Lola

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To quote Augusten Burroughs- I myself am made entirely of flaws, stitched together with good intentions. I am the product of every failed therapy session I’ve sat through and every self-help book I’ve ever read. To this day, I still can’t figure out how to win friends or influence people. I’m an introvert with daddy issues, and a sickness called people pleasing.

My problems have always been easy to identify. Fixing them? Not so much. For the first twenty-nine years of my life, I’ve been a shining example of the hot mess express that men in their right minds would run- not walk- away from. But that’s all about to change.

I have a milestone birthday coming up, and I’m determined that my next thirty years are going to be the best of my life. That’s why Melissa is currently standing in the threshold of my office, tapping her ballpoint pen against the yellow legal pad in her hand.

"Are you ready?" she asks.

Melissa- AKA Mellie- has been my BFF since college when she was in the unfortunate position of being saddled with me as a dormmate. It was a time in my life when I was still learning how to conform to normal societal standards by utilizing basic conversation skills and eye contact. Neither of which I handled well. And yet by some miracle, here she is eleven years later, still in my life.

“Should we do coffee first?” I stare at my Keurig in hopes that she’ll say yes so I have something to do with my hands.

“Caffeine will just make you nervous.”

She strides across the room and sits in my office chair, draping one long leg over another before she leans back and pops the cap off her pen with delicate fingers. I hate that pen and everything it represents, but Mellie can’t help it.

Even off duty, she looks like a therapist. Her soft blue cardigan compliments her navy trousers, and there isn’t a wrinkle or piece of lint to be found under even the most intense scrutiny. The color choice is purposeful, and so is the shiny brown hair loosely held in place by a pencil on the top of her head. Everything about her exudes calm. She is the ocean, and I am a hurricane.

I prop myself against the wall cabinet and snag a Twizzler from my desk. Number nine today, but who’s counting? Mellie smirks and rocks back in the chair.

“It’s okay, we’ll make this fun.”

I inhale my Twizzler and reach for another. “So much fun.”

Mellie moves the Twizzlers out of my reach and looks up at me. “Don’t be a baby, Lola. Overcoming obstacles is hard work, but that’s the point. You can still have fun doing it. Just don’t take it so seriously.”

I gnaw on my fingernail since she took my candy away. “Have you ever considered the Army? You’d make an excellent drill instructor.”

She ignores my diversion tactics and dives straight into the scribbled mess she calls notes. Meanwhile, all I can think about is adding glitter to that ugly yellow legal pad.

“Scenario one,” she reads out. “You have an enormous workload here at the shop. Inventory needs to be done, bills must be paid, and the deep cleaning hasn’t been done in over a month. You are struggling for time as it is when you get a phone call from your neighbor, Carly. She’s practically in tears and tells you her sitter just quit, and she needs to go to work, but she has nobody to watch over little Abby this week. What do you do?”

I bite my lip and stare at my desk drawer. “You know, I have some rhinestones in there. I could spruce that notepad right up for you in a matter of a few seconds.”

“Don’t change the subject.” Her expression doesn’t falter, and if I can’t soften her with glitter, then I’ve got nothing.

My fingers snap the spare hair tie secured around my wrist, using the sting as a distraction. “I could have Abby come to the shop with me. It really wouldn’t be that big of a hassle.”

“She’s one,” Mellie argues. “She needs constant care, Lola.”

The rubber band snaps when I pull back too hard, and Mellie frowns. I hate these stupid scenarios. Mostly because they have all happened before and I can’t get rid of the crushing guilt in my chest when I think about what I need to say.

“Think of your business,” she says, and this time her voice is a little softer. “Tell me how your body feels at the prospect of adding one more item to your plate.”

“Stressed,” I answer. “It stresses me out.”

“Okay, now imagine that you told her you couldn’t. Imagine that she asked someone else or called a daycare to help her out instead. Then how would you feel?”

My shoulders fall, and I let out a deep breath. “Relieved.”

“Then the answer should be simple, Lola. We’ve been through this a hundred times. Pretend that I’m her. Practice saying it.”

The words don’t come easily for me. They never have. But breaking the cycle requires constant practice. I straighten my shoulders and play my part.

“I’m sorry, Carly, I’d love to, but I just can’t right now. I have too much going on at the shop.”

Mellie smiles. She has a warm smile when she’s proud of me, and even though I hate doing this, I know I’m lucky to have her as a friend. She has my best interests at heart when most others seldom do.

