Do You See What I See?

It’s snowing outside my window. The first snow of my New England season and I can smell you on my sheets because I didn’t change them last Sunday. But I have changed them every Sunday since I moved here last summer; taken them off, washed and softened them, put them back on, making my bed on that day so it can become disheveled the rest of the week. So now I see the snow and I smell you and it’s like you’re here in bed next to me, your hand rubbing my bare back while you watch TV and I write quietly beside you. It makes me angry, and maybe a little sad, but I let the anger take over because the sadness swells tears in my eyes that I don’t need any more of during the snowy season. I text you without thinking.
It’s snowing, my sheets smell like you I say
When I was there your sheets smelled like you. I’m jealous of the snow You say
Well now they smell like you. And I’m alone in the snow
I wish I was there with you
They lit up the tree tonight, in the park I say
Wish I was there to see it
Me too
And now the anger gives way to sadness; the kind that comes from longing and wanting when alone. The white flakes are wet and washing over the city out my window and I want to open it and touch a few, to feel their magic rub off on me. So I go downstairs and walk out the lobby doors in my sweatpants and t-shirt; with a hat and mittens but no coat. The crystal flakes fall on my nose and on my bare arms, but I’m not cold. I stand there watching the glittering snow wash over the water across the street from my building, imagining how perfect this would be if you were here now, if we were holding hands and kissing on the street, or even just holding hands and never kissing at all. I think back to that moment when you were here, that almost kiss that got lost in my unanswered questions and your crying and my needing to be stronger than tears.
The door man stares at me, sensing my sadness and solitude he asks if I am okay.
“What gave me away?” I say
“You’re not wearing a coat for one.”
“Oh”
“The snow can be lonely.” He says
And I turn my head to stare at the sight of it, barely able to see through the storm, “Yea, I guess it can.”
I stand there in silence and so does he, and I don’t even know his name but now I feel like he knows me better than anyone in this city. I smile at him and I walk back inside while he holds the door and I push the up button to the elevator where I ride to the sixth floor and lie down on my cozy comforter and try not to smell the sheets with your scent. I stand up to shut the blinds to my window and collapse on my side, calling anyone and everyone in my address book; except you. No one answers. I shut off the Christmas music blaring from my alarm clock and I try closing my eyes; but it’s only 9pm and my body refuses sleep. I am sad, but I should be tranquil in this winter wonderland of white and wishful thinking and whimsical snowmen and reindeer. I want to tear the sheets from my bed but I can’t bring myself to move and so I breathe in and rest upon them, beside you.
My phone displays your words, I miss you
I read them without response, hoping that when the snow is finished falling I won’t miss you too.

Chapter 13: Borrowed Black

One Sunday morning, my first semester of senior year, I slept in abnormally late. It was a lazy morning, the sun peeking through my white generic blinds and shining light onto my reluctant to open eyelids. I tossed and turned in my warm blue Egyptian cotton sheets, rustling restlessly and fluffing my pillow. I vaguely remembered my dreams and eventually granted my body’s urge to stride forth to the bathroom. I splashed water on my face and braided my hair which needed to be washed; tomorrow I thought. I made my way to the kitchen where no kind of food seemed to be the right kind. I decided that I would watch TV which, being a Sunday morning was a random mix of infomercials, God messages, and a few educational cartoons. I entertained the idea of getting back in bed when I noticed my little pink razor phone sitting on the futon next to me. I picked it up like I had a million other times, lacking hope that anyone had called in the ten hours I had been asleep.
10 missed calls. It read
Drunk dials, I thought to myself as I hit the ‘view’ button seeing that they were all from one number. Then I saw I had a text message so I opened it.
Ash, it’s Bobby.
Steph’s dad died this morning.
Call one of us when you get this.

I called Steph who didn’t answer and then I called Bobby who answered and told me that my best friend’s dad had died of a heart attack at six am that morning. I hadn’t gotten the message until noon. Steph was on a plane on her way home to Seattle. Mike, my roommate was on a soccer trip and wouldn’t be home until later that night. I called my dad and asked him to book me a flight but he was in San Francisco and wouldn’t be home until the evening, so I waited. I cried; silent, unnoticed tears.
When she called me back that Sunday afternoon I could not manage to get words out before tears. We both just sat there, ears on the receiver, listening to each others sniffles and breathing. She was there when I lost my mom, and now three years later she had lost her dad. I didn’t want to tell anyone, but when my roommate saw me that night I couldn’t help but cry the tears I needed someone to see. He sat there with me for what seemed like hours and even when I tried to let go he held on to me with both arms, grasping the back of my neck. We sat in silence as I wiped my tears and nose onto his black jersey.
I booked my ticket to Seattle for Thursday, which was the soonest I could get away. I dredged through my week, gloomy and unreachable. At home I closed the door to my room so that my roommate wouldn’t see me and I left in the mornings before him just so he didn’t have a chance to hug me or ask me how I was. I felt embarrassed that I had let him hold me like that, that I had been weak in that moment, that he had seen me cry. I needed to be strong for Steph. I needed to be strong for me. I was afraid the memories would come rushing back and I was not ready to pick up the pieces.
The plane ride from San Antonio to Seattle is a whopping five hours. With one stop it turns into six and a half and with delays mine turned into eight. I arrived at midnight to a temperature drop of forty degrees, high winds, and of course rain. My brother left me his car at the airport and as I made my way to the garage, I felt exhausted, like a lesser version of myself. I reached into my purse only to notice that I had forgotten my glasses and would have to spend the next forty minutes on the road squinting and leaning forward in my seat in order to see properly. The windshield wipers took it out on the windshield as I attempted to stare down the dotted white lines on either side of my lane and stay between them.
At my brother Ryan’s house I was greeted by the dark. Everyone was already asleep, that everyone being Karen, my brother’s girlfriend. Ryan was in Washington DC until the morning and Adam was at his house in Seattle. I tiptoed straight to the fridge, out of habit, and examined the usual findings of yogurt, milk, cheese, and salami. Ryan’s big on the meat and dairy. On the counter was some kind of pastry which I immediately cut into. Peanut butter and jam bars, yum. My stomach rumbled from the combination of airport food, airplane, and now the consumption of sugar at midnight. I went to the guestroom or as I like to think of it: my room. There, I was welcomed by a small lamp; a selection of DVD’s to be watched on the big screen TV, and a freshly made “Heavenly” bed.
I woke up early the next morning feeling rested and revived. There’s something about sleeping at home, in your bed, that allows your body complete relaxation. I often wonder how long it takes for somewhere new to be home or if anywhere can ever be the home you grew up in. Even when I have my own home I will share it with other people, a boyfriend, a husband, children, it will never be “just mine” in the same way it was growing up, and the people, the family, will be different than the family that’s so familiar. Familiarity will be learned again over time, and the perfect sleep will follow there after, or it is a comforting thought to think so.
~

I wore all black, not because it is politically correct, but because it was the only color that could express what I was feeling. It was borrowed black too, borrowed pants from a friend and a borrowed sweater and cashmere wrap from my brother’s girlfriend, Karen. I debated lipstick for at least ten minutes, not knowing whether or not it was appropriate. It was the only makeup to consider because any form of eye beautification was out of the question given the tears I could feel waiting with anticipation like a small child almost at the front of the line for an ice cream cone, eager and expectant. I swiped on a light layer of whatever MAC lipstick was in the drawer, a shade of red, and I put on my oversized sunglasses. I looked the part. The part of a grieving individual, cloaked in black, properly tucked away in the pews of a church.
