Authors: Lauren Smith
Sated and out of breath, I pull out and roll over to stare at the
ceiling, basking in the temporary high. The silence is comforting. The void
inside me is subdued, at least for now.
I get up to remove the condom and rejoin her on the bed. Without the
slightest hesitation, I reach for her hand. I’d never be this open with anyone
else. She twists her head towards me, a huge grin sweeping across her face.
“What?” I smile, still staring at the ceiling.
“Nothing.”
I squeeze her hand affectionately. “Tell me.”
She curls into my side and rests her head on my chest. Her fingers
lightly stroke my abdomen. “I can’t believe that just happened.”
I kiss the crown of her head. “How are you feeling?”
“Pretty sore.”
“There’s Advil in the bathroom if you need it. Help yourself.”
She’s too lost in thought to answer.
“What’s up?”
“Just thinking.”
“Sounds exhausting. You know what else is exhausting? Mind reading.”
She pinches me.
“Ouch.” I flip over onto my side and scoot down so we’re eye level.
“Fine, I’ll play along. What are you thinking about?”
She caresses my temple. Her hand floats down to my cheek, tracing small
circles with her thumb. “Why don’t you ever talk about your past?”
My face falls. The state of euphoria I’m currently in vanishes.
What
the fuck?
Is she really going to broach that subject after what just
transpired between us? I swallow the rising panic and attempt to brush it off.
“Because it’s boring and there’s nothing to tell. Why are you bringing
this up all of a sudden?”
She shrugs nonchalantly like it’s a simple, harmless topic. “Because it’s
the one area of your life that I know so little about.”
“Barring my old therapist, you know more than anyone.”
“But it’s still not much. It’s surface details like your dad running off
and your mom losing custody. You’ve never told me why those things happened.”
“And it’s going to stay that way.”
She stops stroking my face. “You don’t have any intention of telling me?
Ever?”
“Why would I?”
She quickly disentangles from our embrace and props herself up on an
elbow to stare down at me. Her face is a mixture of confusion and hurt. “Why
wouldn’t you? I tell you everything. Do you not trust me enough to let me in?”
“It’s not that,” I reassure. “I just don’t see the point. It doesn’t
serve any purpose. The past is in the past. It’s been dealt with a long time ago.
I have no desire to rehash any of that shit and run the risk of tainting what
we have.”
I raise my hand to brush her cheek with the backs of my knuckles, but she
swerves out of the way. She pulls the bed sheet up to shield herself.
“Eric, it does serve a purpose. Your past is part of who you are. It
doesn’t define you, but it shapes you. I’m not saying you need to divulge
everything right here and now, but you can’t seriously expect me to be in a
one-sided relationship. That’s not fair. If we’re giving this a real shot, and
I’m putting myself out there, then I expect the same in return. Do you really
think that’s too much to ask for?”
I can’t even tell you what she said during that last bit because I got
hung on the word—“Who the hell said anything about a relationship?”
She rears back as if I’ve slapped her. I watch the various emotions play
out across her face. Everything from shock to devastation surfaces. Her grip on
the sheet tightens as she crawls off the bed. I immediately sit up and go into
repair mode.
“Rave, that’s not how I meant it.”
No response.
Shit. What have I done?
She darts around the floor and gathers her clothes in one hand, avoiding
my gaze at all costs. I run my hands through my hair, frantically searching for
a way to explain myself. It’s not that I don’t want her to be my girlfriend,
but it was never discussed. The statement caught me off guard. I should’ve
figured that’s what she wanted, but she’s shot me down so many times before
I’ve gotten in the habit of no longer making assumptions.
“Rave, listen to me.”
She shakes her head and moves to the door.
“Where are you going?”
“Home.”
“Wait!” I jump off the bed and wrap my fingers around her arm to stop
her. She looks down at my hand, then up at me. Her beautiful brown eyes are searing
with fury.
“Let go,” she snaps.
I try for pleading. “Stay the night and we can sort this out.”
“After that? Not a chance.”
She rips her arm free and opens the door. I slip into my boxers and
flinch when the door slams behind her. I throw on my tee and race out there
before she can reach the bathroom. She beats me by three lousy steps and locks
me out.
I raise my fist and bang on the door. “Rave, open up. We need to talk.”
She rebuttals with a proposition of her own. “Go fuck yourself!”
I press my head against the door and lower my voice. “I didn’t know,
okay? I didn’t know that’s what you wanted.”
