CHAPTER 4
It’s night two of attempting to sleep on Aggie’s lumpy couch. It smells like Cheetos and sweaty feet. I lay awake counting the glow-in-the-dark star stickers on her ceiling. There are one hundred and eleven. I roll and face the bookshelf, only to find her porcelain giraffe collection. I grimace at their crazy marble eyes and pink feather collars and flop a new direction, tugging the covers with me.
Tonight it’s not insomnia I’m suffering from, it’s that I can’t stop thinking about Evan. It’s not because he’s attractive. It’s not because he annoys me. It isn’t even because he flirted with me. It’s because he made he angry enough to imagine I could take control of a situation and fight back. That’s something I cannot ignore, because it’s a first in my short recollection.
Yes, I had run away from my home and family to move to Chicago, but that was not an act of control. It was an act of survival. There was no way I was ever going to find out who I was before with my parents forcing me into the cookie-cutter shape of the daughter they wanted. During my two-year recovery, I lived under their watchful eyes, their list of rules, and listened as they drilled me with their unattainable goals. I was drowning. Everything within me screamed for a new life I could discover on my own.
When Evan called me uptight and prissy, those words hit a nerve. Those are words I would use to describe my mother and father. Perhaps I had overcome those traits and loosened up before when I was in college and on my own. I can’t be sure, but when I imagine myself free as a bird like Aggie, my pulse dances.
Maybe I owned a porcelain giraffe collection. If I had, my parents would have called it tacky and childish. It didn’t matter what I did, or what I’ll ever do, I’ll never be good enough for them. It’s sad someone my age obsesses about these things, but in the after they were a huge part of my life.
My phone chirps with a text message, tugging me from my antsy mood. I lift it from the coffee table. The time reads one a.m.
EVAN: Ur damn water is fixed.
Normally I would place the cell back on the table and ignore the message because this is what I do—allow texts to mellow. I deconstruct and look beyond the words to identify underlying meanings. Only then can I determine an optimal response. But tonight I stare at his words, refusing to let go. I snag my bottom lip with my teeth when a sassy response is the first thing that comes to mind.
My fingers fly over the buttons and I type: It’s about damn time. My thumb hovers between one of two emojis. Which to pick? The angry purple devil or the smiley face? Adding the second would change the context, like all is forgiven, or worse, like I’m flirting. And given the clear messages I’ve been sending, I should not be flirting.
For the first time after I stop thinking, select one, and press send. There’s a bloop as the Internet gods deliver the message to Evan. And as soon as they do, I regret my decision. Damn smiley faces.
Three bouncing bubbles appear below my text. I grip the phone, waiting for his response.
EVAN: Shouldn’t u b out partying with ur blonde leprechaun?
I smirk at the visual.
ME: Aggie would b thrilled 2 know her St. Pat’s costume left an impression. But no, ATM, I’m *trying* 2 sleep on her uncomfortable couch b/c she has running water.
EVAN: It’s hard not 2 forget a leprechaun vomiting outside my window. N u should’ve taken me up on my offer. My shower is ur shower. Then u could have slept—
The text cuts off, but my mind has already filled in the blanks. The bouncing circles return, and he finishes his thought.
EVAN: on my super comfortable couch. :)
What a smart-ass.
I type a response but don’t press send. My heart races when I stare at my words. I would prefer your bed. My words are brazen. Too brazen. I swipe my tongue over my dry lips.
For a reason I can’t explain, tonight I’m fearless. The stars make me believe I can be confident without consequence. They trick me into believing I can be carefree like Aggie. They justify I can flirt with a guy, have fun with a guy, and right now I’m wanting Evan to be that magical guy.
I know what he’s seeing on the other side—the bouncing gray circles. I could continue to flirt but my neurotic apprehension whispers that no one could ever want me. It nitpicks at any uplifting thought, especially the sneaky ones that slip through its barrier.
Immediately the wide net of hope I cast reels back, abandoning all positive encouragement. There’s not much struggle. It happens as easy as blinking or breathing. Before I can protest or fight, I delete my text.
The cell feels too hot in my hands. I need to get rid of it. My blanket falls away when I sit up and toss the cell across the room. It slices through the air, landing in the serape-covered chair beside a glittery mermaid pillow. Now responding would take real effort, like defying the unyielding darkness of my mind or forging the comfort of my lumpy sofa. I scramble under the covers, tugging them tighter around my neck and squeezing my eyes shut.
As soon as I settle and find a comfortable position, the cell buzzes. From across the room it’s muffled, but my ears tune in to the vibrating case hopping across the cushion. I tighten into a ball.
When it buzzes a reminder two minutes later, I inhale deeply and open one eye. The cell’s face lights, illuminating the ceiling. Evan’s texted again. I curse him in my mind. I want to know what he said but if I read it, I’ll write back. So I stay planted. I will not engage.
Becoming involved with someone who lives in my building would be catastrophic. Becoming involved with anyone isn’t an option. I’m terrible with awkward confrontations, and imagining facing Evan in the wake of imminent disaster causes me to shiver with excess energy. I tighten my grip on my quilt and tug it over my face. My breath warms my dark cocoon.
My hyper-anxiety often blurs any chance of logical thinking. Or maybe it’s overthinking? In this case, it discourages me from relationships or one-night stands I have yet to have. I nervously tap my foot on the arm of the sofa.
I have too much to resolve before I can invite anyone into my disheveled life. With the decision made, I want to sleep, but I lay awake for hours. I peek out from beneath my covers and count the stars on the ceiling again. There are one hundred and nine this time. I count them until I’m certain of the number—definitely one hundred and eleven.
In the morning I buy Aggie breakfast to thank her for allowing me to crash for the weekend. With a backpack of overnight clothes, I head home. Today my apartment door’s locked. Thank goodness. I allow myself inside and slip on the chain lock. As soon at it clanks into place, I lean my back on the door. Finally. I’m alone.
I head for the shower, eager to wash away the stench of Cheetos and feet. Mercifully it works. Beneath the pelting heat of the water, I find myself crouched on the tub’s floor, inhaling steam.
I’m two sides of a coin. On one side I’m a shiny mask of busyness, searching for perfection and achievement in the after. This is what the outside world sees. The other side of the coin is dull and corroded. Behind closed doors, I’m searching to find my past memories, while unsure about every move I make. And worse? I’m insecure and lonely beyond reason.
What if I can never get myself together? What if I never remember before? What if I’m not good enough at my job? What if no one ever loves me? What if I’m this lonely forever?
That last question breaks me.