Guyaholic (13 page)

“You let Sam down because you were scared.”

“Of what?”

“Of allowing him to love you . . . of admitting that you love him back.”

When Mara says that, my stomach flips over. I set my coffee on the bench and touch my hands to my cheeks.

Mara glances over at me. “We don’t have to talk about Sam if you don’t want to.”

I take a deep breath and exhale slowly.

“By the way,” she adds, “I don’t think you’re like Aimee.”

“Thanks,” I say quietly.

Mara reaches over and pats my shoulder, and then we just sit there for a while, watching the squirrel pry a nut out of the ground and carry it into a tree.

“Okay,” I say, reaching across the table for the canister of crushed red pepper. “I’m ready to talk about Sam.”

Mara sets down her forkful of pizza. “Seriously?”

I nod quickly and glance around the restaurant. It’s seven thirty in the evening, and Mara and I are eating at Pizza Hut. Not that I was having pangs for my former workplace. Basically, Mara and I were total tourists today. We went to Millennium Park, where we checked out this giant metal sculpture that’s so shiny you can see your reflection staring back at you. When we left there, we meandered down Michigan Avenue, browsing in and out of shops. Mara got a funky beaded headband and we bought matching lime-green tank tops. We paid a gazillion dollars to ride this insanely fast elevator to the top of the Hancock building, but it was totally worth it because the sky was so clear and open we could see all the way to Wisconsin. When we hit the bottom, we splurged on tall cups of Jamba Juice, which we sipped as we sat in the plaza, people-watching and soaking in the sunshine.

By dinnertime we both realized we’d blown way too much cash. Mara suggested going back to her place and having chips and salsa for dinner. That’s when I remembered my Pizza Hut gift card. We took the train a few stops and, well, here we are.

“So,” Mara says. “Sam.”

I drink some iced tea and explain my theory about how, for one, I pushed him away because so far in my life my main experience with love, meaning my mom, has taught me that it hurts. And, for two, I could never let Sam get to know the real me because, deep down, I suck and I didn’t want him to figure that out.

When I’m done, Mara traces her finger around the rim of her cup.

“What?” I push my hair behind my ears. “Do you agree? Or am I full of shit?”

“You want the truth?”

“Of course.”

Mara wipes her lips with her napkin. “I’d say semi-full of shit. For one, you don’t suck. Look at everything you’ve done. Getting into Bost —”

“Off the wait list,” I say.

“Getting into BU and kicking ass in those school plays. You have to know how talented you are. And driving all the way to Tex —”

“I haven’t made it to Texas yet.”

“You’ve made it to Chicago, and I seriously wouldn’t have the guts to drive six hundred miles by myself.” Mara breaks off a piece of pizza with the edge of her fork. “And for two, I think Sam
did
know the real you.”

“What do you mean?”

“Remember when I came home last month and we all went to the Lilac Festival?”

“Yeah?”

“And remember how I said I’d never seen you that happy?”

“Yeah?”

“What I meant was that I’d never seen you that calm, especially around a guy. But when you were with Sam, it seemed like you weren’t putting on any act. You were just
you,
and Sam loved you for it.”

I poke at an ice cube with my straw. The server comes over with drink refills. As soon as she’s gone, Mara squeezes some lemon into her cup. I dump in a packet of sugar and say, “I still don’t know if I could have been this perfect girlfriend for him. I don’t think life is a fairy tale that way. You don’t get hit on the head with a hockey puck and fall into the lap of Prince Charming and he saves you and everything is changed forever.”

“Maybe it doesn’t happen in a fairy-tale second,” Mara says. “But maybe you meet someone and you really like him and gradually certain things start to change in your life and, one day, you realize you’re able to let him in.”

“Maybe,” I say, slurping some iced tea, “but I’m not convinced.”

“He’s totally, completely gay,” I declare.

“No way!” Mara shrieks.

“Gay.”

“Take it back.”

“Gay.”

“Will you please stop saying that?”

Mara and I are in her room, reading the online profile of the guy from her yoga class. We were about to go to sleep, but then Mara popped out of bed, turned on her laptop, and said that since I’m leaving tomorrow morning, she needed some tips for landing Camel Guy. But as soon as I saw his picture and read his information, my gaydar went into high alert.

“How do you know?” Mara asks. “It doesn’t
say
he’s gay.”

“Maybe he doesn’t know yet. Or maybe he doesn’t want his parents to know. But believe me, this guy is totally —”

“Don’t!”

I turn to Mara. “What about Navneet?”

“From Starbucks?”

“He definitely seemed like he was into you.”

Mara gazes dreamily at her gay fantasy boyfriend.

“Navneet is cute,” I add.

“Maybe,” she says, “but he’s so skinny. . . .”

“Skinny is good.”

Mara raises her eyebrows at me.

“You can
feed
skinny,” I say, “but you can’t change someone’s sexual orientation.”

“Now I’m depressed.” Mara stands up and heads toward the door. “I’m going to take a shower.”

“Think about Navneet in there!” I shout.