I hadn’t been to a funeral since my mom passed, and we didn’t call that a funeral but rather a celebration of life. We had a slideshow of pictures and a sharing time where everyone told stories about my mom. We had four songs sung, all of which my mom herself had selected as her favorite’s before she left us. There was no casket, there was no burial. There was nothing that resembled death. My mom was like a mother to Stephanie, her own never really being up for the job, and so her death hit her hard and we grieved together alongside my family.
When Steph asked me to meet her family at the cemetery for the burial I didn’t know what to expect. When I arrived, I realized that looking the part was not going to be enough. I exited my brother’s black Four Runner and wrapped Karen’s black wrap closer in to hug my body. I could feel the whipping wind through my pants and although it was not yet raining I could see the grey clouds that ensured the arrival of droplets at anytime. I had parked far away and was walking with a map of the cemetery in hand when I saw her, through the crowd of about fifteen people, this tiny little girl amidst the blur of black. I quickened my step and listened to the clicking sound that my high heels made on the wet pavement; every other step was a shuffle. She began to walk towards me. She started jogging and I didn’t quicken my step. I couldn’t. When she reached me I threw my arms around her and she burst into tears; the kind of tears that are only cried over the death of someone you love. The tears she had been waiting to cry all week.
I said, “I’m sorry, I love you.”
She said, “I miss him so much.”
“I know you do,” I said.
The tears began to stream down my face as Stephanie’s poured out between inhales of air. I held her tighter and we cried harder.
She said, “I’m not strong like you are.”
“I’m pretending,” I said.
~
Stephanie used to have big sleepover parties every year on her birthday. There would be at least ten girls at her house marching into the bonus room with sleeping bags and pillows in various shades of pastels. There were too many snacks to ever eat and too many movies to watch in just one night. Her dad was always there with the video camera aimed in our faces trying to capture the joy and angst of our teenage years. He made us sit in a chair one on two with him and the video camera and relay our favorite memory of Stephanie from the past year. He was the first, and the only person I ever met in Washington who used the phrase “y’all,” which both Steph and I would pick up later in Texas. He never yelled at us when we stayed up all night making all kinds of noise as we choreographed dances to Christina Aguilera and N’Sync. The next morning her dad would always wake up early to bake those Pillsbury cinnamon rolls for all of us. He was a cool dad who listened to our music stations, who drove us to the mall and who made us all laugh in the car with his goofy sense of humor.
~
I stood behind Stephanie and her little sister at the burial. They sat down on a bench with a blanket in front of the casket. I stroked their hair from behind, maybe more for my comfort than theirs. When the service began Stephanie’s mom broke down. She held her face in her hands and yelled out her husband’s name over and over again. When they lowered the casket Stephanie fell to the ground in sobs and I stood back watching, not knowing what to do. I prayed for her and for her family. I shut my eyes tight to will out the rest of my tears and ask God to be with them and bring them comfort in some way. But their sobs didn’t subside, and neither did mine.
My mom told me when I was little I asked her if the sky was always sad; when she asked me why I thought that I told her that it seemed to cry a lot. The sky cried for the rest of the day. After the burial we drove to Sumner, a small town just southeast of Puyallup, where we grew up. It was a wet ride and I rode it alone, blazing in front of the others as I made my way down winding Shaw Road and into the valley. I had forgotten how beautiful western Washington is in the fall. It had been three years since I had seen the reds, oranges, and yellows that are painted across the trees as if a great artist had mixed the most beautiful water colors and created the images with a flick of his brush. The leaves were falling and covering the damp grass and pavement everywhere with splatters of beautiful. The pumpkin patches were all up and running and Van Leerups tulip farm was still standing, with their annual “bulbs for sale” sign out on the street.
Things had changed though. The old farm house at the bottom of the hill was torn down; the one that used to put up a light display at Christmas that featured a plastic Santa sitting on the toilet in an outhouse. I counted on that Santa every December when we all drove around to look at Christmas lights, a comic relief from the serious, competitive decorations of the surrounding ritzy neighborhoods. Now that farm house is only in my memory, like so many other things from home. Driving down the street literally took my breath away and I wondered if I had taken it for granted all those nineteen years I lived there. Sometimes, even if you have been gone a long time, you have to go back home to appreciate what you are missing. Memories fall short when remembering the beauty of Washington’s fall.
I arrived at the funeral home early, or at least before anyone else. I walked across the street to a Starbucks and allowed the rain to pour down on me, hitting my face and drenching my hair. By the time I reached the green awnings I was dripping wet. I ordered a pumpkin spice latte because it felt like the right choice, or maybe because it was the recommended latte of the day and I was just too tired to care. I sat by the fireplace inside for a few minutes, feeling awkward and out of place. The girl working behind the counter had gone to my high school, graduated in the same class as me, and remembered my first and last name. I barely recognized her face. She was working at Starbucks part time and living at home with her parents, she told me. The truth was I didn’t care to know. I told her I was in town for a funeral, just killing some time before the service across the street. I told her that I go to school in Texas and that I’m applying to graduate schools. I don’t know why I told her that, except that it felt good to say it out loud. It felt good to know I chose a school a thousand miles from home, chose a life outside the suburbs of Seattle.
~
Steph asked me to sit by her at the service, so I did. The pastor was one chosen through the funeral home and was less than mediocre. He told us all personal stories and recited the same two bible versus that he had already read at the burial. I could tell Steph hated him, and I hated him too but there was nothing that could be done about it and so I gave him dirty looks through gritted teeth until he opened up the microphone for story sharing by the audience. Steph was the first one to stand and walk to the front. I envied how strong she was, getting up there, struggling through streams of sniffles and cries to share the story she had written about her dad. It was out of a father’s day book she had made him. It was inspiring. When she was reading there wasn’t a dry eye in the small rectangular room, until I looked over at the pastor who casually glanced down at his watch.
I have never understood why there is food after a funeral. It’s not a party. In fact, I would prefer to go home afterward, or linger in the church lobby and talk there. I remember at my mom’s funeral people walking around with small plates of finger food, food that was picked out and purchased by us, by the grieving family to ensure that everyone had an okay time. It really pissed me off. I knew Steph felt the same way. We all went over to her house after the service to find a smorgasbord of sandwiches and yummy looking treats. People flocked to the food like a group of vultures swooping down on field mice and I quickly squeezed my way out of the kitchen. I watched Steph as she endlessly greeted and thanked person after person for coming. Just watching her made me remember how exhausting it all is. I wanted to greet the people for her but I knew that I couldn’t so I just sat there on the couch and made conversation with no one until Bobby came over and did the same.
When the last guest left the house and the last tray of food had been Saran wrapped away Steph laid next to me on the comfy black leather couch in her living room.
“When does it get easier?” she asked.
I thought of all the things I could say about what I had gone through, about how it never really gets easier, that time just passes and the wound closes a little bit and some of the bleeding stops; then the next day the wound opens up again and you bleed memories that a band aid can’t cover.
I said, “It doesn’t, you just get stronger.”
And I already knew she was stronger than me because she had the courage to get up there and read when I barely had the courage to cry.

Chapter 17: Love, Ash

“Friendship often ends in love—but love in friendship, never”

Dear W~

I’d like to say that I’ve already written about you, that you have your chapter, that I’ve finally got you and me down on paper; but this is the only piece I have written since you left. Normally I write immediately about my love life, about the men that have broken me in pieces and shattered parts of my love into crevices and nooks where I’ll never look again. The shadow of lost love can linger longer than the love itself lasted and so when the end comes I call it as a time of death and write about it while it’s still fresh. Maybe I haven’t written your chapter because I wouldn’t know where to begin or end, or what stuff I should put in the middle; I want last month to be the middle, but it might have been the end, and if it was, I didn’t call it and neither did you.
