the lying days

Alex and Brianna broke up after Thanksgiving. Brianna had taken Alex home to Westchester to meet her parents. She told me about the fight that precipitated the break-up over drinks soon after we got back to school. I couldn’t really follow—something about three years and him not caring and she was the most beautiful she would probably ever be. Brianna always spoke quickly, but between sips of her vodka soda, she was babbling so rapidly that I hadn’t the faintest. Brianna darling, I haven’t the faintest, I told her. She sighed, impatient. Then she scanned the bar, looking for a suitable guy to give her number to. Excuse me, she said.

Anyway, because of the break-up, everyone had to pick sides for all of December, though we knew that on New Year’s Eve, Alex and Brianna would get back together. She’d be in a sequined dress, with thick black eyeliner swooping out past the edge of her eyes, and he’d be especially fucked up for the occasion, and as we counted down to another goddamn year, they would sneak off into a bedroom. The next day, after brunch, but still horribly hungover, Brianna would call her mother and tell her that the whole issue with Alex was forgotten, and that he was a great guy, always was. I don’t know what I was thinking, she would say.

I went to this awful Christmas party with Brianna and the guy she picked up to replace Alex. His name was Keats (for the poet, he said, and I rolled my eyes), and he worked at the record store downtown. Brianna’s mother would absolutely kill her if she knew Brianna was dating a townie. We usually spent Saturday nights at Alex’s apartment, a well-appointed three-bedroom where he threw the best parties. He kept expensive champagne on ice for the girls, and he and his friends drank scotch and played poker. Brianna always sauntered over just when Alex had his best hand of the night. She had a peculiar knack for that. Sweetheart, the girls want to go downtown. Aren’t you almost ready? And she’d pout and sit down on his lap and he’d call the game over. Shall we? he’d say, and the guys would begrudgingly throw their cards down.

Here, in some random apartment, girls in slutty Santa outfits were drinking wine coolers and keg beer out of red plastic cups. Hip-hop music blared through someone’s laptop. I poured myself a drink—cheap vodka and orange juice—and downed it.

Hey, a voice said from behind me as I poured another drink. I spun around. A tall guy with brown hair hanging over his eyes was looking at me expectantly. I hadn’t the faintest. Hi, I answered back. You’re in my English Lit class, he said. Suddenly it clicked—he was vaguely familiar. I’m not taking English Lit, I told him. It was a lie. I didn’t want to be talking to the sort of boy that chips in for a keg at a party like this one. You’re a little overdressed, don’t you think? he asked. I was wearing a black cocktail dress and red tights. Festive, classic. Jeans and t-shirts aren’t really my thing, I said, looking pointedly at his shirt, a tee that told me he played baseball for our school. I get it, he said. Have a nice night, okay?

I found Brianna laughing with Keats at some doubtless awful joke he had told. Brianna, we need to go, I said. She shot me a look. We’re having a good time, she said. No, I’m not, I told her.

Why don’t you call a cab, darling? she asked. Keats’ll pay for it. Won’t you, Keats?

I don’t think she realized that boys like Keats don’t pay cab fares for their dates’ friend.

Keats reached for his wallet. Don’t worry about it, I said.

I walked outside, my head throbbing from the loud music. I fished through my bag for my phone and called for a cab. I hated it when Brianna and Alex broke up.

I miss everyone I know. That’s a strange place to be. I say it automatically, now: I miss you. Because I am here, and everyone is out there—they are down south or back east or in another country; everyone is far away from me. And I am hours from any place worth visiting and weeks away from him, and it’s just tonight that it has started to feel unbearable. He’s camping in an electric forest, he is warm and buzzing and probably feeling very alive. He is young and he is beautiful and I am terrified he will find that there is a lot more worth knowing than me. I miss everyone and I am so lonely. I don’t like wine, but I drink it in gulps because it’s the only way to feel better in the miserable solitude I’ve created for myself. I was okay, and now I am not. There’s this awful pressure on my chest—he is there, and I am here. My friends are drunk and dancing and laughing and taking photographs and I am buried beneath the weight of my own longing, far away and in another time, and the worst part is wondering if anyone even cares.

     I pass him in the hallway and I look at him and start to smile, and then I remember that I’m Not Talking To Him, not even Acknowledging His Existence. So I look away quickly but our eyes had locked for a brief moment and now the look on his face is burned into my mind.

     I want him to hug me and say he’s sorry for all of the mean things he had said. I want us to go back to being friends, back to movie nights and long runs and stupid jokes, all the time. But I know that won’t happen, because I know he simply doesn’t care.

     Tickets for the concert sold out, so my best friend and I stayed in. We drank sweet tea and made stupid jokes—as always—and we ate fortune cookies and laughed about the silly promises they made. We did yoga in skinny jeans and we couldn’t touch our toes, and we couldn’t stop laughing. And we talked about the things we were afraid of, and the things we wanted, and it was better than any night out.

