Sorority Sisters (10 page)

I feel a little sick, to be honest.

Sure, I feel my heart crack right down the middle. Sure, I want to cry and hit him a few times. Sure, I have to bury the daydreams I'd nourished of him proposing before he graduated in June and of the life we might have had in one of those little Texas oil towns. It won't be hard, once I get used to this dream being dead. I've had other dreams die, dreams that looked just like this.

I thought I was going to marry my eighth-grade boyfriend; I didn't bother to think about what he'd do for a living, but we'd live in Connecticut and have two kids and spend every Christmas Eve with my parents. I felt so mature, willing to give up Christmas Day to his parents.

I thought I was going to marry my tenth-grade boyfriend, that we would go off to college together and live a pretty life in a pretty town somewhere in New England. He cheated on me and then I cheated on him, and a year after doing that to each other over and over again, we finally broke up for good.

I thought I was going to marry my senior-year boyfriend, but he went to college in Ohio and I didn't.

I know what this particular chain of pain feels like, every link of it.

I think I'm going to cry.

But I won't. I just won't. I can't, because that would make it all worse, you know? It would make it all true, like I really am a slut and he really never cared about me at all, and no one wants me forever because I'm not pretty enough.

Gary doesn't want me.

No. No, it's not that. It's that it didn't work out because the timing was off, and I don't really want him anyway. Not really.

I'm pretty sure I wouldn't have liked living in Texas anyway.

“Congratulations,” I say, stepping away from him, crossing my arms over my chest. “I wish you'd told me sooner. I could have gotten you a nice gift.”

Gary takes a deep breath. His shoulders relax. He takes another deep, loud breath. Feeling better, are we? All the potential drama averted?

What a coldhearted bastard. I can't believe I ever thought I cared about this guy.

“It just worked out, a last-minute kind of thing.”

“Really. Congratulations.”

I take another step away from him. What was I thinking? Snuggling against a guy, a guy who is not my boyfriend, in front of the Four-O. Like everyone in the world couldn't see me?

In the biggest jinx of all time, the jinx of all jinxes, as if just thinking that thought made it happen, Greg drives by. He's in the passenger seat of his roommate's car, a white Ford, which I happen to know on sight because the paint job is so bad that even I can spot the car a mile off. I see Greg's face, a flash of white in the neon darkness of LA. I see his scowl; I see the car slow, swerve slightly, and then keep going. There's no slowing down here, not on Figueroa, not in front of the Four-O. But they can always go around the block and drive by again, or find a parking spot, or something. Something bad. Something that forces me to have a confrontation with my boyfriend about why I'm standing outside a bar talking to a guy who is really just giving me the most coldhearted brush-off of all brush-offs.

“You know that guy?” Gary says, looking after the Ford.

“Yeah. I do,” I say, watching to see if the Ford tries to make a U-turn. It doesn't. Gone for good, or coming back?

That was another metaphor, wasn't it? I can't take any more metaphors right now.

I'm not going to tell Gary how I know Greg or who Greg is. What he doesn't know won't hurt him, will it?

“Look, have a nice life,” I say to Gary. “Good luck in the desert.”

“Thanks,” Gary says, stepping close to me, looking like he wants to hug me or kiss me or something. “You're great, Karen. You've been great.”

How? Like in bed? Like I was a good lay, thanks a bunch, gotta run?

I'm not going to cry. I'm not.

“Thanks,” I say. I'm trying not to be sarcastic, but it's an uphill battle. “So, I'll see you around. Or I guess I won't.” I laugh, keeping my distance, but Gary keeps closing the gap. What does he expect? One for the road?

What is not going to happen, besides one last quickie, is that I let Gary see that this hurts. He's not getting one more thing from me. There's always another guy out there, right there, close by and ready to scoop up. When one drifts off, another steps up to home plate, ready to go all the way, hit all the bases.

That was a rotten metaphor. I can't believe I even thought that.

I'm not alone. I'm never alone. Guys can smell when a girl is alone and desperate, hunting for some guy,
any
guy to want her. I'm never hunting. I'm never desperate. I've always got one guy, at least one guy. There's always another guy, right? Always some guy who . . . who what?