I want to be over it, but I’m not and that’s probably why whatever I write is a mix between bullshit and poetry; maybe it is poetry. I deleted your number days ago, because your name in my address book was more tempting to me than the last glass of champagne in a New Year’s toast and since the new year is coming, I needed to let you be the one in control; the one with my number. I bet it doesn’t tempt you like that, does it? It just sits and waits for you to look at it, to dial it or text it, but for me it was a different story. I want to know why after two months of talking every day you can go weeks without us talking now. I could have done that too; in Texas maybe or at home, but not now, not alone in Boston and so my Blackberry threw your contact info in the recycle bin (I’m sure it was recycle because whenever you text or call your name comes back up in my caller ID). That’s why I’m now in a love/hate relationship with my Blackberry, because it knows how to tease me, but not how to wean me.
*
I was on a date last night, Dan was his name. He was cute enough, smart enough, not funny at all. I ordered crab wontons and kung pao shrimp at this fancy restaurant that didn’t even taste quite as good as P.F. Chang’s but cost twice as much. He tried to feed me bites of his, which made me gage both because I hate pork and I despise the idea of trying to feed someone off your fork on a first date, and then I thought about when you came and we went to Little Italy and I fed you fettuccini and shrimp off of my fork without thinking twice about sappy or sentimental. And from that point on you were sitting next to me in the booth on my date, mocking Dan’s jokes, saying you were funnier, you were cuter, poking my side in that annoying way that you know pushes my buttons but you continue doing anyway (and I secretly like it). He rode a cab back with me to my apartment, and I got nervous because you were sitting in the back seat with us, and I knew I wouldn’t invite him up but I thought he was going to try and kiss me and I might let him, just for the hell of it. Maybe you should have kissed me when you were here so that I could have that tucked away for comparison in these moments, that would help your case, wouldn’t it?
We pulled up to my building and made awkward small talk, me saying I had a nice time and him wiping clamminess from his palms and getting ready to make a move. But before he did I gave him a hug and opened the door, because you were staring at me with those wide, green, nervous eyes that say “Don’t do it Ash!” like you had so many times during undergrad with all the frogs I’d kissed. But you weren’t my prince either, and so I left you both in the cab that night, running hot bath water and listening to Sarah’s Surfacing CD until my date with the two of you felt far enough from reality to be a bad dream.
*
If I can pinpoint the moment this started it was my birthday, October 9th, when you called me and I answered; post drunk, mid dream. It was now my 24th year, my third month in Boston, and my quarter life crisis that hit me like a semi truck earlier in the day, when I stuffed my face with chocolate cake and examined the crows’ feet beginning to plant themselves on the corners of my eyelids. I needed to stop smiling so much, and now that I was an east coaster it would be more socially acceptable and from what I’d gathered so far, a place where smiles are few and far between. I passed out, fully clothed in my bed at 10:30, because I was working as a nanny (a.k.a. a full time mother), and my alarm would blast me with somewhat decent music at 5:45 am. But the phone buzz woke me up and I answered in a fog, and you called me out right away, but not before singing a ‘Happy Birthday’ tune in my ear.
“You forgot, didn’t you?” I accused you in a slur.
“You were sleeping, weren’t you?” You asked, sounding sad you had woken me.
“No, no, no.” I stammered off, in my sleepy haze.
“Yes, yes, yes, go back to sleep, we’ll talk tomorrow.”
“But I want to talk tonight,” I whined
“Well, how was your birthday?”
“It was good, I took myself out to lunch and my class took me out for drinks, it was so nice of them.”
“That is nice.”
And this is the only section of conversation I remember clearly enough to accurately write, and the rest went something like this; me telling my life story of tragedy that you already knew, and you telling me bits and pieces of things that I don’t remember, except the part when you told me I was beautiful. The next morning I had six text messages, all from you, saying things that you didn’t say on the phone, wishing me a happy birthday again, telling me we would celebrate when you came to Boston, that we should talk more often. You were coming to Boston? My drunken ear picked out beautiful before Boston.
That’s when my mind started wondering, telling me things like, “no guy flies 3000 miles to see a girl they aren’t interested in romantically.” Or instead of my mind it could have been one of the five guys that said those exact words to me over the phone and in person the following week. But this was you; I told the voice, my best friend from college, my shoulder for tears and the person who constantly made fun of me for anything and everything. Sure, we had our moments, but you were the only platonic male friendship I had left, that stopped at flirting and stares, and I refused to believe we were anything more (ok, so I was in love with you and had been trying to hide it, but no one else had to know and you told me later you knew all along).
*
You got here so quickly, the weeks passed and melted away like fallen snow in Denver and you called me every night to check in, for me to tell you how excited I was for you to come to Boston and for you to flirt with me meticulously so that I always questioned if it meant something or not. And I admit that before it was time for your flight to get here I went out drinking with some friends from my writing program, because I was nervous and I didn’t know what to expect upon your arrival, but two drinks turned into five and that’s why I was late to the airport; but luckily so were you. Your delayed flight gave me enough time to sober up and drink some coffee, so that when you hugged me I wasn’t staggering and reeking of vodka, but rather vibrant and smelling of Dunkin Donuts bold roast.
You disappointed me when we hugged, because I was overjoyed when I saw you walking out of that terminal and you acted indifferent, which pissed me off to the extent of being mad at you. You gave me the half hug, which you had never done in the five years I had known you, and that made me know you were overcompensating for something( yea, so don’t act like you’re so cool and together).
“I’m so happy you’re here!” I beamed, embracing you in a bear hug and smiling from ear to ear.
“Yea, me too, are we going out?” You said non-chalantly, uninterested.
“Out? It’s midnight, the bars close at one, so no, we’re not going out,” I said calmly, regaining composure from my gittiness.
“Oh, too bad,” you said evenly, as if you didn’t really care one way or the other. As if you were making everyday conversation that you were indifferent to.
“Since when do you go out anyway?” I asked, annoyed.
“I dunno, we can go out this weekend,” you said to me.
“And we will, don’t worry.”
“I’m not worried, you’re in control, remember?” You smiled at me
“Yea, I remember.”
And that first night we stayed up until five am talking about nothing in whispered voices; I was so tired and you weren’t at all from drinking that Dr. Pepper that made you behave like a hyperactive child. There was some serious mixed into that conversation too, but parts of it are now lost on me like sections of dreams that come early in the morning and fade once awake. When I woke up after only a few hours of sleep you were holding me, your arm strewn across my body made me smile, but I resisted touching it and instead I rolled over and basked in the warmth of you up against me.
“Morning,” you said, gazing over at me, our faces nearly touching.
“Morning,” I said, slightly paranoid that I may have sprouted a large pimple right on my nose during sleep.
And you looked over at me for a minute and I smiled before getting up and out of the covers.
“I thought you’d look more, I dunno, I thought your hair would be all messed up,” you said, in an accusatory tone.
“You thought I would look horrifying in the morning?” I shot back.
“No, not horrifying, just, less, I dunno…”
“Well, sorry to disappoint,” I said, putting two cups of hot water in the microwave for tea.
“No, it’s just I didn’t expect you to wake up looking perfect,” your eyes scanned my body and I felt thankful I had gotten that spray tan the day before.
“Well, you better raise your expectations,” I said.
