Obsessive (20 page)

“So…” She stops, swallows. “You’re saying that’s why you broke up with me? Because you took too many drugs? Or you broke up with me because you weren’t taking enough drugs, and then you decided to overdose? And was that before or after you slept with Melody? I just…I just want to make sure I’m getting the timeline straight.”

My anxiety level explodes off the scale. I don’t even know if there’s a number for it. “Whoa, what do you…WHY do you think I slept with Melody?”

Tash narrows her eyes at me, then pulls something out of her pocket. It’s one of those Motorola flip phones that used to be really popular for a while. Still an early model, but not nearly as ancient as her last one. I shake my head, trying to clear it. My mind always focuses on the stupidest things, especially in a crisis.

“I got this on eBay a few weeks ago,” she says, flipping it open and scrolling through it. “It took me a while to figure out how to work it, but even I know how to open a picture message.”

She stops scrolling and hands it to me. My eyes widen as I take in what’s on the screen. I can’t even fathom how…but no, actually, I can. It all makes perfect sense.

“I know this is going to sound like the world’s dumbest excuse… but Melody snuck into my room, after I told her and my mom that you couldn’t make it to dinner. My dad invited the mayor over for dinner—he wanted to find out how I was doing at my internship. Anyway, that doesn’t matter. I went up to my room to wash my hands—several times—and when I came out, she was waiting on my bed, right next to where I’d left my phone.”

I was in the bathroom for ages. It would have been so easy for her to take off her clothes, and lie down in my bed to take this picture with my phone. The caption below it says
Good thing you couldn’t make it. I’m better off with what I have right here
. The fact that Melody accidentally used the word ‘better,’ which is kind of like a code word between Tash and I, just makes it that much worse.

“She wasn’t naked when I came out, that much I can promise you.” I hand the phone back, feeling more angry than anxious now. “I kicked her out like five seconds later. You can ask Gen, or my mom. I told her about everything that happened a few days ago, after I quit my internship. My mom actually called her a skank. I thought that was kind of rude, but now I think maybe skank isn’t a strong enough word.”

“Wow,” Tash shakes her head, pocketing her phone. “I wouldn’t have thought your mom had it in her. And that’s the mayor’s daughter. God knows what kind of things she’s called me.”

I want to reassure her that my mom doesn’t hate her, but there’s a more pressing issue to deal with.
Why would Tash actually think I’d do that to her? Let alone send a picture of a random naked girl, or say something so cruel?

“So, you thought I cheated on you
and
dumped you. In a text message.” It hurts even to ask, but I have to. “And you didn’t think that was…I don’t know, a little out of character? You didn’t bother to call me, or ask me why?”

“I did try to call you, a couple of times. But you didn’t answer, so I figured that
was
my answer.” Tash shrugs, looking away from me, out the window so I can’t see her face. “I don’t know, things like that tend to happen to girls like me. Or so I’ve heard. I’ve never actually been dumped before. Hell, I’ve never really dated before. I guess I thought…maybe it was best to just move on with my life.”

“But you kept the picture.”

“Yeah, I thought about posting it on a couple of porn sites, just to see what her dad thought of it.” She sniffs, trying to disguise the tears in her voice. “But then I realized that wouldn’t make me any better than people like her. And Becca Foster. Butterface bags are one thing, but no one deserves to be exposed like that, no matter how stupid it is to send naked pictures of yourself to someone who hates you.”

My chest hurts. Even pissed off and heartbroken, she’s such a good person. “I know there’s a lot of stuff I’ve been keeping from you, but I swear I’d never hurt you on purpose. I guess…trying to hide my freakish side was my way of protecting you, I thought. But that’s how things got so screwed up, because it all backfired, and everything was spinning out of control. I thought you were pulling away, that you wouldn’t want to be a part of my life if you knew how bizarre it really was. I didn’t blame you, so I left you alone. But Gen was right. I should have fought for you, and tried to figure out what was going on sooner. Now that I know, I can’t tell you how sorry I am. I’ll do anything, everything I can to make it up to you.”

She’s still not looking at me, so I reach over and grab her shoulders, I try to turn her toward me but she pulls back, shaking her head.

