Anatomy of a Single Girl (21 page)

“Can’t you hang out for a while?” Guy asks as he hands me the book. “Lab’s closed today while the Complex gets a paint job, so I have all morning.” He smiles suggestively and leans against his bedpost.

It’s tempting, especially after the week I’ve had. I even feel butterflies in my stomach like when I first met Guy, but I can tell they’re more of the back-to-school variety this time. Classes begin in only ten days, and so much needs to get done between now and then. I’m anxious to return to my old routine rather than prolonging the inevitable. I’ve been doing that long enough.

“I’d really like to, Guy, but I can’t.”

“That’s cool. I’ll be back from Disney World on Sunday night, though, if you want to stop by after.”

“Well, by then I’ll have just one week left here, and I lost a lot of time being sick, and I just don’t …” I bow my head until he gets the hint.

“Oh … okay.” He squares his shoulders and crosses his arms. “So … this is it, then?”

“I think so,” I murmur. “Sorry.”

“No, there’s nothing to apologize for. Not that it doesn’t totally
suck
.” He comes up to me and frowns. “Well … what can I say, Dom? It was great knowing you. You single-handedly renewed my faith in premeds.”

I laugh. “And you definitely raised my opinion of frat boys.”

“Remember, you’ve never been to one of our parties.”

Nor will I
, I think. We’re quiet for a moment. It’s kind of sad, though mostly I don’t feel anything. Then I play back the last six weeks in my mind, and a wave of gratitude comes over me. “It’s been great knowing you, too, Guy. I learned a lot—
Star Wars …
sushi … 
stuff
.”

“That’s a winning combination.” He laughs. “And speaking of learning, for my last distribution requirement I have to take a life science. After reading your book, I was thinking of signing up for human physiology in the spring.”

“You should! It’ll be one of the most amazing classes you ever take.”

“It’ll slaughter my GPA, though. That stuff’s never been my strong suit—there’s so much memorization.”

“Well, if you run into trouble, just hit me up for help.”

I don’t know which one of us is more surprised I just said
that. Since the Rockfest last month I purposely haven’t been thinking of Guy outside the context of summer. But summer’s almost over now.

“Really, Dom? You wouldn’t mind?”

“Sure. What are friends for?”

Guy grins, and I feel the glow you get only when you give someone something they really want. Who knows if Guy will take me up on it, but that’s beside the point. It feels right to leave the door open.

Then Guy replies, “And since you premeds have a physics prerequisite, I can return the favor if you need.”

“That’d be good. I’m not taking it till junior year, and by then I’ll have forgotten everything they taught us in high school.”

Next we’re saying goodbye, and I don’t hesitate to lean into his chest as his arms envelop me. Hugs are really underrated.

When I finish buying Matt and Brie the duvet cover they registered for at Bed Bath & Beyond, I still have close to an hour and some leftover babysitting money. So I walk over to Jared Jewelers, where I splurge on matching charm bracelets for Amy and me. Then I go to Williams-Sonoma and get Mom and Dad a new filet knife to thank them for looking after me all week, and for tolerating me all summer. I realize gifts don’t magically make everything better, but sometimes they communicate things words can’t. Finally I stroll leisurely through the center promenade, basking in the breeze and cloudless sky. But as I pass the fountain by the Courtyard Café, I catch sight of someone sitting alone at an outdoor table. My ex-boyfriend.

24

I
knew all along that coming home this summer would mean risking a run-in with my ex. But no amount of anticipation prepares you for the first time it happens. If breakups are like deaths, then ex sightings are like seeing a ghost: you feel goose bumps, near loss of bladder control, and the sensation of your heart bursting in your throat. The distinction is that the ex is alive.

He doesn’t notice me. His gaze remains fixed on his tablet as he takes a swig of iced coffee. Meanwhile my body shifts gears into fight-or-flight, and it’s no contest. I face away and motor full steam ahead all the way to the parking lot while somehow managing not to pass out.

When I get into my car, I just sit there, stunned. I have no idea what to do next, or even what to think. Do I drive away? Or should I return and talk to him? Of course, I’m shaking too hard to attempt either right now.

I wish more than anything to run this by Amy. Hoping beyond hope that she’s using in-flight Wi-Fi, I take out my phone and log on to IM. She’s offline. So with no recourse left, I just ball up behind the wheel to try to calm down and weigh the pros and cons on my own.

No matter what move I make at this point, my brain’s forever imprinted with this new memory of him looking handsomer than ever. But by holding tight to my “clean break” policy and tearing out of here now, at least I’m assured nothing else will change. Speaking with him again could just screw things up with us even more.… On the other hand, how much more screwed up can things get?

Our breakup conversation ended with me basically telling him to go to hell, not that anyone could blame me, since I’d just been given the boot. Almost eight months later, though, it’s still unsettling having that ugliness between us, and staying on bad terms hasn’t helped the feelings go away. Time usually heals all wounds, whether it’s the flu or a fight. But maybe bad breakups, like bad infections, require intervention or else they’ll keep festering.

This isn’t about getting closure, which Dr. Braff claims is psychobabble. This isn’t about forgiving him, either, though I think I’ve already begun to. After all, it’s not like he stopped loving me on purpose. And this definitely isn’t about being friends, although
in theory
I’d like to be friends. Pursuing a friendship would demonstrate that I’ve accepted that our
relationship is gone forever. What he and I had would feel far more worthwhile if we could salvage something positive from the dregs. And in a world where people selflessly donate their organs to patients they don’t even know, Guy makes a valid point that it’s petty for exes to withhold friendship. But in reality, friendship with my ex would probably resemble our relationship—with me putting in most of the effort. So until I’m completely over what happened with us, I don’t want to open myself up to being disappointed again.

