Andy
Harvard had a spectacular campus and law school. I knew that ahead of time, of course, from the trips my dad and I had taken to visit it. I clearly remembered the thrill of those glimpses of a grown-up, serious life. I could remember being so damn impressed and wanting it so badly. I remembered worrying that I wouldn’t be good enough to earn a spot.
My dad had drilled it into me how difficult it was to get in, especially with all the diversity initiatives. I had to have a perfect record to have a prayer. I’d worked hard to get straight As. I’d joined clubs and did some volunteering because my dad thought it would look good on my résumé. And my mom had gotten me letters of recommendation from two of the top lawyers in Boston. Still, I was incredibly fortunate to be accepted. Arriving there to begin law school should have been a dream come true—satisfying, exciting.
It wasn’t. It felt surreal, like I was a stunt double in someone else’s life. I expected the director to show up at any moment and call a wrap and let me off duty to go back to the cottage. To go back to Jake.
I tried to shake it off. It was pathetic and stupid; I knew that. I’d worked so hard for this. I promised myself I’d give it my best shot. I had to.
That last day at the cottage had been such a god-awful mess. First my dad catching me and Jake making out—he hadn’t told my mom, said we would “put it aside,” but he still wasn’t over it. The worst part, though, was that my time with Jake had ended all wrong. Jake and I should have parted ways with a final hug, sincere I’ll miss yous, and a plan for keeping in touch. Instead, I’d hurt his feelings in front of my dad, Jake had admitted he’d been in love with me for years, and he’d told me he didn’t want to talk to me—at least, not anytime soon. Through it all, I’d been like a deer in headlights, not knowing how to react, what to say.
Jake has been in love with me for years?
God, I knew my wingman was a good actor, but I’d never had a clue. Looking back now, I could sort of see it. He’d hid it well, and we’d double-dated through a lot of high school. Jake had had girlfriends, a few fairly serious, I’d thought. But if I remembered how close we were, how touchy-feely we were for guys, the occasional jealousy he showed toward chicks, then yeah, I could see it.
I’d definitely felt him pulling away from me during college, but there’d always been an excuse—we’d been busy, had classes, work, or finals. I’d felt us growing apart and tried to combat it, talking him into going out for pizza together or going to shoot some ball or take a run.
Then I’d completely lost my mind and talked him into having sex, wanting to try it out, needing to know. Yeah, that had been smart. Now I didn’t even have my best friend.
Maybe my dad was right. Maybe I was self-destructive. Maybe my wires were crossed in some vital way.
It hurt. I walked around Harvard with an invisible knife in my gut. I couldn’t stop obsessing over what I should have done, or said, to reach a different outcome. What if this had happened? What if that? I should never have suggested Jake and I get each other off. Conversely, I should have refused to let him go.
But this wasn’t the end of The Graduate, where Dustin Hoffman walked into the back of the church and stole the bride. They didn’t have to show you what happened next in a movie. But what happened next was really fucking important in real life.
If Jake’s head had gotten screwed up during our summer at the lake, mine had too. I’d given in to curiosity and learned that, yes, I was bisexual. It turned out I loved having sex with a guy—or at least, with Jake. I loved how raw and real it was with him, no bullshit, no pretense, no hearts and flowers, just bodies and closeness and orgasms. I loved how every time I wanted it, he wanted it too. All I had to do was look at him a certain way and he was in the mood. I’d never experienced that with anyone I’d dated, never been so in-tune at a cellular level.
I also loved how easy it was to be with Jake every minute of the day, how having sex only opened up even more time and more ways for us to be together. I couldn’t get enough of holding him, kissing him. With every girlfriend I’d ever had, I’d wanted to be with them sometimes, but I’d crave time apart too, time to myself, or guy time. Time with Jake was like a closed circuit. Being with him was so easy and natural and fun, it just made me want to be with him more.