“Grant, I can’t do this right now. It’s not about you, okay? I just can’t…it’s really not a good time. I appreciate you telling me the truth, but it’s too much for me. I’m…I’m not ready to be….”

I can feel it coming, the thing I fear the most. She’s trying to tell me it’s too late. That I’ve screwed up irrevocably. Not only have I missed my chance, but there’s nothing I can do to fix it. I’m losing her.

Somewhere in the back of my mind, my OCD cackles, because it told me so. For as long as I can remember, it’s been telling me that everything I do is crucial, and potentially catastrophic—unfortunate, disastrous. But I never really stopped to think about how catastrophe can sometimes be a good thing.

“Natasha,” I burst out, automatically falling into the ritual that comforts me the most. “N-A-T-A-S-H-A. Your full name has seven letters, but you hate it, so you never go by it. I didn’t know your full name until the fifth grade, when we finally ended up in the same class—Mrs. Cardall’s class, but you probably remember that. Anyway, when I found out your name had seven letters, it made perfect sense to me, like maybe I’d known it all along.”

“Grant….” She’s still shaking her head, still not looking at me, so I keep talking.

“There are seven fundamental types of catastrophes. In mathematics, catastrophe theory is a particular, special case in the singularity theory of geometry. It deals with a special case, wherein a long-run, stable equilibrium can be identified with the minimum of a smooth, well-defined potential function. Small changes in certain parameters of a nonlinear system can cause that system’s equilibrium to appear or disappear, or to change from attracting to repelling and vice versa, leading to large and sudden changes of the behavior of the system. However, examined in a larger parameter space, catastrophe theory reveals that such bifurcation points tend to occur as part of well-defined qualitative geometrical structures.”

Her shoulders are shaking now, and one hand goes up to cover her mouth. I can’t tell if she’s laughing or crying. The thought that I might be making it worse causes more panic, but I embrace it.

“I’m guessing none of this will make sense to you—because you hate math—or most people, or maybe no one, except me. So…I’ll try to break it down a little. For me, Tash, you’ve always been a special case. Before you, I thought I was stable, but that was because I only thought I had one potential function. My entire life, my sole function was to attain normalcy, which for me basically equated to most people’s definition of perfection. For me, equilibrium meant pleasing everyone, upsetting no one. But ever since that day a few months ago, when I accidentally made you so mad that you kissed me in the quad, I started to question my behaviors. What could I have possibly done to attract someone like you, someone so fundamentally opposite and…amazing? And more importantly, what can I do to keep from repelling you?”

“Grant, stop.”

“Before you, my life was simple, linear. I didn’t think about things in terms of happily ever after, just long-term, stable equilibrium. But when that line started to fracture, I had to start looking at things from another perspective. You made me redefine everything, Tash, including myself. I see now that I don’t want to be defined by perfection anymore. I don’t want people to see me as Mr. Perfect. As the guy ‘most likely to’ anything. And more than anything, I don’t want you to see me that way.”

Tash is definitely crying now, slumped over the steering wheel with both hands covering her face. I don’t know if she’s mad because she keeps trying to break up with me and I won’t let her, or because I’m freaking her out with my really OCD attempt at an epic ‘I love you’ speech. Or worst of all, because she doesn’t feel the same way. Because I disgust her.

“I’m sorry,” I tell her. “I should have said that first. I’m so…so sorry. I’m sorry I screwed up. I’m sorry I’m screwed up, that I’m not Mr. Perfect. I wish I could be that for you. I wish I could tell you how much I love you, in a normal, sane way. That way, maybe you’d believe me. I’ve never loved anyone before you, and I know it sounds totally insane but I will never love anyone else. The odds of that happening are just too astronomical. You make me want to be better, because I meant it when I said you deserve better. You deserve college, and a glowing future, and a great life, and someone so much better than me. I don’t know why you have such a hard time seeing it, but you’re better than me, Tash. You’re so much better. You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me, and I know I’m talking a lot…and I’m kind of freaking out still, so please…please say something. Say anything, except that it’s too late.”