I cooked you breakfast, the crème Brule French toast that I marinated overnight, and the black pepper smoked bacon that I bought from the Italian meat shop in the North End. I admit, it was a showy meal, but you had eaten so many of my fancy meals in the past that I thought nothing of this one. But you certainly thought it meant something, and you told me the whole trip, as if somehow that French toast breakfast captured every sentiment I’ve ever felt for you (but you know I just really like to cook). After breakfast I showered and straightened my hair even though you said you liked it un-straightened and you watched Stranger than Fiction on my flat screen TV while I got dressed and put on a coat of mascara and cleaned the bacon grease off of the baking sheet.
*
I took you to the Boston Common to go ice skating as a surprise, but the real surprise was when we got on the ice and you glided around like Scott Hamilton and I fell on my butt so many times that it was numb for the remainder of the weekend.
“I thought I was going to be really good, I used to be a dancer,” I looked at you with big puppy dog eyes.
“Guess not. I thought I would suck,” you said, clearly proud of yourself.
“I thought you would too,” I said, gripping your hand for dear life.
“Thanks,” you said, letting go of me.
“Welcome,” I said, pretending I could glide along without you.
Christmas music was blasting and we were holding hands and it was freezing and romantic and the perfect memory to tuck away and savor all winter long. And then I fell again, a big one this time that left a dent in the ice and made my cheeks flush bright pink with embarrassment, not with cold. A little boy, no older than ten, dressed in full out hockey attire (mask and all) came over and asked if I was ok.
“Yea, thanks” I said.
“I think that kid is trying to one up me,” you said, offering your hand.
“Doesn’t take much,” I laughed.
And you took your hand away, making me sit on the ice for a minute longer, knowing I was fully dependent on you to stand up, and loving every minute of it. Eventually you gave in and grabbed my hand, pulling me back to a wobbling position. You liked it too much because you know how hard it is for me to admit I need help from anyone else, and today I was solely supported by you.
I took you to Harvard because you told me you wanted to go there, but by now you were complaining of the cold and my butt was throbbing from the ice and so we didn’t have much to say to each other on the way over. I gave you the mini-tour, the shortened version due to the bitter weather conditions and my lack of interest in showing people Harvard and then I took you to Upper Crust pizza to get a slice and watch some soccer on the big screen.
“This place is awesome; I can’t believe they’re playing the soccer game.” You said, impressed more by the soccer than by my choice of the place.
“Yea, wait until you try the pizza, it’s so good here.” I said, trying to divert attention back to the food.
And I was already dreading eating another carb-filled meal today, but you were a guest and I guess it would be okay for a few days to eat like this. You ordered the sausage and onion and I ordered the cheese on wheat crust and you watched the soccer game diligently throughout our entire lunch. Normally I would care, but with you I of course didn’t and when we left I insisted we go to that little hot chocolate shop I spotted on the walk over.
“I don’t really want hot chocolate,” you said.
“I do, I’ll buy” I said, grabbing your hand and pulling you toward La Crème, the hot chocolate shop in Cambridge that I love.
“Ok,” you agreed, taking my hand willingly.
So we waited in line all that time and I ordered us the Mexican hot chocolate with cayenne pepper and we waited shoved up against a wall of the tiny rectangular café that was filled above capacity. When they called my name I pushed my way through the crowd to get our steaming white mugs of cocoa and we sipped them right next to the garbage can because it was standing room only and that was the only standing room left. And then the door I was leaning against swung open and there went my hot chocolate all down the front of me and you stood there and laughed until I gave you a dirty look that meant it wasn’t funny and you stopped and offered me yours.
“No, that’s ok,” I said; wiping the remainder of hot chocolate from my white coat.
“Well, you were standing right in front of the bathroom door,” you said.
“Thanks Will, that’s sweet, I appreciate it,” I was officially annoyed at this point
“No, I mean, the guy couldn’t really help it,” you said, defending him.
“Well, he just didn’t seem very sorry,” I explained, and yes, I am tired of people in Boston never being sorry.
You laughed, “Well I’m sorry,” you said, but you weren’t.
“No you’re not, you’re laughing,” I accused.
“You’ll laugh later too,” you told me.
And I knew I would but for now I was annoyed that my four dollar hot chocolate was staining my mittens and my coat instead of coating my tongue and warming my body.
We stopped at Whole Foods on the way back so that we could cook dinner together that night before going out to meet my friend Jenna and her boyfriend Chris at a bar in Faneuil. After several minutes of tired grumbling we decided on chicken and vegetables, not a show stopper by any means, but rather a decision despite our sleepiness and full tummies that couldn’t possibly eat again for hours. On our walk back you stopped, put down the bags and rubbed my arms with yours, trying to warm me up, sensing my coldness and sleepiness and grumpiness.
“I haven’t been doing a very good job keeping you warm,” you said, rubbing up and down my arms.
“No, you haven’t,” I replied, smiling.
“Well, that’s all about to change,” you grabbed me and embraced me in a full body hug. And I did get warmer, tingles flew through my body. When we got back to my place you napped for so long that I thought you might sleep right through the night and so I prepared dinner and got ready to go out before waking you.
“Hey sleepy,” I said, jumping on the bed.
You grumbled an answer I couldn’t translate and I put the chicken in the oven, waiting for you to shower and get dressed.
“Is that what you’re wearing?” I asked when you came out in an 80’s style t-shirt and jeans.
“Yea, is this ok?” You skeptically asked me, awaiting my judgement.
“You’re going to freeze,” I said, looking at the thinness of your shirt.
“I’ll be fine, I’ll wear a coat, and you’re going to freeze in that dress,” you said.
“No, I’ll be ok,” I promised.
“Don’t wear that dress for me,” you said in such a serious tone that I couldn’t help but laugh.
“I’m wearing it for me,” I said.
“Ok, well don’t complain about being cold then,” you rolled your eyes at me, already knowing I would.
“Fine, I won’t” I said, fake mad.
And you came over and hugged me, trying to make it better and complaining about your neck hurting from my bed.
“My bed’s so comfy though!”
“I know, I’m not used to a comfy bed,” you said, rolling your neck around for effect.
“Here, I’ll give you a back rub,” I said, pulling you down to the floor.
So you sat down in front of me and I massaged your neck, finding the tension spots right away and pushing on them so they would release. But you winced in pain at my attempt to relieve your pain and I laughed at you for not taking it like a man.
“You’re hurting me,” you said, pulling away from my hands.
“No pain, no gain, I’m working out this knot.”
“Well, stop!”
“Fine”
So I checked on the chicken and steamed the veggies and popped a bottle of red that I knew you wouldn’t drink but I offered anyway.
“Can I just have a glass of milk? Like a little kid?” You said
“Yea, that’s fine”
And I set the table with Christmas placemats and candles and my wine and your milk. It certainly wasn’t the best dinner I ever made, but it was fine, and I wasn’t hungry anyway and you ate a lot, so I figured it was an okay fix for a late night supper. Four glasses of wine later I had decided on some shoes and you had finished checking on your sports teams and we were ready to head out.
“You look really nice,” you told me and I thanked you for the compliment as we walked to the Silver Line bus in the brutal windy weather
You put your arm around me on the bus ride, I don’t know why, but it made me feel safe and more comfortable. We got lucky with the trains that night, all of them coming right when we walked up and I told you that tonight was our night as far as timing was concerned. The club I wanted to go to was too crowded and it was too cold to wait in line so I called Jenna and Chris who were at the only bar without a line, but we still paid a cover.