I hear faint scattered sounds, then her voice echoes from the other side
of the door. “Oh, really? So you just decided to skip over the part where I
specifically told you I didn’t want to be like every other girl?”
“Do you honestly think if you were like any other girl we’d even be
having this conversation? Shouldn’t that tell you something?”
“It tells me I was right all along. You can’t handle real commitment.
Instead, you choose to shut me out. You love to joke how I’m the selfish one,
but really it’s you. You’re completely incapable of putting anyone else’s needs
above your own. You only care about casual, meaningless sex. It’s all a stupid
game that allows you to get what you want from others, without having to
compromise anything yourself. At least I’m not afraid to put myself out there
and let somebody see me for who I really am. But you, you’re so busy running
from your past and dodging intimacy, you wouldn’t know affection if it hit you
in the face with a two-by-four.”
The door flies open, making me jump back. She zips her jeans up and plows
past me with her salty attitude and thoroughly fucked hair.
I trail her into the living room. “Will you slow down for two fucking
seconds? I’m trying to fix the problem but you’re not letting me.”
“Don’t bother.”
“Now who’s shutting who out?”
She snatches her keys and clutch up, slides her sunglasses on top of her
head, and holds onto the wall while she wrestles into her heels. “Don’t go
there. Don’t you dare put this on me. I laid everything out on the table and
told you exactly what I wanted, exactly what I was afraid of, and exactly what
my issue is.”
“But you
didn’t
tell me exactly what you wanted. That’s my point!
You never said you wanted a relationship.”
“Do you really think I would’ve slept with you otherwise? Use your other
head for once.”
I let out a defeated sigh, realizing I can’t win in this scenario. “You
know what? Fine. Be that way. You wanna walk out that door, go right ahead. I
can’t stop you. But you could at least tell me how to make it better.”
She opens the patio door and shoots one last lethal glance over her
shoulder. “Figure it out yourself.”
There goes the second door slam of the night, and the millionth door slam
of my lifetime. All that’s left is me standing in an empty apartment harboring
two distinct feelings I’m all too familiar with: guilt and self-loathing.
r a v e
n
Three days have passed and still no
word from Eric. To add insult to injury, every time I creep on his Facebook or
Instagram, new pictures emerge of him flaunting his “no strings attached”
lifestyle. Just this morning there was a photo posted of him and some random
brunette getting close at a bar last night. It’s like he’s deliberately rubbing
it in my face to make me jealous. He’s not doing anything out of the ordinary
from what he usually does on social media, but now it hurts. You’d think he’d
have the decency to spare me the trashy photos. Or maybe he took my feelings
into consideration and did it anyway. A dull ache spreads through my chest at
the thought.
Had I known our night was going to end with a blowup fight, I would’ve
never let him have me. It all happened so fast. One minute everything was
perfect, and the next it all spun out of control. My heart feels as raw and
used as my body. It wasn’t until I was getting ready this morning and looking
in the mirror that I was forced to face the ugly truth: I got played.
What was I expecting? Have I really become one of
those
girls? The
typical, cliché ones who fall into the embarrassing trap of believing they’re
the exception and not the norm? I was thoroughly convinced Eric and I had
something different. I’ve never felt more stupid. Did he really think I’d
settle for being his sidepiece? That I wouldn’t want a relationship? It was
supposed to be obvious. Apparently, Eric needs it spelled it out in bold
letters, underlined three times, highlighted, and stapled to his forehead.
“Raven, clock out and go home.”
I glance over at Andre. Ever since he became a manager, we’re back to
butting heads like old times. I don’t appreciate him ordering me around and
insinuating I don’t know how to do my job. It’s a major conflict of interest.
Screw anyone who thinks I get special treatment around here. Sure, I
automatically have one foot in the door—and unless I steal or the restaurant
goes under, job security is pretty much guaranteed—but everything comes at a
higher price. What people don’t take into account is the complicated dynamics
between family members. It can be a nightmare to work with each other. Here’s
why:
1.) Personal issues tend to bleed into the business side, and vice versa.
There’s no escaping the family drama. Ever.
2.) You’re bossed around by parents and siblings both at home
and
at work.
3.) You’re expected to go above and beyond what any non-related employees
do.
4.) Family doesn’t think twice about calling you in at a moment’s notice
and guilt-tripping you into working. If someone blows off a shift, or the
restaurant gets busy, Andre, Emilio, and myself are the first ones on the call
list.
“Why? My shift doesn’t end for another forty-five minutes.”
“I know, but we’re slow and I can’t use you.”
