Loved - A Novel (22 page)

Chad was destroying me in every way possible.

             
April, 2006.

              Chad was still hot and cold, telling me that I would be his wife one day or that he was “almost” ready to get back together, and then acting like I had made it up the next day.  He was a stranger to me on the phone. We hadn’t even seen each other in person in months.

              Some nights he would tell me that he might stop by and surprise me. I would sit up waiting, listening to every creek in the screen door, but there was never a knock.

              I made friends at the boutique where I was working and I would sometimes go out with them dancing or to local fashion shows. I excelled in sales, and despite my daily crying sessions in the stock room, my boss, Taryn, was patient with me. 

              One of my customers was a guy who worked for Sony Records. He would come in to bring us CDs to play in the store and we would always end up chatting about music. His name was Ben Moren. I was surprised to learn that he was a year younger; he gave off an air of mature confidence. Ben was short and fair with dirty blonde hair and beard, and freckled arms. One day he brought me a copy of a live
Counting Crows
CD that I didn’t have yet. I must have mentioned that they were my favorite band. I gave him my phone number even though I knew I wasn’t ready.

              Chad was still seeing the girl. That’s what I called her,
the girl
. Dripping with disgust, to him, to my parents and to my friends, I would call her,
the girl
. One day, she wandered into the store, probably by mistake, and I had to excuse myself to the back room. She must have seen me because it wasn’t long before she left. Chad told me once that she was afraid of me because she knew how much he loved me. He told me that we were actually very much alike. I liked that she was afraid. I refused to believe that we were alike.

              One night I was out for pizza with a friend, waiting for a table. Chad and
the girl
walked in and spotted me, looking suddenly unsure of their next move. It was too late for us to ignore each other. Chad shook his head and said, “I’m sorry, we’ll leave.” I was too upset to stay so my friend and I left also. I was driving home when Chad called. 

I answered.

              “I’m so sorry about that! Listen, she’s crazy and jealous and she told me she never wanted to fucking see me again and I’m relieved. I’m going back to meet up with some friends. Will you come? It’s over with her and I want you.  She’s so crazy.”

              I went. We kissed and laughed, and there was magic in the air. This is what I had been waiting for. Even his friends kept telling me how glad they were that we were back together; they didn’t like her much at all. Knowing that I didn’t want to know her name, they used a code name, Jay, whenever they talked about her.

              The next morning, Chad and I were on the phone talking sweetly to each other when there was a knock at the door. I had on a t-shirt with a hole in the armpit. I hadn’t brushed my teeth or put in my contacts but there he was and it was exactly like I’d hoped. He took me to lunch and he kissed me goodbye. He said that he felt like he was coming home.

              Then things went right back to the way they were, hot and cold. Four calls in one day then four days without a call.  A week went by, then two.

              I took myself to a museum to see an exhibit of French impressionist paintings: Van Gogh, Renoir and Monet. My favorites were a LaTour and one called “Wildflowers” by Redon. I went to the movies, where I ate peanut M&Ms and checked my phone a few times even though I’d promised myself I’d turn it off. I watched
Law and Order
. I wrote—wrote all the things that I couldn’t say to him. I wrote about how much I believed in us. I wrote about how much I trusted God. I wrote that I was praying for him. I wrote down all the jokes that I could remember, which weren’t many.

              I met a guy at work who was very attractive and my type: tall, dark-haired, stylish and most likely a musician. He had fingernails painted black and he kept smiling at me. He exuded confidence in the way he slipped into different jackets and checked himself out in the mirror. The way he tried on a hat, I could tell he didn’t need me to tell him that it looked great on him. He wasn’t cocky, just confident. He asked me to put the hat on hold and told me that his name was Quinn. It was so good that I had to repeat it. He turned to ask me my name before walking out the door.

              I wrote my phone number on the hold tag with the hat. He had mentioned that he was from Vancouver so I knew that while proving to myself that I wasn’t living for Chad anymore, I was still safe from stepping into a situation that would require me to move on. There was no way I would actually begin to date Quinn.

              I loved the idea of this guy, though. We would have long talks on the phone about cities that he had visited, and we would be very open and very deep, sharing with each other our passions and our dreams. Perhaps he would write me song lyrics and email them to me. We’d get trapped in each other’s minds. Chad and I would get trapped in one of our apartments together, but we were never in each other’s minds that way. 

Is that really true?
I wondered after the new thought crossed my mind. Were we not perfect for each other after all?

              Was I starting to let go?

May, 2006.

              I began dreaming of fighting with Chad every night, and the dreams began to include other girls. My nights were filled with hatred. My days were heavy with his phone calls, or the lack of phone calls—heavy either way. I was a yo-yo, just a little toy in his hands. I never knew anyone could make me hurt that much, but I didn’t know what to do about it. If I was to walk away, then I surely wouldn’t have him and wasn’t that worse?

              I lay in bed practicing my “I can’t do this anymore” speech for several weeks before one night something clicked.  I realized that I had gotten it right and I was going to have to use it. I sobbed. I prayed, “Please, God, no. Tell me I don’t have to do this!” but all I felt was confirmation.

              I told Chad that I couldn’t wait any longer. I had been his girlfriend in my heart for four months, and he hadn’t been my boyfriend in his heart. I was much more invested than he was and the inconsistencies were too hard on me. 

He said, “You’re right, it isn’t fair to you,” and we got off the phone.

