Macy
Spring in New York is usually cool, damp and overcast. Today is no different. The sky is just a gray cloud-covered haze with no sun in sight.
With the temperature hovering just above freezing, it will rain one day, and then snow the next.
Very similar to my feelings.
My mood often swings from crying one day to frigid numbness the following day.
I prefer the numbness. It doesn’t mess up my makeup.
Reaching the doors to head out the building at the same time, Cara and I hit the crash bar and enter the vestibule.
“Brace yourself.” Cara is a step ahead of me as we exit.
Pulling up the collar of my coat, I duck my neck. Tensing against the cool breeze, we head to our next class.
The difference between the current climate and spring vacation is amazing. It makes the latter seem like a lifetime ago. Or a dream that was once so colorful and vivid, but is now fading under the gray light of reality.
During the rest of the week I was on vacation, I forced myself to soak up as much sunshine as possible.
Abandoning the desk in the honeymoon suite, I spent a lot of time on the rooftop, papers strewn on the coffee table and on the couch under the pergola.
Periodically, I would rearrange the notes and papers under paperweights, utilizing my laptop and plugging away at my thesis.
I didn’t go on anymore honeymoon couple excursions. Instead, I utilized all the amenities that the resort offered.
In addition to the plunge pool on the rooftop, I visited the resort pool and lounged around on the beach. The balmy weather and Bold Greeks will be forever cemented in my mind.
They still delivered the honeymoon special surprises—which I did not refuse again.
I religiously avoided any pitiful looks by declining the other couple packages from the front desk.
I knew I would be thinking about Aaron the entire time.
What would Aaron have thought?
What would Aaron have done?
Oh, I wish Aaron could have seen that.
Pathetic.
That’s a place I never should have been, and I should have known better than to end up there.
Calling Cara and having another good cry as I filled her in helped, too. She wasn’t surprised, which surprised me. I guess because she knew eventually she would be going through this with me.
Losing my virginity. Having someone I enjoy walk suddenly away.
“Fucking man whores!” She kept saying over and over, until even I was a little sick of it.
I did get a sizable chunk of my thesis script outlined. I’m combing through it and organizing, so it all makes better sense.
I must admit that my experiences with Aaron have added clarity to the paper that was not there before.
But I do think it’s a tragedy that I now wonder “what if”.
What if we’d spent more time with each other? What if we’d developed a friendship where we could talk to each other about anything? What if he wasn’t such an immature man-baby who ran away when he didn’t want to discuss something?
Snapping back to reality, I realize Cara is holding the door open for me.
“Thanks.” She’s warming at my back as we huddle briefly behind some other students just entering the second set of doors ahead of us.
Slowly, we file our way into the auditorium and settle into our seats.
I’ve maintained my class schedule on autopilot. There isn’t a whole lot that interests me. Not food, school, nor movies.
Mostly, I try not to think about anything because my mind inevitably drifts to...things definitely not worth thinking about.
Leaning towards Cara, she instinctually leans back. I whisper in her ear. “How long do you suppose before I stop thinking about him regularly?”
“I don’t know.” She shrugs, looking dejected. “I think I heard somewhere that it takes about half the time of the relationship to get over someone. So, in theory, if you dated him for five years, it would take two and half years. So, I should be over Matt in another year to a year and a half.”
Slumping back in her seat, she starts scrolling through her phone. She would apply that to her situation.
Great. Some friend I am. I should smooth this over, but I just don’t have the energy to make an effort.
But it’s Cara, so I can at least make an effort. I reach out and squeeze her wrist, receiving a small smile from her, before turning back to settle in and wait for the professor.
I mull over the statistic she quoted in my head.
What’s my problem then? Extrapolating, I shouldn’t be thinking about him anymore at all. I should’ve forgotten his name by the end of the week.
That probably doesn’t apply to your first sexual partner. I’ve resigned myself to never forgetting him. But couldn’t I think about him a little less?
“Have you seen the new Aaron Michaelson movie in the works?” The guy in front of me is loud as he calls across to three of his friends.
Fuck!
That’s why I can’t forget about him. It’s inevitable, majoring in film, that people will be discussing him and what he has going on.
But, seriously, when do people refer to movies by who produced them. Are we back in the fucking 1920s or something? It’s just another way for him to haunt me, I suppose.
“Oh yeah! Have you seen his hot ex-fiancée? Now that is a piece of ass. I wonder what he did to lose that?” His friend is a little quieter, but they all laugh loudly.
“She can’t be his ex anymore. That would be too awkward. They must be back together, it just hasn’t hit the news yet.” He’s shoving a piece of granola bar in his mouth and I kick myself for letting my head snap up as he said this. Not what I needed to see.
I can also see Cara out of the corner of my eye, looking at me with a pitying face.
I can’t count the number of times I’ve had that exact thought myself.
Are they back together?
I don’t dare look online for fear of feeding this insatiable need inside me. It’s a ticking time bomb. This need-to-know.
It makes me feel like I’m on the edge of a cliff, and when I fall off—I’ll become a full-fledged stalker.
Like nicotine, it’s better to just cut it off. End of story.
Their voices drop to a more conversational level as they continue discussing Aaron’s latest project. But I can’t handle it anymore.
This is bullshit. “He doesn’t care about movies.” Leaning forward, I hiss the words at them. “First of all, he’s not a writer. He’s not a goddamn director. He’s just another bean-counting producer, he’s cynical, and he sucks!”
I feel my face flush. Even as everyone’s staring at me silently, I can’t come down from this mountain of rage I’ve suddenly climbed.
Hopping up, I see the professor walking in as I stumble to the end of the row and stomp away.
Stupid and immature, but what kind of fucking luck have I been having this spring?
Why did the first guy I fuck have to be a public figure?
Why couldn’t it have been someone on spring break from Alaska? Or from northern Canada? Or maybe some tiny Arctic village with no internet access?
I’m turning into someone I don’t even recognize.
I get about ten feet from the lecture hall door before I pause. My mind is in turmoil as I process what I’m feeling.
Anger and frustration are at the top of the list. I’m angry at him, but that has really died a slow death over the last couple weeks.
I’m angrier at myself more than anyone else.
I’m frustrated that I can’t seem to be the easily, happily cynical person I’ve always thought I was. This whole experience has changed me and I’m not sure yet if it’s for the best.
Cara slams the door from the lecture hall. Her worried look changes to relief when she spots me.
I give her a lopsided grin. It’s the best I can do. “Want to get coffee?”
Her half-assed smile matches mine and lets me know we’re on the same page.
“That’s a stupid fucking class, anyway.”
My breathy snort is the best laugh she’ll get right now and signals my agreement with that statement.
“We’ll get the notes from someone later.” Neither of us is passing with flying colors right this second. Life does have a tendency to fuck with your grades.
We bundle into our coats and zip up. Linking arms with her, we step outside. It’s much quieter out now and we head to the campus café to feed our addiction.
There isn’t anything a good espresso brownie can’t fix. At least temporarily.