Trinity bar was like any other bar in Faneuil, just not as cool, but they were playing sports and my friends were there so that’s where we ended up, and it was still early only 9:30 or so, so later things would get crazier and drinks would make it seem like a better bar than it is. I saw you order a Sam Adams light and I couldn’t help but laugh because I have never seen you holding a beer and you holding that particular beer was so funny at the time.
“What?” You said.
And I couldn’t find the words for ‘what’ I just shook my head at you as you handed me my drink which was suppose to be a rum and diet coke, but was instead a rum and regular coke.
“This isn’t diet,” I said.
“I know,” you smiled.
“Thanks a lot.”
“Welcome.”
You met Jenna and Chris and we all tried to talk but really couldn’t because it was too loud to hear what anyone was trying to say. I took off my coat so that I could feel prettier and Jenna took off hers too and I took them to the coat check, while you hung yours on a hook by the door. I was wearing a black backless dress and a rhinestone belt, nothing short or low cut because I knew you wouldn’t approve and so I felt that my back was the safest place to show a little skin. I saw you looking at me across the room and I hurried back to you because you were standing alone and I could tell you were wearing uncomfortable and awkward right on your sleeve. I know that you don’t go out to bars, you don’t drink, you probably hated the idea of going out to this bar with me, but I wanted you to go and you did, and thank you for that by the way.
After your beer and the Long Island iced tea I bought you, the one that you nursed for what seemed like eternity, Jenna convinced you to take shots (which, was the shock of my life), SoCo and lime. I know that I never could have convinced you to take shots, but Jenna is very convincing and I think you were trying to seem cool or comfortable and so you did the shots with us, becoming more and more paranoid that you were getting drunk with each passing moment. And I offered to drink your Long Island, but I think you felt better holding onto it and I suggested that we dance and so we did, and it wasn’t our usual dancing, you with your J.T. moves and rhythm that always upstage me. Our dancing tonight was sexual, it was me pressed up against you, and it only had moments of movement independent from each other’s bodies. You would grab my hands and pull me back into you tightly and that’s when I knew, if I hadn’t known before, that you were for sure into me and I was obviously into you, but it was too loud to mention anything and I was afraid so I just went along for the ride. You kept looking at your watch and it was only midnight then and I pretended to ignore you because I had too many feelings to sort out before I could go back home with you. And when I went to the bathroom it was really to call Steph and tell her what was happening and when I came out ten minutes later you were waiting outside for me which was sweet.
“When you walked to the bathroom, all these guys’ mouths dropped open,” you said.
“Yea, ok.”
“No, I’m serious.”
“Ok, well, I specifically wore something non-revealing tonight.”
“Well, you have a pretty sexy back.”
“Ok, well I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be sorry.”
“Well, what do you want me to say?”
“Nothing, it’s just, I can’t do that, be with someone who guys stare at.”
“Well ok then, don’t be with me; just be with me tonight.”
I was mad at you but refused to be for the remainder of the hour, because I was buzzed and the DJ was awesome and I hadn’t had this much fun in weeks. We left around 1:30, though I thought all the bars closed at 1:00 and we had both spent all our cash so we had to walk the 30 minutes back to my apartment. I didn’t care though, because I was arm in arm with you and so the walk seemed like less of a nuisance and more of a romantic stroll along the water front; you holding my ears with your gloved hands to warm them, and me puffing my breath to make the air white in front of us. On the walk you mentioned Joe and Katie, the ghosts of relationship past and I asked you to stop but knew by the time we got back that these were the two things holding you back from holding my hand.
I passed out right away; full makeup and all, and you took a little longer than usual before lying next to me in bed.
“Are you cold?” You asked
“Freezing,” I said.
And let’s just both admit that we could have flicked on the heat but we didn’t want to, we knew this would happen. You rolled over and held on to me, rubbing my back and stomach and I couldn’t face you because I knew what would happen if I did and I was panicking. I had never once questioned this position, being in bed with someone like you, (more accurately someone unlike you) and wondering whether or not I could let go and do this.
“You’re in control,” you said, your arms fully around me now.
“No, no more control for me,” I said.
“Nope, this whole weekend, remember? You have control.”
“Why is it all on me?” I said.
“That’s what you wanted.”
“Well, I don’t anymore.”
Your hands ran all over my body before I fully freaked out and had to say something.
“What are we doing?” I said, panicked and freaked out.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, your hands are on me and we’re about to do something.”
“Yea, do you not want to?”
“It’s not about what I want, it’s about us, you and me, and you’re my best friend, why did you come here?”
And you rolled over to the other side of the bed silently and I knew I missed my chance.
“I’m sorry, you’re right, we can’t do this,” you said.
“Do what?”
“This, it’s my fault I’m so so sorry.”
“You know what everyone said to me when I told them you were coming?”
“Probably that no guy travels across the country to see a girl they’re not interested in.”
“YEA! That’s exactly what they said, so let’s just be honest for a minute here.”
“Let’s just go to sleep,” you said
And I exhaled loudly and rolled away from you, nearly falling off the bed in my fury. I allowed several minutes to pass before getting up and moving across the room from you, lying down on the floor.
“What are you doing?” You asked
“Sleeping on the floor.”
“No, if anyone is sleeping on the floor, it will be me.”
“Nope, I’m already here.”
“Come back to bed.”
“No way!”
“Why not?”
“Because you won’t talk to me about this, and I wanted to kiss you like six different times today and I know you wanted to kiss me too and I want to know what that means and why you came here and why you’re backing down now.”
The only response for several minutes were your sniffles from under the covers, and I was so sorry for making you cry, but really, you were making yourself cry thinking about what you did.
“I came here thinking I would be over Katie,” you said.
“When I bought my ticket here I was thinking something would happen, and I’ve been flirting with you and everything, but I’m not over her, Katie, and I can’t go forward with you right now, and part of me can’t go forward with you because I’m scared I’ll mess it up and because you dated one of my best friends”
“Joe is not one of your best friends, we never dated, and that’s a bullshit reason.” I said, surprising myself
“Okay.”
“Well, just let me tell you how I feel,” I said, eyes watering in the dark.
“No. Don’t say anything, I know how you feel, I’ve known for awhile, I can tell by the way you look at me.”
“Oh, okay,” I said annoyed.
“It’s just, if you were honest with yourself, you would know that I love you too, that I’ve felt that way these past four years, through Katie and Joe, but this timing isn’t right, and I don’t know if the timing will ever be right.”
I thought about that for a minute and it made me angry, because life was always about timing and my life had been filled with a hell of a lot of bad timing.
“I just know that if you and I ever get together, we will end up getting married,” you said.
“Yea, so why not take a chance?” I said.
“I’m not ready, and neither are you. What if you hadn’t of said something, and we did something and regretted it?”
“Yea, well now I’m wishing I was less mature.”
“Don’t say that.”
“I’ll say whatever I want. Since you said you already knew I was in love with you.”
“Well Ash, you wear your heart on your sleeve, it’s kinda easy to tell, Katie only looked at me like you do on a very good day.”
This was less comforting than it was honest and I hated how well you knew me right then. And we talked the rest of the night until I felt less vulnerable and was able to fall asleep without you right up next to me, your arm securing my body from loneliness.
*
The night after we were sitting on the orange line, remember? On our way to Hanover street to go to little Italy, to eat pasta at Giacamos and get canolies at Modern (and I told you that otherwise I would never ride the orange line because it’s a little bit ghetto), your arm around my shoulder and our legs bumping into one another as we sat on the T.