Wants a piece of tail.

No. I'm not going to think that.

Gary's history, and Greg, my lovely boyfriend, Greg, just reclaimed home base.

It's true. I'd preferred Gary to Greg, just a little bit, just the very beginning of a brand-new love to take the place of a tired old one. But Greg is great, really great, and I love him. I love him completely. I just got distracted for a little bit.

I don't know what's wrong with me. Why can't I just be happy with the guy who loves me?

I will be. From now on, I will be. Just don't let Greg find out. Please, God, don't let Greg stop loving me.

“It's been real,” I say, half turning away from Gary. “Are you going back in?”

Gary studies me, trying to figure out . . . what? That I'm not going to cry? That I never cared all that much? That I'm putting a good face on a broken heart?

Let him wonder.

“No, I've got my last final tomorrow. I need to get going,” he says.

“Good luck. Hope you ace it,” I say, smiling freely and easily. No broken heart here, Gary; keep moving. Nothing to see.

“Okay,” he says. “Well, bye, Karen. It's been great.”

I don't bother to answer. I've said good-bye, wished him well, played it cool ten times in the last two minutes. The performance is over.

Gary jaywalks across Figueroa and disappears slowly into the city-bright darkness, walking hurriedly toward The Row.

It hits me then like a club: the crawl of pain banging at my heart, that upswell of nausea, the tears pressing against the back of my throat and behind my eyes.

“Hey! Are you coming or going?” Ellen shouts from across the street. She's about to jaywalk her way over. She just has to wait for a few cars to get out of her way, one of them an ugly white Ford.

I clear my throat and say, “Going. I think.” I shrug and point to the car that's double-parked for a fraction of a second while Greg hops out.

Greg came back. Okay. Here we go. The performance isn't over yet. God, I'm so tired. I just want to rest for a minute, to let down my guard and weep for a few hours.

“Where is he?” Greg says softly, but his look isn't soft. It's hard and angry. “Who was that?” He's not making a huge scene because of Ellen, because if there's anything Greg hates, it's making a scene and looking like a fool.

Join the club.

“Just some guy I met at an exchange once,” I say, which is nothing but the truth. It's just not the whole truth. This isn't a court of law; I'm not under oath. There is no penalty for perjury.

“He was hugging you.”

“I was hugging him. He told me that he just graduated. Congratulations, you know?” I say. Again, the truth. Sort of.

“Hi, Greg!” Ellen says, breathless from running across the street. “Are you all finished?”

She means is he all finished taking tests, but the words have a different meaning for me. Are we all finished? Is Greg finished with me?

He can't be. I love him. I can't imagine life without him. Or not easily imagine it.

“No. One to go,” Greg says, all smiles for Ellen. He's like that. Greg really hates to not look good, to not look perfectly composed and charming and on top of things. I'd say that's perfectly normal. “How about you?”

Ellen raises her hands in the air and does a little dance. “Finished! The end! Let the party begin!”

Greg laughs easily, but I can feel the chill buried in his eyes, hiding behind the happy twinkle he's displaying for Ellen's benefit.

“Karen? You done?” Ellen asks. “Are you ready to party with me? Greg can't, poor slob. He has to crack the books.”

“I'm done, but I'm exhausted,” I say. “I'll see you later at the house, Ellen.”

“Okay,” she says joyously. “See you later.”

Greg smiles until Ellen swings past the curtain into the Four-O, the sounds of talking and laughter, the smells of smoke and beer, slithering out into the street.

Greg and I stand on the sidewalk silently. I'm looking at him. He's looking out at the street.

“I'll walk you home,” he says after a few tense moments.

“Thanks,” I say. I slip my hand into his and we wait for a break in the traffic. “I'm really going to miss you. I wish we could spend semester break together, don't you?”

“Yeah, I do,” he says as we rush across the street.

I mean it. I make myself mean the words because I actually do, even if I don't feel the words. Say what you mean and mean what you say, and I do. I really do. I just don't say what I feel, or even feel what I say. Not this minute, anyway. But I will feel it. I will. I'll love Greg again because he'll love me. He
does
love me, and that's the only thing that matters.