Normally I’d be all over getting cut early, but I was really counting on
the distraction today.
“Are you sure?”
“Positive. If we get slammed tonight, I’ll call you back in.”
There’s that conflict of interest again.
“Sounds good. See ya later.”
I remove my apron, grab my stuff from the back, and clock out. Digging
through my purse, I find my phone and check for any missed notifications. A few
texts pop up on the screen. Much to my disappointment, none of them are from
Eric. How much longer is this standoff going to last? Better yet, who’s going
to be the first to surrender?
Tori:
When are you off? I’m bored out of my mind.
Tori:
Come watch Grey’s with me. Oh, and bring home some stuffed
mushrooms and mozzarella sticks if you can, purdy please. I’m too lazy to
shower and drive there myself. Don’t judge.
I smile and shake my head when I finish reading those texts.
Me:
You’re becoming completely unmanageable.
It only takes her a few seconds to respond. Tori:
I know, but you love
me. ; )
Me:
Just clocked out. I’ll put the order in and head out. Be there
soon(ish).
Tori:
You’re my hero. XOXO.
Me:
Lies.
Tori:
Truth.
When I walk through the door, I find Tori sprawled out on the couch in
her pajamas, scrolling through Instagram. She tilts her head back to greet me,
kicks her feet up on the coffee table, and points to the cushion beside her. I
pass the appetizers off and tell her to hold on a sec while I grab a couple
forks from the kitchen.
“Have you seen Eric’s posts today?”
I bump the drawer closed with my stomach and spin around to retrieve a
bottle of wine from the fridge. I’m not revisiting this topic sober. It’s less
painful to process when the details are blurry and self-awareness takes an
extended vacation. I fetch two wine glasses from the top cupboard and fill them
to the brim with Merlot. I shove the cork back in the bottle, sling it under my
arm, and walk over to take a seat, carefully handing her a glass.
“Not since this morning. Why?”
She takes a sip and sets her glass down to show me her screen. I look
closely at the most recent photo. It’s a selfie of Eric and me taken two years
ago when we were hanging out in an empty movie theater. My head is casually
resting against his shoulder without a care in the world. We’re both sporting
3D glasses. Our cheeks are puffed out to the max, I’m cross-eyed, and he’s
staring longingly at my bucket of popcorn. The caption underneath the photo
reads,
My best friend for life. #homegirl #rideordie #throwback
I remember that day perfectly. Having the theater to ourselves was
awesome. We spent the entire movie talking about random stuff and messed around
with the projector, making inappropriate hand gestures on the screen. We loaded
up on snacks like it was going out of style, then we each stood on opposite
ends of the aisle and took turns tossing gummy bears in the air for the other
one to catch in their mouth. To this day, neither of us could tell you what the
movie was about.
Tori’s voice knocks me out of my nostalgia. “You think it’s his way of
trying to apologize?”
I hand the phone back and gulp a generous amount of wine before
responding. “If it is, I’m not impressed. He needs to step it up and try
something more sincere. Reaching out via social media is impersonal and
overdone, especially when he’s been posting countless photos of him with
other
girls all weekend long. He should know me better than that. And if he doesn’t,
he has no business posting that photo in the first place.”
“Has he tried texting you at all since Thursday?”
“Nope,” I emphasize the “p” with a popping sound.
“Have you tried getting ahold of him?”
I shake my head. “And I don’t plan on it, either.”
“Atta girl. Make him work for it.”
“More like make him suffer. These last few days have been hell. If he
were feeling even a fraction of what I am, he’d be speed dialing me nonstop and
blowing up my phone with text messages. And if he couldn’t get ahold of me that
way, he’d race over here to break down my door and beg me to give him a second
chance. He’s doing neither of those things. He’d rather be out in bars picking
up chicks instead of trying to make it right with the one girl who’s never left
his side. How insulting is that? I put myself out there in the greatest way
possible and he made me feel so insignificant. A small part of me hates him.”
“Hey,” Tori soothes, wrapping her arms around my torso and giving me a tight
hug. “You don’t mean that. You’re just upset. Rightfully so, but still.”
Tears well up in my eyes. “How could he do this to me? I trusted him
.
And the way he made me feel about myself afterwards? That’s the worst part. I
had to pull my car over because I was crying so hard I thought I was going to
puke. He ruined everything. I’ll never be able to get that experience back.”
