Heat

Toward the end of this endless week of insignificant moments, I wondered why anyone would want to fall in love. Falling in love sucked—figuratively, it sucked the life out of me, left me hollow, a desolate wasteland of suckage.

Except when I played my guitar.

So I played my guitar, but instead of playing angry music, I played guitar suites—mostly classical—but somehow made them sound angry.

I also ignored George’s messages about the Sunday family agenda. As well I skipped the Sunday call, though I did give my cell phone the double finger salute when it rang. Then I played my guitar.

On the Monday one week after the break up, I was a hot mess. I hadn’t been showering…much. But I took comfort in small accomplishments, like brushing my teeth once a day and making it to my classes.

Going to class gave me something to focus on. As well, before my vector calculus class, I received a huge shock when I overheard that someone in Martin’s fraternity had been kicked out of school and arrested for attempted rape and assault of a minor.

“Who?” I asked loudly, not caring that this question would label me as an unabashed eavesdropper.

The two guys glanced over their shoulders at me, apparently found me harmless in my sweatpants, tangled hair, and stained Lord of the Rings T-shirt, then turned toward me so I could be included in the conversation.

The ginger spoke first. “One of the crew guys, Salsmar. His picture is in the paper if you really want to know and there’s supposed to be a video. They’re not releasing the name of the girl ’cause turns out she’s underage.”

Benjamin Salsmar. Ben. Ben the rapist.

Oh my God!

My stomach dropped. I felt like such a terrible person. I should have called the police about Ben as soon as I arrived back on campus. But I’d forgotten and given myself over to personal drama and now someone had suffered because of me.

Ugh…just, ugh!

“Just another fraternity fuckup,” the darker-haired boy said derisively. “It would be news if this kind of shit didn’t happen all the time. Show me a fraternity guy who doesn’t rape girls, that would be a shocker.”

“Yeah,” the ginger nodded, adding, “it’ll be newsworthy if Salsmar actually gets convicted. Usually these guys get a bailout from their daddy and a slap on the wrist.”

“But with the video?” I pressed. “If they have a video, then surely he’ll see some jail time?”

They both shrugged, like power, money, and influence mattered more than hard and tangible evidence. Then class started and our impromptu gossip fest was over.

But I couldn’t focus on class because I had ants in my pants. I was sure Martin had orchestrated Ben’s arrest, or at least had been responsible for making sure it was caught on tape.

***

By the end of the third week after the breakup, I was showering semi-daily and I hadn’t cried in seven days. I’d also lost fifteen pounds…not even cookies could hold my interest. I hadn’t returned any of my mother’s calls, nor had I participated in Sunday family meetings.

I was once again hiding in closets. After class I would walk back to my dorm, step into my closet, and shut the door. Sometimes I would bring my guitar and play my own compositions and improvisations. All the songs were morose.

I hadn’t seen or heard from Martin and everything still hurt. His absence was everywhere. Therefore, sitting in the darkness and enjoying the lack of sensation, the lack of feeling was a relief.

I was not getting better; things weren’t getting easier. Life was various levels of blah and horrifically painful.

As such, things went from blah to horrifically painful in the middle of the afternoon on Thursday. I was walking home intent on spending some quality time in the blackness of my closet when I saw him.

My feet stopped moving on their own, and I told myself not to blink or breathe, just in case he was a mirage. I didn’t realize until that moment how hungry I was for a glimpse of him. Even though it hurt to the depths of my melodramatic and tortured soul, I stared at Martin.

He was sitting in the student union at a circular table. His big hands were in his hair and he was studying papers on the table before him. Next to Martin sat a very pretty blonde in a grey business suit, a black leather attaché case on the chair next to her. I noted that she looked about ten or so years older than me, but I wondered how much of that was the suit and makeup and air of professionalism.

Meanwhile he looked just the same. His hair was a little messy, but that was probably because he’d been pulling his fingers through it. But his color was fine. He looked fine. He looked perfectly fine.

I forced myself to take a breath and move to the wall, out of the flow of pedestrian traffic. My brain re-booted after close to a minute of standing and staring like a crazy person at my…at my Martin.

But he wasn’t my Martin.