Finally, she stops crying. Or at least slows down from a sob to a sniffle. She wipes her face with both hands, then turns toward me. I’ve never seen her look so scared.

“Grant, I’m pregnant.”

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Sometimes, you don’t say anything because you’re shy, or scared, or angry, or tired. Or if you’re like me, you’re so obsessed with not saying the wrong thing that you can’t seem to find the right words. So you keep your mouth shut, or shrug, or just let people assume what they want to assume.

Other times, you don’t say anything because there just
aren’t
any words.

This is one of those times. I’ve probably said more in the past ten minutes than I have in months. But now, sitting there in the front seat of Tash’s car, in her darkened driveway…I’m all out of words. And plans. And solutions.

Nothing could have prepared me for this. My OCD didn’t even come up with this sudden, catastrophic, life-exploding possibility. Not once. It literally never occurred to me that something like this could ever happen. Not to me.

So I just sit there, staring at Tash across the car, as she stares back at me and we both wait for something to happen.

After what seems like forever, she sighs. She takes a deep breath. Clears her throat.

“I found out a few days ago. Right after the whole…text message thing. I’d been feeling weird for about a week, having all these weird dreams. I wanted to cry all the time. I think that’s why I freaked out and picked a fight with my mom, why I found out about the waitressing thing.” Her voice is thin, flat, like none of what she’s saying matters. “The next morning, I started throwing up. My mom figured it out first. She asked me if I could be pregnant, and I laughed. I told her no way. She believed me. After she left for work, I went straight to the drug store and bought a test.”

She pauses, and in the silence all I can hear is the pounding of my own heartbeat. I’m suddenly assaulted with a bunch of discordant images. Blood dripping. Cars crashing. Tash, naked in her room. Baby feet. Cells dividing. Dirty diapers. My parents. People at my church. Graduation caps. Dirty laundry. Scenes from ‘Billy Becomes a Man.’ Tash, belly swollen and huge. Tash, screaming in pain. Tash, pregnant.

I’ve never even held a baby, let alone thought of having one.

“Of course, the second I saw the plus sign, I knew I couldn’t keep it. There was just no way. I can’t be someone’s mom.” For the first time, her voice spikes into hysteria territory. “I mean, let’s face it. My life has always been so fucked up, I think everyone in this town expected this to happen. Maybe on some level, I even knew I’d end up getting knocked up and stuck here for life. But ever since a few months ago, I…I can’t let that be my life anymore. So I decided I just wouldn’t tell anyone, and I’d take care of it myself.”

A jolt of understanding goes through me. When she says ‘take care of it,’ I think she means….

“So I took off work and drove to this clinic in Springville. I used some of the money from my savings to get a motel room, and I made an appointment at Family Planning. I told my mom I was going to see Margot, so she wouldn’t wonder where I was.”

I can’t process anything she’s saying. It just runs over me, like a river of facts I can’t hope to tread. I hold my breath.

“But when I got there…I couldn’t go through with it.”

Tash closes her eyes, shakes her head, and takes another deep breath. We both exhale, together.

“It’s not that I think it’s wrong, or that women don’t have a right to choose, but… I couldn’t stop thinking about how permanent it all was. How if I made this decision right now, there would be no changing my mind. No going back. And I just…I realized I wasn’t in my right mind, because of what happened with us, and everything was so fucked up, and I thought…what if I make the wrong choice?”

Tash stops talking and looks into my eyes then, and even though she doesn’t say it, I know in this moment she knows exactly how I feel. How I’ve always felt—like everything I do or don’t do is catastrophically important. Except unlike me, she’s right. The choices she makes directly affect someone else’s life. She has complete and total control over the fate of another human being.

Nobody can ever really say that, can they? Not even about themselves. No matter how hard you try, you can’t control everything. If we’re being honest, I’m not sure if we can really control
anything
.

That’s kind of like the meaning of life, I think. Realizing how helpless we actually are. We can't control what happens to us. Not even if we ritualize, or worry about every little thing, or try to plan out every detail of our lives. Not even if we believe a certain way, or align ourselves with the right people. Or get the right job, or the right paycheck.