    Best friends.
    A fight. I’m mad. Fuming, pissed. But jesus, I don’t want to “talk about it.” I say, let’s spend a few weeks apart and then figure shit out.
    A month, a little more, passes. I want an apology. I’m still hurt. I take everything so goddamn personally.
     We go to dinner, and we talk like nothing happened. And my anger slips away. I have my best friend back. I realize that was all I ever wanted.
    The people you need most, don’t let them go. Don’t be stubborn and petty. Take a deep breath, and forgive. Ninety-nine times out of one-hundred, it’s not worth the loss. She and I, we’re not touchy, physically affectionate people, but after dinner I put my arms around her and I don’t want to let go, because she’s my best friend.

     I can think of three boys right now, who probably, you know, like me, whatever that means. They think I’m cute, or nice, or smart, or whatever and it makes them want to kiss me. Isn’t that really what a crush boils down to?

     But I don’t like them, I want him. That’s how it goes, right? And maybe there’s no way, but he says my name in this soft, sweet voice and when I look in his eyes I see this searching look. And sometimes, out of the blue, he’ll say, let’s dance and he’ll hold me close and I close my eyes because if I look at him, I’ll jump right out of my skin.

     He mentions other girls, some times, and I just want to say: What about me?

     A letter in the mail. When I saw my name written out in his handwriting, my heart stopped. I wanted to tear it open right away, but I decided to wait.

     I took the letter inside and sat down at the kitchen table. I turned it over in my hands, held it in one hand to feel its weight. I sniffed the envelope. I was tormenting myself.

     Finally, I slid one finger under the flap, prying the letter open.

     Two pages. I read it, took a deep breath, and read it again. I closed my eyes. So.

     He asked, why haven’t I heard from you? He said, I called you when I got back to town—called you over and over. You’re ignoring me.

     He wrote, I guess I’m not surprised.

     Honestly, I didn’t know he had called. But I had blocked him out, intentionally. I needed a break because it hurt too much. When he had told me about her, I couldn’t stand the thought of talking to him. I had unplugged my phone and stayed in for a while, going out only to get groceries or to pick up a newspaper.

     And now, what to do? It was too humiliating to say, I needed some space to get you out of my head, to get over you.

     So I took a couple of shots of whiskey, to steel my nerves, and I picked up the phone and dialed his number—I knew it by heart—and I said, I’m sorry. And I asked how his trip was and I said, do you want to grab dinner later?

      Because I figured, better friends than nothing.

      I wanted him from the moment I met him, but you know how the story goes—friends. Wonderful.

     So when he asked if I was looking for a roommate, I should have said no. But the second bedroom in my apartment had just become available and the thought of having him around—I liked it.

     A lot of the time, it was nice. We’d make dinner together. On quiet nights, we’d stay in with a movie. We hosted these great parties.

     But sometimes…. He brought a different girl home most weekends, and it killed me to see them file through.

     One Saturday evening, I was rummaging through the refrigerator for a snack. He came in and said, hey sis. His little nickname for me. I flinched every time he said it—that’s all I’d ever be to him. Sis.

     He grabbed a bottle of cava and two glasses and went back to his room. AS he walked in, a giggle. The door slammed, and I heard him click the lock.

     I had to get out of there. I got in the car and drove for hours, going nowhere in particular.

     The next morning, there she was, in the kitchen. She was wearing just a men’s dress shirt, unbuttoned down to here. She had perfectly tousled chestnut brown hair.

     She was the kind of girl I’d never be.

     I needed to get away from it all—needed a break. I didn’t tell him I was going. I had been heartbroken all summer, because of him. We used to see each other most days, but I stopped answering his calls and I guess he got the idea because after a while he didn’t call anymore. That hurt, too, though I guess it was my own fault.

     Even when I was gone, a world away, he was on my mind. I’d hear someone say his name or see something that reminded me of a joke of ours and I’d think of him. It always took me a while to shake it off.

     I had only been back for a few hours when  he called. I don’t know how he knew. I took a deep breath, and I had my finger on the ‘ignore’ button, but I decided to pick up. My voice had failed me, though, so I cleared my throat.

     Hi, I said.

     He said, hey, how are you?

     And I said, good. I’m really tired, long flight. Can I call you later? I asked. Hearing his voice was killing me. And then:

     I really need to see you.

     I sighed. Later, okay?

     He said, it’s important. Can I swing by your place?

     I couldn’t say no.

     Less than twenty minutes later, a knock at the door. I steeled myself and opened the door. He looked so good.

     I moved aside to let him in and he sat on the couch. I fetched a chair from the kitchen and sat across from him. I didn’t want to sit too close.

     What’s wrong? he asked.

     Nothing, I said and it reverberated in my ear. My voice sounded so falsely cheerful. I knew he’d know I was lying.

     We haven’t spoken in, like, two months, he said.

     I looked at him, not saying anything. The silence grew. I figured I might as well come out with it.

     It’s hard for me, I said, being around you.

     He looked confused. I didn’t understand why. I’d always assumed he knew how I felt about him; I’d never tried to hide it.

      You’re a really great friend, but I have feelings for you and it’s hard for me to see you, I said.

      It was humiliating.

     He said he had no idea. He said, maybe I could like you, too, and I shook my head and said, that’s not how it works. I walked over to him and kissed him on the cheek and then I opened the door and finally he left and that was that.