J.P.: “What’s wrong? Wait—don’t tell me he hasn’t called.”
Me: “He hasn’t called.”
Unintelligible muttering from his end of the phone. Then:
J.P.: “Don’t worry. He’ll call.”
Me: “I hope so.”
J.P.: “Are you kidding? He’d be a fool not to. So how was your night last night?”
Me: “Fine. I mean, I didn’t do much. Just played Tuck with my brother.”
J.P.: “You played WHAT?”
See, Michael knows what Tuck is. Not only that, he’s PLAYED it with Rocky. I think he even LIKES playing it. It relaxes him as much as it relaxes me.
Me: “It’s—Never mind. Did you hear about Lilly?”
J.P.: “No. What about her?”
I didn’t want to be the bearer of bad news about J.P.’s ex, but I figured it was better he heard it from me than from someone in school on Monday.
Me: “She hooked up with some random muay thai fighter at her party last night.”
Instead of the inhalation of horror I expected to hear, however, J.P. sounded…well, almost as if he were laughing.
J.P.: “That sounds like Lilly, all right.”
I was shocked. I mean, sure, it sounded like the OLD Lilly—the pre–J.P. Lilly. But not the new and improved Lilly.
And he was laughing!
Me: “J.P., don’t you see? Lilly’s just acting out because she’s so crushed and brokenhearted over what she perceives as our betrayal of her! This whole muay thai fighter thing is directly related to that New York Post article. We’ve got to do something before she descends into an ever-increasing downward spiral of self-destructive behavior, like Lindsay Lohan!”
J.P.: “Well, I don’t see what we can do. Lilly’s pretty much old enough to make her own decisions. If she wants to hook up with random muay thai fighters, that’s really her business, not ours.”
I couldn’t believe he was still laughing.
Me: “J.P., it’s not funny.”
J.P.: “Well, it kinda is.”
Me: “No, it’s not, it’s—”
Sunday, September 12, noon, the loft
I had to stop writing just then because my cell phone rang again. It was Michael.
He’s in Japan. He got my e-mail.
He also saw the picture of J.P. and me in the Post.
He said that it didn’t make any difference, though. He said he was sorry that we had to do this over the phone, but that there was no other way.
I asked him what he meant by “this,” and he said he’d been thinking about it the whole way to Japan, and that he really feels it would be better if he and I just went back to being what we used to be before we started going out—friends.
He said that he thought that we both probably had some growing up to do, and that maybe some time apart—and seeing other people—would do us good.
I said okay. Even though every word he was saying was like a stab wound to my heart.
And then I said good-bye and hung up. Because I was afraid he would hear me sobbing.
And that isn’t how I want him to remember me.
Sunday, September 12, 12:30 p.m., the loft
WHY DID I SAY OKAY?????????????????
Why didn’t I say what I really felt, that I understand the part about having some growing up to do and spending some time apart…
…but not the part about just being friends and seeing other people????
Why didn’t I say what I was thinking, which is that I’d rather DIE than be with anybody but him?????
Why didn’t I tell him the truth?????
And I KNOW it wouldn’t have made any difference, and I just would have come off as exactly what he thinks I am—an immature little girl.
But at least he wouldn’t think I’m okay with this.
Because I am NOT okay with this.
I will NEVER be okay with this.
I don’t think I will ever be okay again.
Monday, September 13, 8 a.m., the loft
Mom came into my room just now to say she understands that I’m grieving about having lost the love of my life.
She said she understands how upsetting it must have been for me to have experienced such a hideous breakup as well as the loss of my best friend in one week.
She said she completely sympathizes with my plight, and appreciates that I feel the need to mourn my loss.
She says she has tried to give me the time and freedom I need in order to grieve.
But she said a whole day in bed is long enough.
Also that she’s sick of seeing me in my Hello Kitty flannel pajamas which, if she wasn’t mistaken, I haven’t changed out of since Saturday. Also that it’s time to get up, get dressed, and go to school.
I had no choice but to tell her the truth:
That I am dying.
Of course I know I’m not really dying.
But why does it feel that way?
I keep hoping it will all just…go away.
But it won’t. It doesn’t. When I close my eyes and go to sleep, I keep hoping that when I open them again, it will have been a terrible nightmare.
Only it never is. Every time I wake up, I’m still in my Hello Kitty pajamas—the same ones I was wearing when Michael said he thought we should just go back to being friends—and WE’RE STILL BROKEN UP.
Mom told me I’m not dying. Even after I had her feel my clammy palms and erratic pulse. Even when I showed her the whites of my eyes, which have gone noticeably yellow. Even when I showed her my tongue, which is basically white, instead of a healthy pink. Even when I informed her that I went to wrongdiagnosis.com, and that it’s obvious I have meningitis.