I can hear the bathroom door close and the water start up. I type my password into Mara’s laptop and send a quick e-mail to Aimee’s friends in Springfield. I let them know I’m planning to sleep over in St. Louis tomorrow and will arrive at their house around noon on Saturday. Then I e-mail my mom and tell her I should be in San Antonio by early next week. I’m about to log off, but then I decide to scroll through my contact list and . . . there it is.

Michael’s e-mail address.

Back when we lived in San Diego, we’d sometimes IM each other, making dinner plans or arranging when he’d pick me up from a friend’s house. Before I can stop myself, I click on his address and start writing.

As soon as I’m done, I hit
SEND
and stare at the screen for a while. I thought I’d feel all panicky and wish I could reach into cyberspace and yank the e-mail back. But the strange thing is that now that I’ve written to Michael, I’m wondering why on earth I waited so long.

It’s three hundred miles from Chicago to St. Louis, and I’m determined not to get lost. Before I leave Mara’s, I study my atlas and mark the route down I-55 with a yellow highlighter. I even write the directions on a Post-it to stick onto my dashboard in case the traffic is too crazy for me to be able to look at the map.

Mara fills a bottle of water for me, chills two cans of Coke, and lets me take the Pizza Hut leftovers. As she’s packing my snacks, I go online and make a reservation at a hotel on the outskirts of St. Louis. It’s cheap, right off the highway, and none of the customer reviews say anything about mice or midnight howling.

Once I’m in my car, I plug my iPod into the stereo, sip the first Coke, and sing along with the music when I know the words. As I leave Chicago, it’s all factories and sprawling industrial warehouses. But after an hour or so, I’m surrounded by nothing but cornfields, soybean fields, and the wide blue sky. And it’s so flat I can actually see entire trains off in the distance, chugging their cargo through the countryside. Also, I keep spotting these weathered old farmhouses and I imagine how they’ve probably looked exactly the same for the past century, generations of children waking up in those same bedrooms, pressing their faces against those same windows, and staring out at those same fields.

I used to get that feeling in Brockport, when I was wandering along the Erie Canal or crossing the lift bridge or passing that stone house that has a post out front where people used to tie horses. Sam pointed it out to me as we were walking to Luca’s one evening. The funny thing is I’d driven down that street a million times and had never noticed the post before.

I’m reading a billboard for the Abraham Lincoln Presidential Library when my phone rings. It’s in the middle of the passenger seat, so I reach for it, but then change my mind and leave it sitting there untouched. I’m in a good groove right now, and I don’t feel like having anything change that.

I drink the second Coke from Mara. I adjust the rearview mirror. I’m polishing off the cold pizza when Sam’s song comes on. I consider skipping over it, but I brace myself and listen anyway.

I’ve definitely been thinking a lot about Sam today. Partially, it’s the stuff Mara and I were talking about. But also, every time I see a sign counting down the mileage to St. Louis, it reminds me of this joke we used to have. It started at the cast party for
Chicago,
when the director had us reach into a hat filled with DVDs of old-time musicals. I pulled out this one from the 1940s called
Meet Me in St. Louis.
The next night Sam and I curled up on my couch and watched the movie together. Actually, we didn’t catch the second half because as soon as my grandparents went to bed, we started kissing and the next thing we knew the credits were rolling. From then on whenever Sam and I made a plan to meet at my locker or his house or wherever, we’d say,
Or maybe we should meet in St. Louis?
If anyone else was listening, they’d give us a strange look, but we’d just crack up.

As I’m crossing the Mississippi River, I spot that enormous silvery arch that marks my arrival in St. Louis. According to
Let’s Go USA,
this is the famous Gateway to the West. I grab my phone and snap a photo.

I’m a few miles from my hotel when I notice a Whole Foods off the next exit. I hit my blinker and cross two lanes. Aimee had a boyfriend in Oregon who was obsessed with Whole Foods. He called it Whole Paycheck because everything costs so much, but it’s so delicious. His name was Elias and he was a wanker, but even I had to admit their food rocked. It’s healthy and organic, but not in the bulgur and barley kind of way.

I find a parking spot and slip my feet into my flip-flops. As soon as I’m inside, I grab a basket and head to prepared foods, where I load up on seared veggie dumplings, Thai chicken satay, shrimp quesadillas, and a container of pasta salad. After that I hit produce and toss in a box of raspberries and a bag of fresh cherries.

I know this is going to be insanely expensive, but I’ve already decided to use the money Linda gave me on my last night at Pizza Hut. She said it was to treat myself to something special. I can’t believe I’m admitting this, but after a thousand miles of Pringles and pretzels and Pop-Tarts, I’m actually craving something real. Also, I’m going to dig out that cooler from my grandparents and fill it with ice at the hotel. That way I can stretch these groceries through dinner tonight and a few meals tomorrow.

I’m on my way to the registers when I smell the bakery. I wander past the multigrain rolls and picholine olive focaccias, remembering all the breads Sam used to bake. Sourdough was his favorite. Before I can stop myself, I grab a sourdough baguette and head to the checkout line.

The dumplings rock. The chicken rocks. The quesadillas rock. The pasta salad rocks. The sourdough baguette rocks.