“What names do you like?” You said, looking at me.
“Names?”
“Yea, you know, for kids?”
“I dunno,” I said, though I had lists for both boy and girl names that I planned on using in the future.
“I like Harper, for a boy.”
“Oh, that’s a cool name.”
“Yea, I know, Harper Maddox, wouldn’t that kid be a baller?”
“Yea, he would.”
“And I like Jackson.”
“That’s my brother’s dog’s name, but I like that name too,” I said.
“What names do you like for girls?” You asked
“Blair, I think Blair is a strong name. And Aida”
“I like Aida too.”
“And for boys I like Cruz, or Hudson,” I said.
“Those are good.”
“Good, well I guess that settles it then,” I said, smiling.
And I racked my brain as to why you would ever bring up baby names after the night we had had last night, but I tried not to analyze too much, because I was tired of thinking. We walked down Hanover Street, arm in arm, pea coat beside pea coat and you told me a story of a girl from summer camp named Blair, and it ruined the name Blair for me forever.
“We sort of had a thing,” you said.
“Meaning what? You kissed under a tree once?”
“Yea, something like that, but I really liked her.”
“Aw summer camp, if only we could be fifteen again.”
“Anyway, I wrote her this letter after camp, this love letter I guess.”
“How very Notebookesque of you,” I said.
“She got pregnant when she was fifteen, and that’s why she never wrote me a letter back.”
“Oh, well, geez, those summer camp romances. There goes my name, cross it off the list.”
“Sorry.”
“Oh well, guess it will just have to be Aida”
“I like that better anyway.”
“Don’t steal it,” I said.
“I won’t.”
“And remember, when you get married, if I’m not the bride, I want to be the best man.”
“Only if you wear a pretty dress and not a tux, you are too hot to wear a tux.”
“Ok, fine, I’ll wear a dress.”
“Good.”
We only had to stand in line for fifteen minutes, because it was Sunday and the air was the coldest it had been so far this fall, and I felt like my nose was going to fall off from frost bite just from a slight breeze. So no one had ventured out tonight to little Italy, not even for Giacamos, but I had with you because I thought it was romantic and I wanted you to experience the delicious garlicky alfredo that would make you feel warm outside of my bed sheets.
“Long time no see,” the waitress said, and I wondered how she remembered me because I’d only been there four times in three months.
“You have a memorable face,” you told me.
“Nice.”
And you talked the whole time about your family and about Katie, and I listened because these were stories I had never heard and I wanted to learn so that you could be vulnerable enough for me to be vulnerable too. I ordered the shrimp in the lobster based red sauce and you ordered the shrimp and penne in the pesto cream sauce and we shared the fried mozzarella, which melted in my mouth like a French kiss in the snow.
We walked home you and me, under the stars and chasing the cold, different tonight from last night, no leading up to a climax and no reaching toward a resolution. The cold stung my eyes and my cheeks and my ears and you didn’t reach over to warm me once. Our walk was separated by a thick silence, reminding us of everything that was left unsaid, our bodies separate from each other as over compensation for our feelings, or at least for mine. I tried not to look at you that night, or the night after in fear that my every glance your way would say too much. We were home at last and I changed into pajamas as you brushed your teeth and then we switched places routinely before getting into bed, you rolling far onto your side and me pulling farther onto mine; the comforter cringing tightly in the space between.
“You’re going to write about this aren’t you?” You asked in the dark, under the covers
“Yea, probably, when there’s an ending”
“And I’ll look like an ass hole, won’t I? I’ll look just as bad as Joe.”
“You’re not Joe”
“Yea, but in your writing, I’ll be Joe”
“No, you’ll never be Joe”
“Are you going to tell your family about this? Or Stephanie?”
“Yea, Steph for sure, my family, maybe.”
“I deserve it.”
“We didn’t even do anything, relax.”
“That’s just it, I came here and nothing happened.”
“Well, leave it to me to get a man in bed and make him cry.”
“I thought I made myself cry?”
“Oh, right, whatever.”
I wouldn’t cry until later, when I dropped you off at the bus stop and turned to leave, my eyes red and salty only after they parted from yours. Because the sensation of sentiment never strikes me on time; it lingers in the depths just long enough for me to be alone upon arrival, where I am only sensitive in front of strangers who stare or stroll by. And you never responded to my letter that I sent you, the single spaced one that I wrote and mailed off the day after you left that said everything my silence didn’t when you were here next to me. I guess that’s why I didn’t write your chapter, because I didn’t know what to say, and I still don’t, but I miss my best friend, the one who I talked to for four years that suddenly disappeared without a trace after he came to Boston, the one I haven’t heard from since. So if you see him tell him that I love him; things may have changed or shifted, but in time they will resettle into nooks and crevices that we will only look in from time to time.
Love,
Ash

Chapter 7-Such Great Heights (revised)

"But everything looks perfect from far away, come down now, they say..."


After everything happened, I knew I had to get out. So when I entered the study abroad office at Trinity that November, anywhere other than Texas was looking great. My first choices were Italy or Spain, but unfortunately they were both incompatible with my major. After seeing the Australia brochure I was sold, sandy beaches, attractive people, and the lowest cost of any program I had explored. A packet of paperwork later and I was ready to go, it was the only thing keeping me sane; knowing I would be out of Trinity in less than a month, never having to go back.
The stares and comments were getting to me then, right around Thanksgiving, when I would walk into the library and it was suddenly silent in a group of people. When I started hearing things like “oh she’s the girl who pretended to get raped,” or “did you hear who she accused of raping her?!” It didn’t matter who was on my side at that point because the numbers were shifting and I didn’t have the energy to prove anything else, when I couldn’t even prove him guilty at the trial.
After dropping all my classes I had gone home for Christmas—to my dad’s, where for the first time, we were alone together, just the two of us, both of my brothers choosing to stay in Seattle with their girlfriends that year. And here is where my memory fails me, because maybe it was the rape or the memory of my mother, or the thought of a Christmas spent just me and my dad, but I remember nearly nothing from the 2006 holiday, only that I wished for it to pass me by as quickly as it had arrived.
~
Somewhere between reality and fantasy is where I found myself in Sydney, Australia that February. Like when you are awoken abruptly from a dream and you fake the rest, keeping your eyes closed, imagining the ending.
Getting off of my 16 hour flight it was already dark there, the sky lighting up from the city upon landing. I felt disoriented, far from home for the first time really. A shuttle was there to pick me up, to take me to Macquarie, the college I had chosen to study at that was located only a few miles outside of the big city. I couldn’t get my bearings that night, too tired and maladjusted I gazed out the window and looked at the opera house, the only recognizable structure I saw as we passed tall buildings that looked like any city against the darkness of night.
I was dropped off at a housing office, where I met Ben my R.A. who resembled Ben Affleck—if he had an Australian accent. He showed me to my house, walking down across the grass and up a sidewalk to my new residence, a five bedroom house with a common kitchen and living area. I drug my suitcase upstairs—it was heavy, given that I had had to pack six months worth of living into a single bag, and I examined my new quarters: small, but adequate, a twin bed with a blue blanket, a closet, a window and a bathroom. Everything had cobwebs on it but my body and mind were too tired to care, and after brushing my teeth I simply collapsed onto my musty smelling mattress, which was uncomfortable and tense. I don’t remember falling asleep but I remember waking up later, it still being dark outside, to the sound of people downstairs drinking and shouting for hours. I didn’t want to go down there in the dead of night, sleepy still from the plane ride—my personality dead and unwelcoming. So I put on my headphones, listened to Third Eye Blind, and when my eyes opened again it was light out.