“Do you still need to study for your English final?”

“Yeah. I guess you want to go home.”

We're in front of the Beta Pi house, our steps faltering. The brick walk calls to me, but I can't give in. I have to make sure everything is fine with Greg.

“No, not at all,” I say. “Why don't we go to your place?”

He smiles slightly and, holding hands, we walk down The Row. His apartment is just off Adams, a long walk down The Row and across Vermont. Greg is talking about his roommate and his Spanish final and how his mother's uncle taught him how to ride one summer; Greg likes to talk and he mostly likes to talk about himself. I don't mind. He's an interesting guy. At the moment, because of trying so hard to get my Gary reaction under control, I'm not actually paying much attention to Greg. It's foolish of me, I know, but I feel kind of loose and weepy at the moment. I'm definitely not at full strength.

Why I should need to be at any strength just to be with my boyfriend is a question I'm in no mood to wrestle with.

We climb the concrete stairs to his second-floor apartment and walk in as his roommate, Bruce, is walking out.

“Hi. I'm going to see a movie. I'll be out late,” Bruce says, taking the steps two at a time, slowing long enough to give me a leer and Greg a grin. I don't enjoy being leered at, but what can I do about it?

Greg ushers me in to his apartment, an almost identical layout to my apartment last year. The carpet is rust-colored shag that hasn't seen a vacuum in months, and the kitchen is a single sliver of linoleum and Formica dotted with dirty dishes, a dingy washrag, a quarter of a bottle of Joy, and a stained dish towel hanging on the oven handle. Beyond the kitchen is the sole bedroom with two twin beds sitting on the floor. The curtains only have two-thirds of their hooks. It is, overall and in particular, a dingy, unhappy, unloved-looking apartment. Of course I give in to the urge to love it and take care of it whenever I'm here. I can't help myself. Who could?

The kitchen table is piled high with textbooks and spiral notebooks and a dirty coffee cup. Greg doesn't seem to notice the mess, or even his books. Greg puts his arms around me from behind and presses himself against my back, murmuring against my hair, “You look so good.”

The drapes are open and the picture window is black and shiny, reflecting us. I don't know who's out there in the courtyard watching us, but anyone could be. Greg doesn't seem to care. I guess it doesn't matter who sees us. We're in love and we're only hugging.

“I just look good in red,” I say.

“You look better out of it,” he says.

Still behind me, his hands come up to cup my breasts. I can see this in the reflection. I can feel it, too, but it's seeing it that has me sort of frozen deep inside.
I have to do this
. . . . What a stupid thing to think. I want to do this. I love him. He loves me. We've been together for more than two years, so I know that this is the real thing and that this is the guy I'm going to marry. Greg is real. Gary was a distraction. I've got to stop letting myself get distracted.

Greg, his arms wrapped around me from behind, walks me to the bedroom, kissing my neck as we go. The bedroom is dark, the light from the alley streetlamp dim behind the dingy curtains. I can feel his hard-on at my back, an insistent, heavy weight, pressing against me. Greg turns me in his arms and I wrap my arms around his neck, standing on tiptoe to kiss his mouth. Two kisses later and I'm naked and on my back, Greg lying between my legs, his hands on my breasts.

I'm trying so hard. I'm trying to lose myself in this, to feel something, to want Greg and to want this. And I do. Kind of. I almost do, if he'd just give me a few more minutes, just a few more kisses and a few more caresses and just one whispered
I love you
. But instead I get a hard shove into me that goes nowhere. And I get Greg shoving a pillow under my butt so that I'm angled up toward the ceiling.

“Here we go,” he says. “That works.”

And then he's pushing into me, and I can feel that I'm not wet enough, but I guess he can't feel that because he grunts his way to orgasm and then lies down on me with a smile of pure bliss, and I hold him to me, tight. Holding him to me, pressing him against me, molding our bodies together. That's what I do, whispering, “I love you,” against his neck, running my fingers through the hair on his nape, embracing him with my whole heart and my entire body.