In Search of Mr. Anonymous by J B Glazer (16)

Chapter 15

When I wake up I immediately check my phone. No messages. Maybe he’s playing it cool. The two-day rule or whatever that is. I wouldn’t know. But he doesn’t seem like the type to play games. Especially after what we shared. I rub the sleep from my eyes then hop in the shower. I blow dry my hair straight, style it in my usual deep side part, and stare at my reflection in the mirror. I look the same, but I feel like a different person. The type of person who now knows what it’s like to be part of something bigger. For so long I’ve never thought of a future much beyond my career. But now I’ve seen the possibilities of what it could be like to share it with someone. How much better it would be to have someone by my side. Him. Mr. Anonymous.

I never thought I’d feel this way about anyone. But in the short time we spent together, he managed to tear down my walls. Walls I had spent so long building I thought they were impenetrable. I don’t know how he did it. I wish I could say because it’s a mystery even to me. But there’s just something about him I find irresistible. So irresistible I’m willing to go beyond my comfort zone to get into his. He’d better not let me down. I don’t think I could recover from something like this.

I head into work and go through my day. My phone is my constant companion, which isn’t unusual. But checking it every few minutes is. Still nothing. I head to bed that night depressed. I wrap his shirt around me and lie awake, thoughts of him running through my head. I check the clock hour after hour, still unable to fall sleep. Again, I reflect on what a difference twenty-four hours can make. Yesterday I was on cloud nine. Today I’m slowly being reeled into the cold, harsh reality that I may never hear from him.

The week passes and nothing. Not a word. I head into work on Friday and go through the motions, but my mind is not really in the game. At eleven I head to see my gynecologist. I made an appointment yesterday because I have an itchy, burning feeling that isn’t going away. She tells me I have a yeast infection. Go figure. He leaves me with nothing but that as a parting gift. It seems fitting.

“Have you been doing things differently? Changing your diet?”

Just lots of sex with a random stranger. That’ll do it. I also realize I should tell her we had unprotected sex. Thankfully she doesn’t lecture me—I don’t think I could handle that right now. I’m well aware I made a very bad choice and the risk that comes with it. Instead she says she’ll run a test and do some bloodwork to confirm I’m not pregnant and rule out any STDs. Oh my God. I am such an idiot. How could I have let my emotions make such an important decision? And now I’m faced with the harsh reality of the possible repercussions.

Right as I’m leaving she says, “Lucy, it’s been awhile since you’ve been in. We haven’t discussed your future plans. But now it seems that we should. Are you planning on starting a family?”

Her question catches me off-guard.

“I’m not sure. Not anytime soon, I hope. But with the right person, yes.”

“Then it’s time you think about your options. With your age you should consider freezing your eggs, assuming you’re not pregnant. I’ll leave some literature for you.”

I try not to think about what she just said. I compartmentalize it along with every other depressing topic I don’t want to deal with. Just as I’m finishing getting dressed a nurse enters the room. She leaves some pamphlets on the counter along with my prescription. I take the prescription but leave the brochures. Please don’t let me be pregnant. I don’t think I am because I’m very in tune with my body. So I think I’d know. At this rate I’m not planning to have a family anytime soon. Just once, I had let my mind go in that direction. Something I never dared to think about before. And now all I can show for it is a raging yeast infection and yet another person who abandoned me. All the insecurities I have about being unwanted resurface, rearing their ugly heads. I’ve spent so long fighting the darkness. I’m so tired of it. Perhaps it’s just easier to give in. That’s the thing about falling. At some point you hit the ground.

By Friday afternoon I’ve accepted the fact he’s not going to call me. How could I have gotten things so wrong? I can’t believe how much I misjudged him and his intentions. I’m usually pretty good at reading people. Or so I thought. I guess it’s his thing. He showed off his mad mentalist skills. He probably saw me for who I truly am: a girl who puts up an aloof front but is desperate to be loved.

I leave work long after everyone else has gone. I like the quiet. The hours pass and soon I realize it’s after nine. I haven’t eaten but I don’t have much of an appetite. I decide a long drive will do me good. Even though it’s only thirty degrees out I put the top down. I want the wind in my hair and the biting cold against my skin. I want to feel something other than the numbness that’s taken over.

I blast the heat and drive with no real destination in mind. Buying a convertible is one of the craziest things I’ve done—make that the second craziest. Agreeing to Trish’s bet and spending the weekend with Mr. Anonymous tops the list. Anyway, owning a convertible in a city like Chicago isn’t practical. It goes against my very nature. But I’ve always wanted one. So when I finally saved up enough to buy my first car it had to be a convertible. There’s just something freeing about driving with the top down. I love the warmth of the sun kissing my skin and the breeze that whips through my hair, making me look wild and carefree. It’s the only time I allow myself to feel that way. I should mention I did buy a white model. According to research white is the safest color car and less likely to be involved in crashes. So I guess I can’t even do something crazy without an element of practicality.

But there’s nothing practical about letting a virtual stranger steal your heart. And now I’m suffering the consequences. I push my foot harder on the accelerator. Pieces of our conversation play through my mind.

I need us to be a thing.

You’re like a drug.

The more I have of you the more I want.

I look at the speedometer and I’m doing seventy, now eighty. I know I should slow down, but for once I want to be reckless.

I want no one else’s name to ever touch your lips. You’re mine.

For the first time I’m open to sharing my life with someone else.

Being with you just makes things better.

I need to see you again.

Promise me you’ll never lie to me.

He’s the liar. Lies. Lies. Lies. I don’t even know who he is or what to believe.

I could fall in love with you.

Perhaps that was the biggest lie of all. I slam the steering wheel in frustration as tears stream down my face. Fortunately at this hour Lake Shore Drive is fairly clear. Because if someone saw me right now they would think I’ve gone mad. Maybe I have. I’m so preoccupied with my thoughts that I suddenly realize my surroundings no longer look familiar. I try to find a street sign but don’t know where I am.

It goes without saying I’m completely and utterly lost. In every sense of the word.

With the help of the GPS I make my way back to my apartment. George is manning the desk. He waves to me as I walk past and I attempt to head straight to the elevators. But he gets up and stops me. “Late night?”

“Yeah. I just needed to clear my head,” I tell him.

“Out for a drive?” he asks, eyeing my keys.

“Yep.”

I usually love his company but I’m in no mood for small talk.

“Are you OK, Lucy?”

I nod even though I’m nowhere near being OK.

“You’re one of my favorites, you know. You need anything, come find me. I may look old, but I’ve still got some good punches left.”

I laugh for the first time in a week. His words of compassion bring on the threat of fresh tears. But I manage to hold them back. I head upstairs and let myself into my apartment. My boots echo on the hardwood floors, a reminder of how empty it is. It’s never bothered me before, but now it feels lonely.

I get undressed and wrap myself in his waffle shirt. I toss and turn but I can’t get to sleep. As long as I’m wide awake I may as well do some writing. I take out my journal and quickly skip past the pages where I was in a state of ignorant bliss. I should probably burn them. They’re so out of character with the rest of my poems anyway. But I decide not to because then I’d be erasing the only tangible memories I have left of him—aside from his shirt. I inhale deeply and I can still smell him, though the scent is getting fainter.

I place my notebook back on my nightstand and let the tears I’ve been trying to hold back fall. I look at my butterfly collection and the Palos Verdes Blue is on the bottom shelf where he left it, as though it’s mocking me. I hurl it across the room and watch as it smashes to pieces.