In the morning I showered and unpacked, keeping my door locked in case unwanted company presented itself before my liking. When I went downstairs one of my roommates was sitting at the kitchen table, eating a bowl of cereal. A tall, handsome boy with dark brown hair cut short and warm eyes; I smiled and introduced myself,
“Hi! I’m Ashley,” I stuck out my hand and met his as his jaw dropped slightly.
“Pat,” he said quietly, “You live here too?”
“Yea, I just got in last night, I’m in a bedroom upstairs,” I said smiling and already sweating from the humidity of our non air-conditioned residence.
“Whoa,” he said.
And behind me entered another roommate who looked like he was coming back from the gym, a handsome blond with diamond stud earrings wearing a muscle tee and basketball shorts. He started talking to Pat right away, before introducing himself and so I took the initiative.
“Hey! I’m Ashley,” I said, smiling at him
“Ben. Nice to meet you,” he said, gripping my hand.
The two of them started talking and so I left to explore, not wanting to linger with new people when I could linger in a new environment outside. I was anxious to see what things looked like in the daylight, how I felt settling in here, living with boys, being so far from anything like home. It was summer there, in Australia, where the seasons are reversed and the warm sun hit me in February, hot and sticky against my forehead, highlighting the green grass and flowers that surrounded my new house.
~
I’d like to say we bonded right away; my roommates and me. But that would be my false memory, saying that we were instant friends when really, it took some getting used to. They were from New Jersey, my roommates Pat and Ben, east coasters with harshness and out loud personality that I was unaccustomed to. There were two others in our house too—Jonas, an outdoorsy redhead also from Washington state who wore shirts from National Geographic everyday with animals on them. He was sweet, but different, another example of someone I would never normally be friends with, but there we were, in a house all together, with a two channel television and each other to entertain us. Kathryn was my other roommate, a mom-dressed girl from Oregon, who ate all my pudding from the fridge that first week but admitted to it, who had long brown curly knotted hair and a meek smile. She reminded me of everyone at Trinity who sat in the library on Saturday nights, studying when I was getting ready to go out.
Ben was the harshest of my roommates, his no bullshit attitude outwardly only hid his teddy bear heart that I got to know after a few weeks of trying very hard to get to know the real him. One Wednesday on a booze cruise we talked outside, on the deck of the boat. He told me about how his mom died of cancer when he was in fourth grade and I told him how my mom died too, and I felt for the first time that night like I was connecting to someone here, that maybe my living arrangement wouldn’t be so bad after all.
Pat too was wonderful, I ignored his crush on me and focused on our friendship as he shared his macaroni and cheese with me nightly when we both came home wasted and starving and ate right out of the pan that the water boiled in. He was my favorite, Patrick Moyle; the person I felt closest to the quickest, the person there I knew would do anything and everything for me.
I fell into a pattern there quickly, one of no-consequences and letting loose, a feeling I had never gotten a high from my whole life. I went out drinking with them every night—Pat and Ben, and our next door neighbors—Billy, Jenna, and Shawnte. And of course E.J. from up the way, the only authentic Australian in our group, a 3rd year student at Macquarie who came from a town called Wee Waa and made us all laugh until we cried with his phrases and euphemisms that somehow seemed universal, even though we came from different continents.
Jenna and I became close quickly, she was beautiful and so much fun, brownish auburn hair and eyes, a perfect figure that she was never proud of and the ability to get me out to do things I would never have done back home. She was my nudge that pushed me into letting go.
~
I became a serial dater of Australians and Americans. I became a huge fan of boxed wine, or as we called it, “goon”. I learned what it meant to be drunk for five days straight. I also learned that if you’re still drunk in the morning your chances of a hang-over are slim. I ate cold pizza for breakfast, I became a master at beer pong, and the Jersey boys were kind enough to teach me the fine art of strip poker. “When in Rome” was a phrase uttered by everyone multiple times a day. I now understand that the walk to a grocery store can indeed be five miles in the rain and uphill both ways. I went topless on the beach.
I saw a production of “Madam Butterfly” at the Sydney Opera House. I tried every restaurant in my “Exploring Sydney” travel book and realized that none of my favorite restaurants were in it. I started referring to breakfast as “breaky”, and friends as mates. I hiked the Blue- Mountains and saw two poisonous snakes. I stayed in a hostel all by myself. I scuba dived on the Great Barrier Reef. I went surfing twice and never caught a wave, except to the face. I went on a two week tour of New Zealand. I went horseback riding on a horse that actually starred in “Lord of the Rings.” I went kayaking on Lake Wanaka. I fell off the raft on a white water level four rapid, and I lived to tell about it. I saw at least ten species of poisonous insects. I had crumpets and tea at a little house turned restaurant in the rainforest and felt the most at peace I have ever felt. I took a harbor cruise. I saw Nicole Kidman’s house. I went swimming through the largest water fall in the world.
I took a ten hour road trip in an RV with six boys and Jenna. I watched the sunrise in Surfer’s Paradise and saw wild dolphins jumping around. I went home with a guy at a bar and when I realized my mistake I climbed out of a window in his bathroom. I went to a city called Nimbin where marijuana is legal and everyone smokes it, eats it, and feeds it to their animals. I visited a beach town called Byron Bay, where clothing is optional. I slept on the beach over night with a boy, without a sleeping bag or a pillow. I found sand in places for days. My skydiving got canceled due to bad weather and I posed disappointment when secretly I was relieved. I can count the number of classes I attended on two hands.
I saw “Mission Impossible 3” at the IMAX, and Tom never looked so good. I picked a tattoo off of the wall of the parlor after 3 rum and diet cokes. A hot pink playboy bunny right above the box; and I don’t even believe in casual sex. I went to a local bar called “The Ranch” with my roommates every Tuesday night, so did Captain Morgan. I got fucked in every game of fuck the dealer. I had a three hundred dollar bar tab from one night at Bungalow 8.
And then when the summer was starting to end in late March, I met a boy. I saw him at The Ranch one Tuesday night, dancing and doing it well, looking Australian, a spotlight seeming to attach itself to him in a room full of drunken strangers, in a bar I went to weekly. After that first night I noticed him he kept cropping up—at the gym, on the bus, and at gatherings in the “village” of houses where we all lived.
~
He tasted like cigarettes and cheap red wine. My friends applauded when he pushed me against the cold brick wall on the patio of some bar I will never remember. He tilted my head slightly right and put his lips to mine. We kissed the same, not similar, but alike. His tongue intertwined with mine and his lips were like velvet. It was the only movie star moment I’ve had in my life, when the crowd clapped and cooed and yet fell silent to my ears as I entered into the still daze that rushed blood through my body like the first chill of the winter air.
I spotted him first, in his black fingerless gloves dancing to Michael Jackson and being so incredibly hot that I couldn’t help but hold eye contact until he came over and bought me a drink. With the help of the tequila shots my roommates forced me to take before leaving the house, I managed to exude sex appeal, touching him just enough to keep him interested, leaning in close to whisper in his ear. What I whispered I’ll never be sure, but I was told at one point I licked salt off of his lips and squeezed his butt with both hands. They should put warning labels for this behavior on Patron Silver, and then everyone would buy it.
He was a musician, an actor, a writer, with too many tattoos to count; all things that draw me in like Eve drew Adam to the apple. He held my hand and walked in front of me and made sure everyone knew I belonged to him. It was the summer time, June, but in Australia the winter was approaching, there was a bite in the air, an assurance of what was to come. That first night we took a taxi straight home and forty five minutes later we were in my cool white sheets, stranger on top of stranger.