A fresh wave of pain pierced my chest and I struggled to inhale. It felt like someone had stabbed me, right through the heart. Every beat was a sluggish ache.

He wasn’t my anything. And he looked perfectly fine. He was fine and I was a mess because he’d never loved me and I’d allowed myself to fall completely in love with him…like a complete idiot.

Cold certainty and acceptance was a bitter but necessary salve to the open wound I’d been carrying around. It was just as Sam said: he wasn’t capable of love. I was wasting my time, both staring at him now and pining for him over the last three weeks. Everything about my time with Martin Sandeke had been a waste of time.

A truly desolate yet comforting numbness wrapped around me like a blanket. I embraced it. Hell, I slathered myself in it and wanted to have its babies. It was armor and a weapon, and finally, finally a tool to combat feeling like an exposed nerve. I was so tired of being vulnerable and helpless.

At last, after indulging myself with one more look—noting with calm detachment that he was now smiling at the woman, and she was laughing at something he’d said—I shook my head to clear it of his image and turned away.

I hadn’t smiled in over three weeks. But I hadn’t cried in seven days and I wasn’t going to cry today. Furthermore, I decided I was never going to cry over Martin Sandeke again.

I decided to take the long way through the student union building rather than walk within feet of his table. The long way took me by a cluster of vending machines, so I stopped and decided to grab a bottle of Dr. Pepper and some peanut M&M’s. I couldn’t actually remember the last time I’d eaten and that was completely unacceptable. I loved food and I’d allowed Martin to suck the joy out of every facet of my life.

I was putting a stop to his joy-sucking right now and I was going to use the magic of food to do it.

I fished two crisp dollar bills from my wallet and had just claimed my lunch of champions when I felt a hand on my shoulder.

I glanced at the owner, expecting to find a fellow student asking for change. Instead my eyes connected with Martin’s. I was surprised, but so completely numb at this point that I’m sure my expression betrayed nothing but indifference.

I did note that he looked great. Really, really great. Beautiful even. He glowed, like he always had. He was dressed in a black T-shirt, the graphic image on the front depicted some rowing scene, and dark jeans. I noted that he never wore skinny jeans; this was probably because his thighs were too muscular and skinny jeans were for skinny guys. He would never be skinny.

Granted, his expression wasn’t happy, but he didn’t look like he’d been suffering. He wasn’t fifteen pounds lighter and white as a sheet. His eyes weren’t bloodshot. His hands weren’t shaking. He appeared to be angry but nowhere near heartbroken, at least not the version I saw in the mirror every morning.

I felt like throwing up.

Averting my eyes, I tried to step around him, but he countered and halted my progress.

He moved as though he were going to grab my wrist so I stopped and yanked my arm out of his reach, rocking backward. Since I was basically trapped in the vending machine alcove, I turned my face to the side, inspected the wall, and gave him my profile.

At length he asked, “Will you look at me?”

I tensed. Hearing his voice did something terrible. It broke through this new barrier, the detachment I’d embraced. Therefore I didn’t want to look at him again. I was finally exhibiting control over my feelings and I couldn’t take the chance. I suspected looking at him now would hurt like a motherfucker.

And apparently, in addition to discovering that just seeing someone can cause physical pain and illness, I was discovering the cathartic and necessary nature of curse words. Despite my expansive vocabulary, there existed no other way to describe how much it would hurt to look at Martin.

In my peripheral vision I sensed movement and I flinched away before he could touch me. I crossed my arms over my chest.

“Goddammit,” he seethed. His anger and frustration settled over us, a dark, accusatory cloud.

We stood like that for a minute and I imagined I was building an actual wall of bricks between us. I’d volunteered for three summers during high school with Habitat for Humanity and I could build a heckofa brick wall.

He broke the stalemate. “Talk to me, Parker.”

I shook my head and closed my eyes, pressing my lips together in a firm line. Despite the sounds of college life around us I could hear him breathe. He wasn’t breathing loudly, it’s just I could hear it. And it reminded me of the times he’d held me on the boat. I pushed that thought from my mind before it made me cry—because it would make me cry—and turned my attention back to the fictional brick wall.