave.”

“Well, it’s not all you are to me, and what happened already happened. Who you were yesterday has no bearing on today. Or tomorrow.”

“When the hell did you get so wise?” I ask.

He looks down. “It’s a defense mechanism. Sometimes, it’s easier to think positively and think about the good things that could happen than to focus on the shit that already has. I’m different, too, Alana. There are things that I never want you to know about me. I just want to be the guy I should have been for you in the first place.”

“I don’t want to talk about the mistakes we’ve made,” I say. “Maybe you should just kiss me again.” And he does. And for the first time ever, I feel and experience nothing but him. My friend, my former boyfriend, the guy who always loved me when I couldn’t love him back, suddenly becomes something completely massive in my life and it’s the only thing I want to think about.

34

When I was with Dave, it was never totally a relationship and he knew it. Except for one night. We still dated and we had sex, but he loved me and I used him to cover my pain, my loss of Jack
, and my own fear of being empty for the rest of my life. But there was one night, one moment that forever comes to mind when I remember him, and the strangest part of it is that the night was a mistake. It all turned out wrong, but it was the most significant part of our relationship.

I’d always hated Valentine’s Day. My history
with it was obviously fucked up. Since my father and Jerry, the entire concept of relationships, of healthy, normal relationships where people were in love and happy and sober and stable, was just foreign. Even when I was with Jack, we couldn’t do Valentine’s Day. It was just so sappy and fake, something for people who came from lives far different from our own. For me, though, there was another reason, and no one knew about it. And I would never tell anyone.

It was a stupid tradition. The holiday and the way that it was brought into school
, as if it was a holiday little kids had any reason to celebrate anyway. But every year, we got paper bags that we hung in the classroom with our names on them, and we each bought valentines to give to our classmates. We didn’t have a lot of money, so my mom bought those little folding ones, but I always had my valentines filled out and ready. My classmates had whatever was the hottest trend each year – SpongeBob, Lizzie McGuire, the Disney movie of the year. Meanwhile, mine were usually a generic dog or a frog or something. I couldn’t even buy the right valentines.

In sixth grade, I had no friends. Everyone hated me because I had boobs and I was a slut. It wasn’t until that summer that I really became a slut, but I didn’t have anyone who liked me. By sixth grade, we were too fucking old to be doing valentines anyway. Not that the teacher understood that. We were still in middle school and she wanted to do something special for our last year. So we were told to make our paper bags and then bring in
our valentines during the week. We’d open the valentines on Friday.

My bag was beautiful. I loved to draw and I even got permission to bring it home to work on it. Although we didn’t have a lot of supplies
at home, I made it completely me. Every inch was covered, with flowers and hearts and a drawing of a bird. The bird wasn’t related to Valentine’s Day, but it made me happy. I loved the idea of escape, of flying, of freedom. I didn’t even know why I loved that idea yet, and by the time I did, I guess I just didn’t think there was anywhere to escape to anymore. I was so proud of the bag and I brought it in, hanging it up and filling all my classmates’ bags as I did with the valentines my mom had bought. This year, they were monkeys. I always hated monkeys after that.

During the week, my classmates cheated and checked to see if their bags were filling up, but I didn’t. I wanted to see it all at once, to enjoy it like I was supposed to. Maybe I knew, but I felt like it would ruin the bag if I opened it early, and I liked being proud of something. On Friday, though, we each opened our bags. Everyone else had twenty or more valentines and they passed them around, laughing at the messages, reading them aloud, the girls trying to see if there was implied flirtation in the messages from the boys they liked. But my bag was empty. Except for one card. I opened it and it was a simple message. “Happy Valentine’s Day, Alana. Bee happy.” There was a bee on it with heart-shaped antennae. The card was from our teacher.

No one noticed that I had no cards, and no one said anything about the cards that I’d given them. Instead, I just waited through the last hour of school, eating the cupcake that the teacher had brought, and then I went home and threw my stupid bird bag in the trash. It was a meaningless holiday anyway.

So when Dave wanted to take me out for Valentine’s Day, I was wary. We never went on real dates and my experiences had taught me that usually
having expectations let me down. However, he insisted and I was feeling lost anyway, since Jack was in the hospital still. The plan was to go into the city for dinner at some fancy restaurant by the water and then go for a walk or something. But it had snowed really badly the day before, and the roads sucked. So we decided to take the train. There were only two trains that would get us into the city in time for our reservations. One was first thing in the morning and the other was at 2:00. We chose the afternoon train and we should have arrived at 3:30. Of course, we didn’t.

Because of the weather, the tracks weren’t cleared properly and the train ended up getting stuck halfway. We sat there for
over two and a half hours, and then, by the time they got the go ahead, we ended up making it into the city a little after 6:30, thirty minutes late for our reservations, and we weren’t even on the right side of the city.

“What now?”
Dave asked, as we stood in the middle of North Station, both miserable, cold, and already exhausted.

I shrugged. “Let’s just take the subway somewhere, I guess. Do you still want to eat?”

“Yeah, but everything will be crowded or booked now.”

I looked at the list of stations. “Wanna go to the MFA? I’ve never been there. I like art.”

He shook his head. “Yeah, whatever.” I knew that he was mad at himself because he felt like he’d let me down, but the truth was that I actually preferred the art museum to the restaurant anyway. I just didn’t want to make him feel bad for not thinking of it first.

The MFA is expensive, and we ended up spending most of our dinner money on
getting into the museum. It was past seven when we got there and it would only be open for a few more hours, but the last train home was at 10:30 anyway, so it’s not like we could have stayed in the city much longer as it was.

“Are you hungry?” Dave asked
after we were inside. “We can go to the cafeteria.”

Like everything else, the cafeteria was expensive, so our Valentine’s Day, which was actually around our anniversary as well,
consisted of a couple hours at the art museum after a shared dinner of a hamburger. But I got to see my first painting by a famous artist in person, and Dave sat with me for thirty minutes while I marveled at
Dance at Bougival
.

“It’s beautiful,” I said.

“So are you.”

I laughed. “Don’t be cheesy,” I told him, although mostly because I hated that he still cared about me. He still respected me, after what I had done to him. He still loved me, even though he knew I would never return the feelings. But that night, I felt like Dave had given me something
that no one in the world would ever understand. He made life and the world and the things that mattered to me real. For most people, a Renoir painting might just be another experience in a vast collection of experiences, but for me, it was a glimpse into a life that people like me would never live. And I felt free, temporarily. I had given up on college, on love, on my future. But I would always have Renoir, and the only person who was linked to that memory was the boy who loved me unconditionally, no matter how much I refused to change.