Anatomy of a Single Girl (9 page)

Right now, I’m more baffled than pleased by that admission.

“But … if you’re my ‘boyfriend,’ you shouldn’t be thinking about still playing the field one day—”

“Okay, hold up a sec. Now
my
head hurts.” Guy rubs his temples with his hands. “Dom, you realize we’re not even old enough to drink legally, right?”

“Yes, I get that this is premature.” I catch my breath and
slow down. “All I mean is that, hypothetically,
if
we keep going out and we’re happy, then why would we need to see anyone else? And
as long as
we’re going out and happy, wouldn’t marriage be … the goal, even if it’s a decade away? ’Cause if it’s not, all this is pointless.”

Guy looks blankly toward the surf. Then he sits down on the sand and assumes the
Thinker
position. I take a seat, too, mortified that I brought up matrimony so early, when I never once discussed it with my ex in all the months we were together. Maybe I’m just on edge from the Gainesville commotion. Still, it feels right putting all this out in the open. Seventeen-year-old me would’ve stewed in silence in the hopes that any red flags would disappear on their own. But that rarely happens. And I simply won’t turn a blind eye anymore.

Finally, Guy announces, “First of all, I get what you’re saying. I mean, if two people are that positive they belong with each other, then, yeah, I guess it’d be illogical for them to be with anyone else.”

I nod ardently, now sorry I became so intense.

“Second, I’m not
against
marriage, okay? But … it’s a big freakin’ deal. And I couldn’t forgive myself if I screwed it up. So it wouldn’t be until the distant future when I’m ready.”

“That’s fine. I’m the same way, really.”

“But there’s a more pressing issue.” He stares gravely at me. “Dom, you know I think you’re awesome, and this summer’s been so much better with you in it. I’d like to keep seeing you—and
only
you—while you’re here.”

I stifle my grin. “So where’s the ‘issue’ with that?”

He repeats slowly, “While you’re
here
.”

When his meaning registers a second later, it feels like a tornado sweeping through my heart. From day one Guy gave us an August expiration date, and here I was, daring to hope he could be my ever after. I cover my face with my hands, ashamed at how deluded I was not to detect earlier that he was too good to be true. How is it that two people can be in the same relationship and still have completely different ideas of what’s going on?

“I’m sorry, Dom, but I thought that was a no-brainer. We can’t stay together next semester if we’re never going to
be
together. The phone’s a crappy substitute for the real thing.”

“
Believe me
, I get that geography’s an obstacle. But people work through it, like Matt and Brie. And you’re already half done with Ford.”

“Yeah, but it’s not like conditions will clear after graduation. What are the chances of your med school being near my grad school? And then what if I don’t get work near where you match for residency? And you said at your place you wanted to do Doctors Without Borders. That could put you on a separate continent.”

“Well … it’s not
definite
I’ll do Doctors Without Borders.”

“I want you to!”
He stands up and waves his arms. “That’s just it—I want us both to do all the cool things we want, where we want, and not be held back by anything, or any
one
. And later, whenever our careers are solid and we’ve lived and all that crap, who knows what could happen?” He sits back down closer to me. “And even if you went to Ford, Dom, it’d still be hard to keep things going. I get so busy during the year with classes and Greek stuff. Girls just end up getting mad at me for not being ‘available’ enough.”

“You mean, for not
making the effort
to be ‘available’ enough,” I jab, suddenly understanding why Guy didn’t already have a girlfriend when we met.

“C’mon, Dom. We’re together
now
, and there’s no one else I’d rather be with. Let’s enjoy this while we have it.”

I breathe and stiffly shake my head. “I just know myself, Guy. I can’t be happy going out if it’s not … going anywhere. We might as well cool it now.”

I’m stunned that those words escape me, when minutes ago life was a fairy tale. I always thought you broke up with people because you didn’t want to be with them. But I
do
want to be with Guy, so I’m dumping him so he can’t dump me first. I recall that
Cosmo
article about third dates being the make-or-break moment for couples. Maybe that’s rooted in hard science after all.

Guy falls back on his elbows and harrumphs in exasperation. After some more surf staring, he says, “Wow. This really sucks.”

“I promised always to tell you what I’m thinking.”