I couldn’t believe it was that easy for him, but I felt a kind of bittersweet relief. Then, a few hours later, he texted me and accused me of seeing someone else.

Maybe I wasn’t the yo-yo.

              He would text me and I would ignore him. He sent videos of himself playing guitar. He sent “I love you so much” messages—anything to get me to finally answer him. Then, he’d say triumphantly, “you replied!” It was a game to him. I reminded him that “anything shy of being my boyfriend wasn’t enough for me.” 

“I need a yes or no,” I said, “and I need it yesterday.” I went on trying to ignore him.

              It got worse. The last week of May, Chad was still flirting with me by text on Sunday. Monday, he said he still loved me to which I didn’t reply. Wednesday, he got a girlfriend.  Thursday, I found out and all hell broke loose. I was so confused. I fought for this relationship so hard, but the person he had become was not someone I wanted to be with. I knew that person could never be my boyfriend, my husband or
the one
. It was time to let go.

              I wasn’t surprised when I heard that he had started dating
the girl
again, even though he’d said she was crazy.
I’ll show you crazy
, I thought. I drove over to his apartment late at night in a raging thunderstorm and pounded on his window until he came to the door. When he stepped out and stood in the rain instead of inviting me in, I knew she was in there.  The girl. “Jay.”

The red ponytail had taken my place.

              “You like her more than me.” I said to myself more than to him. 

              “I can’t compare. This is just what I need right now.  My family likes her, and...” 

              I interrupted, “I need you to say it to me. Tell me you like her more than me.”

              “But I...”

              “Say it!”

              “I like her more than you.”

              “Do not ever call me again,” I whispered. “Not. Ever!”

I didn’t wait for a response; I had heard everything I needed to hear.

I was dripping with rain and ecstatic with relief. I still needed to heal but at least that process could finally begin.

July, 2006.

              That summer, I was coming out of the gloom of my anxiety and heartbreak but was still a walking open wound.  Now that Chad wasn’t in my daily life and I was supposed to be “moving on,” it was no longer acceptable for me to excuse myself from the sales floor at work to cry or talk to friends for hours about myself, my feelings and my theories. So I pretended that I was moving on; maybe if I pretended hard enough, it would happen. At the very least, pretending would help me hold on to my friends and prevent me from being locked in the psych ward. 

              Pretending was easy when I wasn’t coherent. I would go out with my work friends and drink until I blacked out, baffled at how I got home safely every time. I would sleep it off, get up in the morning and smile through another day. 

             
I am ready, I am fine. I am fine.

              I was still too thin from having been so sick, but now I could wear flat boots with shorts and silk racerback tanks that were just a little too loose for me. I thought that I looked like a 60’s icon. I would dance until three a.m. and I wouldn’t wash off my makeup. I would just add a little more to it the next morning. Yesterday’s eyeliner always looks better, anyway.

              Objects in mirror are more fucked up than they appear.

              I met someone. Ok, truth be told, I met lots of someones. There was Sam, shockingly attractive, who stopped me one night outside
The Red Door
. I was leaving the bar unusually early, but he convinced me to come back in with him.  It wasn’t a hard sell—it was his birthday, after all. He was from Ohio and he was visiting some friends in town. I caught a glimpse of his ID as he ordered our
Yaegerbombs
. His birthday was actually in March but we celebrated anyway.

              Then, there was that one guy from the dance party at Ombi Bar. I have a picture with him.  Oh, what was his name?  I think he had an accent. I don’t even remember taking the picture, though my eyes are focused properly and I look completely lucid. It’s a great skill to have—to take sober-looking pictures when you’re anything but.

              There was Vince, the drummer, who I met at a cookout. He looked like he could have been Chase’s brother. He was several years younger and still in college. We went out a few times; he even introduced me to his dad, which I thought was nice, but then I lost interest.

              There was a little game that I played with the guys I met. In order to validate myself, I would do everything in my power to capture the attention of anyone who caught mine.  We’d dance, kiss and maybe hang out once or twice. Then they would realize that we weren’t suited for each other, which I knew deep down, and they’d stop calling. Despite the fact that I didn’t have feelings for any of them, each rejection stung like a slap in the face.

              On the off chance that someone stayed interested in me, I would back off—out of boredom, maybe. Out of fear, probably. It doesn’t really matter why. None of them were right for me, and I wasn’t right for any of them. They just made me feel less alone for a little while. Each guy stamped the passport of my heart. “You’re worthy.” Stamp, “You’re enough.” “You have not failed completely.” Stamp, stamp.

              Ben from Sony kept calling too. He was on the Warped Tour for the summer so we got to know each other better over the phone. I think the distance made me feel safe, and not being able to rush things kept me from ruining it.
Counting Crows
were coming to town in August and he bought us tickets. The man knew the way straight to my heart—my black and blue heart.

              There was something different about him; maybe it was because he was only on the phone—therefore mysterious and less threatening—or maybe because he was so casual, friendly and seemingly normal. Most of the others were as dysfunctional as I was, and although Ben wasn’t perfect, he had his head fixed firmly on his shoulders.

              Ben returned from tour mid-July during a week that I was staying with the Jamison kids. He and I had built up a pretty significant amount of anticipation for getting to see each other so he came over to the house instead of waiting until I was done babysitting. He took us out for ice cream, then we all played cards. I was pleased that he just wanted to hang out and spend time getting to know me. It was already the healthiest relationship that I’d had in a long time.