But it was one thing to be that way with Jake at the cottage. It wasn’t realistic to drag it into real life, not least because we both had things we wanted to do, had to do, in opposite corners of the world. And that wasn’t even the biggest problem. As much as I loved being with Jake, when I tried to project us down the road with him in the role of boyfriend, husband, co-parent, I just . . . couldn’t. That was not my life, the life I’d planned for years. My future included the whole picket-fence-wife-kids-dog package. Someday, when I was ready to settle down, it would be with a woman. Even in my weakest moments, when I held my phone in bed and fucking ached to call him, I knew I had to be strong. There was no future in it. Jake had been right. It was best to cut it off, make a clean break, feel the pain now, get over it, and then move on. And maybe when it didn’t hurt so damn much, we could be friends again.
My classes started. I was taking Corporate Transactions, Antitrust Law, Boards of Directors and Corporate Governance, and Business Strategy for Lawyers. I’d known in advance it wouldn’t be very exciting stuff this first semester. Or ever. My classes were all geared toward my ultimate aim—corporate law. But even here, even at Harvard Law School, a bastion of secure and conservative career paths, I couldn’t help but envy the students who were actually excited about their classes.
I’d hear them talking in the cafeteria or in the lounge at Hastings, my residence.
“No, the Camarena case set precedent. You can’t force extradite someone from Mexico, not even for a capital crime!”
“But Rodriguez was only seventeen, and he was brought back by a relative. Therefore—”
Criminal law students. Social justice advocates. There were so many incredibly bright and passionate students around me. They were going to change the world, or at least contribute something meaningful. They were totally engaged. And I was . . .
I was going to draw up contracts for corporate mergers, and pen terms and conditions that protected businesses from liability no matter how shitty their products were. I was as far from inspired as I could get.
You can do other work in law if you want, just do it pro bono, like you mother does. I could hear my dad’s voice in my head. Once you’re established, you’ll have time to take cases on the side. But you have to secure your bread and butter first. That’s only smart.
It had always made sense to me. Because, fuck, I didn’t want to struggle for money, to not be able to provide good health care or schools for my family. I didn’t want to retire on plan Z. I wanted the life my parents had. Security. Respect. Success. And I figured I’d still be able to do what I wanted some of the time, so where was the problem?
Only now that law school had started, I could see the problem clearly. Or maybe it was the state my head was in after Jake. Maybe at another time, I could have powered through my boring classes. But I felt so awful and, frankly, depressed, that I had no reserves of patience, no energy left to power through anything.
The truth was: corporate law was dry and dull and tedious as fuck. And if this was going to be my primary job, I’d be stuck doing it the majority of my working hours for the rest of my life. Was that how I wanted to live? It was one thing to think about that in the abstract, from the perspective of a high schooler with big plans. It was another to actually do it day by day by boring day. And yeah, my mother did it. I should be able to do it. But maybe I was too selfish or too spoiled. I didn’t want that life.
Maybe I didn’t want any of it. Maybe the entire ten-year plan was shit. All I wanted was Jake. I missed Jake. Right then, at Harvard, it felt like I’d gotten on the wrong plane. It was like everyone else was in their seat, reading or chatting, content with where they were going. And I was roaming the aisle, lost and going the wrong way at hundreds of miles per hour.
I kept telling myself it was temporary. I told myself I’d get over Jake, that I shouldn’t act rashly. Too much was at stake. Everything. Everything was on the line.
If I just gave it a chance, maybe I could get engaged with my classes. The fault obviously lay with me. Two years from now, I might meet an amazing woman. Perhaps I’d enjoy putting on an expensive suit every day and going into a fancy high-rise office in downtown New York or Boston, having elegant lunches, and hashing out the fine print on contracts. I could live that life. For fuck’s sake, it wasn’t like it would be a hardship. Anyone should be so lucky to have a life like that!
So why was my gut twisted up in a stubborn knot that refused to relax? Why did it feel like my heart was bruised and bleeding and shriveling up incremental bit by incremental bit, every day that passed?
I watched my feet tromp over the smooth asphalt of the paths around the Harvard campus and wondered at how disconnected I felt from my own body, my own life.
I wondered how long it would take until I could get through an entire day without once wishing I was dead.