“Self-care is a right,” she says. “It’s okay to be selfish. It’s okay to take time for yourself, Lola. And saying no is a glorious fucking thing.”

My thoughts start to drift, and Mellie snaps her fingers to capture my attention.

“Say it with me.” She throws her hands in the air for emphasis. “Saying no is a glorious fucking thing.”

It pushes me from my comfort zone to say things like this out loud, but that’s why Mellie does it. I play along just so we can move onto the next subject. The important one.

“Now we talk about Tom,” she says. “Are you ready?”

I attempt to give her a verbal response, but it feels like there’s a piece of toast lodged in my throat.

“We’ve been practicing forever, sweets.”

I nod and force the words out. “I know. It’s time.”

"It has to be. You’ve given him five years of your life. It’s time to find out where you stand.”

"It is," I agree.

Mellie studies me. Her face is intense and slightly doubtful. "You’re sure this is what you want?"

"Yes.”

My answer doesn’t sound sure, even to my own ears, but she doesn’t call me out on it this time.

“You only get one life,” she reminds me. “It’s time to grab it by the balls.”

The notion of asking Tom to marry me seemed a lot less ridiculous when I discussed it with Mellie. I don't even remember exactly how the conversation came about. There was a rom-com on TV- Leap Year- and a bottle of wine involved.

I was in a happy, fuzzy place when I drunkenly blurted out that I should propose to Tom. It was the first time I ever saw Mellie speechless. She never really liked Tom, but within moments of me suggesting it, I’d somehow won her over to the idea.

I suspected that she knew it might all blow up in horrific fashion, which was the only way I could alter the flatline in our relationship. I'd gone along with the status quo for five years, and Tom still wasn't any closer to showing signs of proposing.

If I’m honest with myself, I’m still not sure it’s what I want, but it seems like the right progression. Five years is a long time to be with someone, and I’ve put in the hard yards. I’ve been mostly normal with him, even though the struggle has been real ninety-nine percent of the time.

I swallow and try to focus on the game plan. I just need to keep my fears in check and do what Tom can't. In my mind, I had it all mapped out in simple steps. Only now, as I stand here in his kitchen, it doesn't feel quite so simple.

I'm cooking, and he's at the counter reading the paper. By all outward appearances, it would look like the picture of domesticity. Except I'm terrified of splattering spaghetti sauce on the counter and leaving a stain because he's already scolded me once. And when I came in tonight with a bag, he seemed surprised that I was presumptuous enough to assume I was staying the night.

The reason I have to bring a bag in the first place is because I don't even have a drawer here. Or a toothbrush. Or anything. Tom says he likes a 'clean' look and it feels cluttered because the space isn't big enough for two people.

The space is in fact very clean, and with every passing second, it occurs to me that I don't feel at home here. And I should feel at home in my boyfriend's apartment. My boyfriend of five years. My boyfriend who is always impeccably dressed and has such a sensible job as a financial advisor.

He talks about the stock market while I wonder how and when to pop the question. We're practically already married, anyway, I try to convince myself. This is our routine. We eat dinner together on the weekends, have five minutes of missionary style sex, and then Tom falls asleep by ten pm. That’s normal, right? Totally normal.

This kitchen feels too hot, and my face is numb. The longer I stand here, the further my dreams feel from my reach.

I don’t know what happened. I don’t know where my life took such a left turn or how I got to this place. There were so many things I was meant to do with my time. I said I would backpack around Europe. I was supposed to see things and meet people and learn different languages. I planned to soak up life. I had a bucket list a mile long, and I swore that I would do everything. Every single thing.

But instead, it’s been a series of melodramatic tragedies, and they’ve all revolved around love. Love is my addiction, and for as long as I can remember, it’s been steering the course of my life. When my heart was shattered into a million pieces, something broke inside of me. And within that crack, a new craving was born. A frenzied and unquenchable need to prove that I was worthy. I would find someone who loved me. The real thing would have been great, but there have always been times when I settled for less.

My first post-trauma train wreck of a boyfriend was named Chris. Chris was so cool and fascinating with his swagger and fuck you attitude. I threw away my plans for him, thinking that would go somewhere when the only place it ever went was to the local Taco Bell. But still, I hung in there, determined not to fail again. I believed if I just loved him harder it would get better.

It never got better and ironically ended when I caught him at Taco Bell with a girl I went to high school with.

He was just one of many bad decisions in my life. I seem incapable of making any good ones. And this afternoon before I came here, I was dead set that Tom would be my good decision. He would be the one that paid off.