“I know. I’m glad you did. Well, I’m not
glad
.” He sighs again. “Anyway, this totally stinks, but obviously I’ll respect it. I won’t lay a hand on you from now on.”

“ ‘From now on’?”

“Well, whenever we hang out, and then there’s that wedding.” When I don’t respond, he continues, “We’re still hanging out, aren’t we?”

“I … don’t think … that’d be a good idea.”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa.” He stands up again and barks, “If you’re not my girlfriend, fine. But that is
no
reason we have to be strangers. That’s bullshit!”

I stand up, too, and glare at him indignantly. So it’s all right for him to rule out a serious relationship, but it’s wrong if I’m not ready to settle for less?

“Guy, I can’t just … automatically switch modes. I need some space—”

“This is insane!” He stomps his foot. “We were hardly going out! You’ve never even let me French you!”

I lock my hands on my hips and shout, “What does
that
have to do with anything?”

He shouts louder, “You’re making a problem where there isn’t any!”

I scream, “I’m preventing bigger problems down the line!”

I’ve occasionally raised my voice to my parents, but I’ve never had it out with anyone like this before. And like most fights, it’s all so stupid. The minutes we squander arguing can all be boiled down to Guy calling me impractical and me calling him insensitive, though I think both of us know neither of those things is true. We carry on until I notice a couple in the distance and demand that we leave before we completely humiliate ourselves. But as awful as yelling is, it’s not nearly as tense as our wordless speedwalk back to his Accord, and the ten-mile drive home. Melodramatically enough, we pull up to my building at the stroke of midnight.

“So,” he mumbles, “I guess you now think these last two weekends were pointless.”

“No, Guy. I don’t regret anything, if that’s what you’re after.”

“I just wish I hadn’t opened my big mouth when you mentioned Matt and what’s-her-name.”

“Actually, it’s better this came up sooner rather than later.” Otherwise, I
might
have regretted it.

Then he does one of those mini-laughs where you exhale quickly through your nose, and I ask him what’s funny.

“That paper I wrote,” he answers. “Entropy is true in life, too. In the end, everything turns to crap.”

My stomach crumples. I want to tell him I’m sorry for how everything wound up and that maybe we can hang out again when enough time passes. I have no idea how long that’d be, though, and my throat’s too tight to speak anyway, so I just spill out of the car and slog up to the front entrance. I’m hoping to hear him floor the gas pedal and vroom away like a spiteful man-child I’d be embarrassed to be associated with, but he stays put until the elevator opens and I go inside. I know it’s to make sure I get in safely. There should be a law prohibiting boys who aren’t good for you from acting nice, so it’s easier to justify not being with them.

Once in my room, I text Amy what happened and ask her to call me if she’s up. When I don’t hear back, I lie awake in bed second-guessing my decision. But Guy and I see things too differently to keep dating. In the same way that a fiancée is a bride-to-be, I’ve always thought a girlfriend is a fiancée-to-be. Yes, most relationships bite the dust before things get long-term. However, that
possibility
of staying together forever remains the underlying force driving the relationship forward. To Guy, though, a girlfriend can merely be someone you go out with until it’s inconvenient—in effect, a single-girl-to-be. That’s not enough for me, so I suppose I did the right thing. It just sucks when being right means being alone.

When at five a.m. I still can’t sleep, I try tiring myself out by reorganizing my drawers and bookshelves. Then I
remember that’s a waste of energy, since soon I’ll be putting everything into boxes. Growing more somber by the second, I plop in front of my computer and check grades for the umpteenth time this vacation—nothing. Finally I log on to Facebook, where Tulane’s head RA posted photos from the Bastille Day midnight mixer that just ended. I’m not surprised to see that Calvin dominates most of the pictures, striking silly poses on the main quad, and the one of him dangling from an oak tree limb makes me grin. But next I click to a shot of him sitting on the grass with an RA from the girls’ dorm, and they’re kissing.

Like a woman possessed, I pounce on my cell and start dialing.

11

“S
o, what do you care?” Amy asks groggily. “I never thought you’d call me at the crack of dawn over Calvin Brandon,
Coppertone
.”

“Sorry I woke you, but I just don’t get it! Cal hasn’t looked twice at this girl before—
Samantha Finley
.” I mutter her name while skimming her public profile. “Listen. Her interests are fashion, astrology, tattoos, and yoga. Cal hates all those things.”