None of this means I can’t be friendly, though. Also, I’d love for him to see how good I’ve been looking and that I’m getting along fine without him, which I shouldn’t care about, but I do. And with my family moving away soon, we may never have another chance to smooth things over in person. I just need to act quickly if I’m going to catch him before he leaves the café.

But what if I make a fool of myself by saying something dumb or crying or getting the hiccups?

What if I go back and he’s there with a girl?

What if I relapse into thinking I could never love anyone else? That’d sabotage all my progress this year.

What if he thinks I want him back? I
would
love the good times back …

What if he thinks how glad he is to be rid of me?

“Who gives a fuck what he thinks?”
I shout aloud.

And the answer is
me. I
give a fuck. As my first lover and former love of my life, he’ll never stop mattering. But if I choose to face him, the reason has to be for
my
benefit, not to try to make him do or say or feel anything. Ultimately, I have no power over what he or any boy thinks of me.

I check my face in the visor mirror and pat off the sweat beads with a tissue. Then I pop a Listerine strip and take a deep breath before heading back into the Bell Tower Shops. My stomach churns harder with each step I retrace down the promenade, and I can’t remember ever being so nervous. Or excited. For so long I thought our story was over, but here’s a chance to give it a better ending.

He’s still sitting by himself, engrossed in whatever he’s reading. It’s hard to conceive that I’m really, truly beholding the boy who once replaced becoming a doctor as my number one priority in life. But the evidence is all there—that mop of golden hair; that strong cleft chin; his lithe, tall frame; those lips that appear too thin to be kissable (but I can attest otherwise); and of course those electric blue eyes I spent blissful eternities staring into and being adored by, until he stopped adoring me. “High school sweetheart” is such an innocuous-sounding term for something that can tear out your guts.

It’s not too late for me to run and hide again. That wouldn’t be the wrong decision. Perhaps it’s the smarter one. But I keep braving closer until we’re just five feet apart. How marvelous it is being this near to him once more, and how devastating that I can’t get nearer. Suddenly I get a whiff of his mom’s winter fresh detergent on his T-shirt. I close my eyes and inhale, allowing the aroma to take me back to high school. All year I’ve refused out of spite to utter his name, so it feels alien—and cathartic—to let it finally roll off my tongue.

“Hey, Wes.”

He looks up, and now
I’m
the ghost. He jumps to his feet,
and I almost laugh at the fright in his eyes. It’s so fortunate I saw him first, that I had those few minutes to steel myself for this moment. Getting dumped is such a loss of control, so gaining any upper hand feels victorious.

“Dom! Wow! Hey!” My ears burn, hearing his voice again. Then he repeats, “Wow!”

“Ditto. It’s been a while, huh?”

“You can say that.” Wes crosses his arms and gives me the once-over. “Yeah … so … yeah. Sorry … this is … such a surprise.”

“Yeah, I know. I was just picking up a few things.” I jiggle my shopping bags, which I purposely carried back from the car with me. “And there you were, so I figured I’d come over.”

He smiles tentatively, but the mood’s super awkward, which was inevitable. I bet he’s scared I’ll chew him out again. So I just smile too, hoping to convey that I have no intention of rehashing the split. It must work, because his shoulders relax a bit and he goes on, “That’s crazy odds we both showed up here. I came in from the city just last night. It’s my grandparents’ sixtieth anniversary tomorrow.”

Instantly his cheeks redden. He must also be thinking about all the late evenings we passed at his grandparents’ vacant condo. I’m astounded I didn’t remember that this weekend was the anniversary, even though I was guest of honor at their anniversary party last August. I was convinced I’d never forget
anything
associated with Wes. That’s another victory—beginning to forget.

“Oh, congrats to your grandparents! Sixty—wow, that’s a biggie. Is it nice being home?”

Wes winces. “I guess, but after Manhattan and dorm life, anyplace else feels really slow. I was going so stir-crazy at the house, I came here just to get some background noise.”

“I can see that, though I like the mellow pace. It’s similar to Tulane. So, is your brother in town, too?”

“Soon. He’s driving up from Miami tonight. He decided to apply to law school this year, so he’s doing a Kaplan class on the LSAT all day.”

“Yuck. I have a friend at Tulane who’s applying to business school, and he’s studying for the GMAT. I can’t believe that in just a year and a half I’ll be taking the MCAT.”

“Yeah. I’m already getting flyers for GRE prep courses, and I’m still recovering from the SATs!”

“I know,” I laugh. “Life’s become this series of acronymed standardized tests.”

We continue chatting politely about college and our families as if the breakup happened to two different people. I quickly discover that being civil comes a lot easier than behaving bitterly, and acting happy for Wes is far more pleasant than pitting us against each other in some bogus happiness competition. The common belief that it takes more muscles to frown than to smile isn’t necessarily medically accurate, but it feels true.

The ideal scenario now would be for me to have a “What was I thinking?” revelation, where I feel completely indifferent to Wes and realize I was more in love with
love
than with him. But I know exactly what I was thinking. He’s good-looking, good-hearted, intelligent, and funny, and we have a physical chemistry you can’t argue away. I still hang on his every word; however, it takes only a couple more minutes
before we run out of things to say. That occurred a lot when we were together, though I always chalked it up to my being too slow-witted or ignorant for him. But after all the effortless talks I’ve since had with Calvin and Guy, it’s curious that I was so quick to blame myself.

“Anyway,” I say, breaking the lull, “I need to run. I’m actually meeting Amy in a few minutes.”

“Oh! Neat.” He sounds relieved this will be over soon. So much for him claiming during our breakup that he wanted to stay friends. “Is Braff running track for Auburn?”

“
Amherst
. And yes, she does the three-thousand-meter steeplechase and all the relays.”