I’d been good with him. By the time I met Tom, I was already in therapy. I worked hard not to be clingy. I established normal relationship boundaries and didn’t allow him to treat me like a doormat. That part was easy since Tom was low maintenance. I never had to worry about him cheating because when he wasn’t with me, he was working. Over the years, I convinced myself that it was a healthy, normal relationship. One that would finally settle me into a comfortable life.

That’s what everybody is supposed to do, right? It’s the dream. The husband and the minivan and the kids.

But thinking about it now, I can’t imagine Tom as a father. Not really. Being a father requires giving up time to help with the kids, and I can’t imagine him doing that at all. That burden would definitely fall on me. And if they were messy, he wouldn’t like that. I’d have to keep the apartment spotless, even though it’s not big enough for a family. But he said he likes it and doesn’t want to move.

I try to imagine him coming home from work and kissing me on the cheek and bringing me flowers just because. I try to imagine a lot of things that I just can’t because it’s an illusion my brain has manufactured. There are no butterflies or fireworks with Tom, and there never have been. But does that really matter?

He’s a normal guy with a great job and exactly what I told myself I needed. My chest is closing in on me, and I can't find a goddamn ladle in any of his drawers.

"What are you looking for?" he snaps, irritated that I'm moving things around and displacing them.

"A ladle."

"I don't have a ladle," he says. "You'll just have to use a regular spoon."

I stop what I’m doing and turn towards him, slowly.

His eyes are pinched together, and I wonder how I never noticed that before. Has he always been so condescending? Who is this guy that wears nothing but khakis and white button downs? This guy who doesn’t own standard everyday kitchen items because he never has anyone over. He’s so neutral that you can barely distinguish him from the counter. Tones of beige swallow him up and make me want to scream.

I’m anxious. Irritated. And he’s looking at me all wrong, and this isn’t how it was supposed to be. I can feel it happening. The glue that’s held me together for so long is coming apart at the seams, and my crazy is about to spill out. I need to get a grip. But I can’t contain it. I can’t be rational right now.

“What kind of person doesn't own a fucking ladle?" I shout.

He blinks, startled, and retrieves a spoon from the drawer himself, handing it over like this will solve all of our problems.

He doesn't get it.

"This doesn't fix anything," I say. "You can't use a regular spoon for spaghetti sauce. How don't you know this by now, Tom? HOW?"

He blinks again, and he doesn’t know how to handle my crazy because he’s never seen it before. I’m wielding the metal spoon in the air while I yell, and Tom’s speechless. Something inside of me has finally snapped. I can feel it in the unfamiliar power surging through me. The truth is about to spill free from my lips.

"You can't even commit to a ladle. How are you going to commit to a lifetime together?"

"A lifetime..." he sputters.

And that's it. The fear on his face is my answer.

“I’m so stupid,” I mutter. “Everyone could see it but me. All this time I’ve put in. It means nothing to you because it’s just been convenient. It’s convenient for me to come to you whenever you want, for the allotted amount of time that you deem acceptable. You’re just like Mr. Big. And I’m Carrie.”

Halfway through my rant, I tear off my apron and toss it on the counter.

“You’re being irrational,” Tom tells me. “It’s just a ladle.”

“It’s not just a ladle, Tom. It’s the fact that I don’t even have a drawer here. And I come and go like a prostitute, even after five years together. You’ve never spent one night at my place. Not one single night.”

He gives me a half-hearted shrug. “Why change a good thing?”

I blink at him. And blink again. And the thing that broke inside of me is filling up with molten hot lava.

“I don’t even love you,” I admit. “I’m numb, Tom. I’m broken and fucked up and numb. I don’t even know if I’m capable of love anymore, but I wanted to pretend with you. And that meant something. I held all of those broken pieces together and kept them in place. I was sane for you.”

By the look on his face, I can tell he doesn’t agree. My admission hasn’t caused him pain, but relief. He wants me to leave now, but he doesn’t want to have to ask. I’ve made everything so goddamn easy for him, but I’m done with that now. I’m done being nice. I’m done being the whole freaking world’s girl Friday.

“I refuse to make this easy on you anymore,” I tell him. “So just say it.”

“I think it’s probably best that you leave,” he mumbles.

I turn the sauce on high and remove the lid, taking way too much satisfaction when it splatters all over the counter.

“You’re right,” I agree. “And for the record, Tom, the answer is no. No to anything else you might ever want from me again.”