“They were only kissing.”

“Yeah, in the pictures. Right now they could be screwing!”

“Then good for him! You gave him
no
reason to hold out
for you. Did you really expect he’d keep himself on standby in case you miraculously fell for him?”

“No, but … I don’t know.” Admittedly, not having a boyfriend is a lot less dejecting when there’s a suitable prospect waiting in the wings. “Oh, Ames. Why
didn’t
I fall for him?”

“Because you didn’t!”
Amy exclaims, understandably impatient. “
You’re
the scientist here. You know attraction is all about liking each other’s scents and gauging how the guy would’ve hunted if we still lived in caves. The Cal-man may be awesome, but he just doesn’t do it for you.”

I think back to how delicious Guy smells and his tall, strong physique. It’s so messed up how little control we have over whether we want somebody.

“And, Dom, I still don’t get why you chucked that Beta. He’s a chance to have no-strings-attached fun! I love Joel to pieces, but sometimes I wish he hadn’t come along until next year so
I
could enlist a few more hot summer flings.”

“You know very well I’m not into random hookups, no offense.”

“None taken, and Beta-boy’s anything but ‘random.’ He’s a good guy, and you genuinely like each other.”

“I just don’t see what’s in it for me if he’s only temporary. It’d be relationship suicide.”

“Well, nothing lasts forever. Buddhist monks spend days constructing these intricate sand paintings called mandalas, only so they can destroy them afterward. The important thing is
making
the mandalas, not how long they last.”

“Okay, Ames, but sand art’s a tad different from love.”

“You’re
in love
already? It’s been, like, nine days since you two met.”

I exhale slowly. “No. I can’t say I love Guy … but that’s the direction I hoped this would go.”

Amy remains on the phone with me until I have to start getting ready for Lee County Medical, and I’m glad today’s Monday so there’s an entire workweek ahead to fill my time. Nevertheless, my internship feels routine now that I’ve been doing it for a couple of weeks, which is making it tougher to stay focused. My supervisor keeps promising that I’ll be allowed to shadow doctors soon, but I still catch myself speculating about what could’ve been had I instead gotten a Res-Life stint as Calvin suggested. It couldn’t be much duller than my clerical duties at the hospital. And perhaps by being near Calvin all day, our body chemistries would’ve naturally synced, and I’d have craved taking things to the next level with him.

I’m so disgusted with myself for obsessing over boys while surrounded by people suffering from infinitely worse problems. At Tulane we learned how females have extra white matter connecting different parts of the cerebrum. That’s why women tend to be good multitaskers, which started as far back as the caveman era, when mothers had to juggle several thoughts at once in order to care for all their kids. But it also means I can do my work and feel bad for patients while still dwelling on relationships and feeling bad for
me
. The fact that I’m anatomically hardwired not to compartmentalize emotions doesn’t make my state of mind any less deplorable.

I ride out the first half of the week without incident, and I’m grateful to my bratsitting kids for adding much-needed silliness to my days. Everyone keeps asking me if I’m okay, however, so my reaction to the Gainesville-Guy-Calvin triple whammy must be plain on my face. Then, by Wednesday,
I’m so spacey from not sleeping well that I completely forget to check grades until I’m about to go to bed. I tramp over to my computer and log on to the registrar, expecting to be taunted with another blank screen, so I do a double take when I see that they’ve finally been posted. Neuroscience: A. Biomedical Ethics: A-. My cumulative GPA is holding steady at 3.8, which means my merit scholarship is safe. I have everything I worked for and could’ve wanted.…

So how come I feel nothing?

I bet I’d be more excited if I could share the news, but tonight Amy’s preoccupied at her own computer having another video chat date with Joel. As for my parents, they’re huddled around the dining room table poring over printouts of Gainesville house listings, which are the last things I want to see right now. It’s about time I call Calvin, especially because we haven’t spoken since texting each other “Happy 4th of July” almost two weeks ago. But I feel like such a loser having nothing better to do than talk about exams, when he’s probably naked in bed with Samantha. Next I log on to Facebook, and, just as I predicted, he has changed his status to “in a relationship” with her. Calvin must know I’m seeing this.…