“If it makes you feel any better, my first time was awful. Nick didn’t
even try to comfort me. Or get me off. My body was sore for days and the whole
experience was so traumatizing, I didn’t have sex again for a year. Remember
that? Felt like the world’s longest dry spell, but I couldn’t bring myself to
do it.”
She repositions her legs on the couch. “I know it’s probably too soon to
tell, but do you think y’all will be able to move past this and salvage the
friendship? I mean, you’ve been friends for a really long time. That’s a lot of
great memories to throw away. On the other hand, he royally fucked up. We can’t
ignore that. Maybe he should be exiled. Decisions, decisions.”
I stare down and pick an invisible piece of lint off my work pants. “I
don’t know. I have no idea where we go from here. All I know is I’m exhausted.
Let’s drop the conversation for now. I’d like to give my mind a break from all
the obsessing and have a fun girls night. Let’s stuff ourselves with bombass
food, drown our sorrows in wine, and overdose on McDreamy.”
Tori raises her hand high in the air. “Preach! But first, let’s have a
Kodak moment.”
She picks up her phone, swipes her
screen, and pulls up Instagram. She holds the camera out in front of us. Before
she snaps the picture, she drops her hand. “Hold up! We need our wine.”
Both of us seize our glasses and squeeze back into the picture.
“My eyes are all red and puffy.” I complain.
“That’s what filters are for.”
“Good call.”
Cue the fraudulent smile. A momentary flash goes off, followed by the
clicking sound. Tori sets her wine back on the table and alters the photo to
make us look like goddesses. I start up Netflix and search for the second
season of
Grey’s Anatomy
. It’s the only one I can binge-watch in my
current frame of mind. Meredith + Derek = Happiness? I’ll pass. Give me the
angst and heartache.
I hit play and drop the remote on the couch. Tori leans over to show me
the final shot. “Check it out.”
Strangely enough, I look happy. Guess the saying holds true: appearances
can be deceiving, and artificial smiles can go a long way.
“Post it.”
She taps her screen, types a speedy message, and uploads the photo. I
steal her phone out of her hand to check out the caption.
Who needs boys when you got bitches? Real love never dies.
#ourloveisobscene #realtalk
#stepoff
I smile—a genuine one this time—and pass the phone back.
“Truth.”
We grab our forks and dig in. Food has been missing its usual pizzazz
lately, and my appetite is suffering as a result.
How long can a person
survive on a diet of red wine?
Probably not long. I should Google that.
Answer: it’s complicated.
Not promising.
A glass of red wine is good for your heart, though. Too bad I’m on my
third. Ugly crying and boy bashing are parked in the forefront of my mind,
waiting for me to jump in and take a joy ride. Meanwhile, Meredith’s wandering
around on my TV screen like a lost puppy, baring her dark and twisty soul,
imploring Derek to “Pick me. Choose me. Love me.” Spoiler alert: he picks
Addison.
Ruthless bastard.
I feel ya, Mer. We can’t win for losing. Pour
yourself a glass of wine when you’re done with surgery and catch up with me.
My pity party is cut short when my phone buzzes. Eric’s face lights up
the screen under his designated nickname, Modern Day James Dean.
My heart sinks.
Tori picks up the remote and hits pause. “Who is it?”
“Eric. Should I answer?”
“Only if you’re ready to talk.”
It’s not a question of whether or not I’m ready to talk; it’s whether I’m
willing to listen to what he has to say. Before I can make a decision, the call
ends and travels into my missed calls log. Another missed shot. Story of our
lives. Our relationship—or lack thereof—is defined precisely by the amount of
opportunities we were presented and never took. What’s holding us back? Fear of
rejection? Fear of failure? Fear of accepting a love that’s powerful enough to
destroy our safe crutch of dependency? I’m gonna go with all the above.
My phone vibrates with an incoming text.
MDJD:
Look outside your door.
Is he serious? I stand up and walk over to the front door, pressing my
hands up against it and peering through the peephole. There’s no one on the
other side. I step back and swing it open. A medium-sized canvas wrapped in
brown paper tips over and lands on my feet. Curious, I glance around the empty
hallway and crouch down to pick it up.
“What’s that?” Tori asks.
I drag it in and kick the door shut. “One of Eric’s portraits.”
She hustles over to my side, “Ooh! Let me see,” and rips the paper off.
We both stare.
Speechless.
Streaks of midnight blue paint run up the canvas and fan out like
splashes of water on dried paper. Vibrant shades of magenta are infused at the
top, elevating the mood from somber to serene. Flocks of ravens soar above my
head in a vanilla cream sky, keeping their watchful eyes on me.