His eyes were blue, the kind that you never know whether you can trust or not. His hair was sandy blond and waxy, shaped into some sort of Mohawk, his skin was tan, and he had a little silver ring pierced into the left corner of his bottom lip. He was 6’3 with a body that rivaled Brad Pitt in “Fight Club.” He was mysterious without being creepy. We talked for hours, just laying there, skin on skin, breath on face. He was American too, from Arkansas but without any hint of an accent. He asked me everything I couldn’t tell, but when he told me all without holding back I told him about my mom and about what happened back in Texas before I came. And I let him hold onto me that night, something I never do in fear of feeling faint without it.
He kissed me every time we saw each other, not a peck, but a full blown lip lock. We had melt in your mouth moments and we fought like two crazy people who end up ripping off each-others clothes mid afternoon. It was not the dream I thought it had been that first night. 9. That was how many tattoos he had, they covered his upper. My favorite one was a little black cross that sat right under the bulge in his bicep. He intrigued me, the way I would imagine cocaine does for some. I was infatuated with every curve of his body, every flick of his tongue, every word that he sang to me as I fell asleep. He surprised me, he was unpredictable. We were in love one day and he hated me the next. He was stable and strong, vulnerable and passionate; I was a little bit in love. We would sit for hours and he would strum his guitar and play songs he wrote for me. They sounded like me; the me I was with him.
He made his own clothes and I changed mine to mimic his. I bought black rocker tees and wore silver studded belts and high heels with crossbones etched in the side. He told me he loved me on our third date and I told him he was crazy, but secretly believed him. He was a fighter and a biter and his teeth marks would linger all over my body. I loved the way he smelled, like sweat and cologne, like bittersweet chocolate.
We would dance. He would pull me on to the dance floor and we would go crazy until my feet gave out or he gave me that look which meant it was time to go to bed. We were lovers and maybe, almost, friends. I would get so close to figuring him out and then he would change again, just in time to keep me guessing. I gave him my heart within days, because I am incapable of pretending and easily lost in beautiful lies. I let him hold my hand in public and French kiss me in front of strangers.
He turned the head of every girl in every room. He challenged me, my writing, my acting, my faith, me. He pushed me to be a better person and to say what I mean and do what I feel. I was a different version of myself with him, one I didn’t know or trust, but was growing very fond of. When I woke up in the mornings he was already awake, watching me. He liked to kiss my eyelids and crack my knuckles. He was the closest I’ve ever come to an addiction. We had to be around each other, had to be touching. Not a day or night went by when we weren’t together. It was fast and intense and unlike anything I ever thought I wanted. But I wanted it and I wanted all of him, even though all he gave me was just short of everything.

One of our last night’s out in the city, Josh, my roommates, and I went to an Irish pub near Darling Harbor. I came out of the bathroom and had a trail of toilet paper stuck to my heel. The entire bar howled and I obliviously laughed right along until Josh came over and pulled it off for me. We danced dirty until a slow song came on which just happened to be Oasis’s “Wonderwall”. Possibly one of the most cheesy, overplayed, and cliché songs imaginable. It was during this song that I got my first glimpse of reality. As Josh and I swayed back and forth, cheek to cheek, bodies intertwined, all I could think of was how much I was going to miss him. My eyes began to swell up with tears. Maybe it was the martinis or the song, or the city I would soon say goodbye to. But maybe it was the boy. As if he was reading my mind Josh whispered into my ear, “I’m gonna miss you Bunny.” I looked at him through glassy eyes and realized that he meant it.
As we laid in bed together that night, listening to old school “Third Eye Blind,” Josh told me I wanted to be his girlfriend. It wasn’t posed as a question, but rather my feelings were recited to me. “You wish you were my girlfriend.” He said it casually and with a half smile, sure of himself. I shook my head, rolled my eyes, and turned away, already vulnerable being naked and without a blanket. The truth was I did want that, but I was too afraid that if it happened I might not recognize myself anymore. I fantasized about the two of us staying together after Australia, making it work somehow. For now though, it was what it was, and I surrendered to him and his ‘girlfriend’ title, placing my hand on his cheek and pushing my body up against his. It was the best sex I’ve ever had.
~
When June came and everyone started leaving, Josh was the first to go. He never came by my room to say goodbye like he promised me he would. The last night we were together he took me out to our favorite bar in the city, an Irish pub near ‘The Rocks’ on the harbor by the Opera house. We had too many shots and danced until we were sweaty, his eyes in my eyes, my fingers all over. I went to the bathroom to blot my face with a paper towel and drink some water out of my cupped hand running under the sink. When I came back some girl was hitting on him, like usual. She was blond with lips and boobs and my hand in his didn’t sway her from him. So I turned his head and stuck my tongue in his mouth but of course this game wasn’t fun for him because he wasn’t the one initiating. So we fought all the way home, him telling me that I was a jealous bitch and ruined our last night in Australia, and me saying nothing because I’ve never been good at finding words to say, only ones to write. We couldn’t get a cab so we had to ride the bus and I moved three rows back from him, crying it off as I always did this time of night, waiting for him to never apologize but make it better by cupping my chin in his hand and kissing my tears, in that way you wish men would, but only he ever did.

*
I went to visit him that August in Philadelphia. I bought my ticket when we were still together, and after not hearing from him all summer I went anyway. His movie had come out two weeks earlier and I had gone to see it, twice. He told me the day before I was to arrive that he couldn’t pick me up from the airport, that we would have to ‘meet up somewhere’ later on that day. So my roommates drove in from Jersey to pick me up because their love is unconditional, it stretches across continents. We all got ready together in a tiny one bedroom -apartment, just like the old days, listening to Jay-Z and drinking SoCo and coke. I was wearing a new red dress, my brown hair in long tousled waves from the rainy humidity outside, my body freshly tanned from yesterdays Texas sun.
“Damn, Ash,” Pat said, complimenting me.
“That dress is too short; you look like a whore, go change.” Ben smiled at me, and there we were all back together again, it felt great.
We went to “Fat Tuesdays,” some bar in Philly that I insisted upon since I have little girl memories of a frosty mug from there that we kept in our freezer. Three drinks deep I saw him walk in, his tan blazer covering some sort of artistic, ‘Goth’ tee underneath, his wrists adorned with leather cuffs, and his lip looking unfamiliarly bare without that tiny silver ring. His hair was shorter now, darker, his eyes the same blue that always caught me off guard, like looking into a tank full of jelly fish thinking you can see through to the other side when all you really ever see is what’s right there in front of you. He didn’t smile but came right over, picking me up and spinning me, in the way only he would do, in a scene that only he would make. My roommates looked on in disgust, or at least Pat in disgust acting as my protector, and Ben in disinterest acting as himself.
“Hey you,” I said a smile spreading widely across my face.
“Hey beautiful,” he said grabbing me in his warm Josh embrace.
“I saw your movie,” I said.
“And?”
“And, I liked it.”
I wanted so badly for him to kiss me, I could almost taste his lips, but instead he put me down and stroked my face with his fingers.
“I need a drink,” he said expecting me to get it.
“What do you want?”
“Vodka martini, thanks babe.”
So I walked to the bar because nothing had changed, and I ordered his martini and a round of tequila shots for all of us.
“To reunions,” I said, shot glass up high.
“To friendship,” Josh said giving me that look.
And we all took the shots and there we were together again, getting drunk in a different hemisphere. Things weren’t the same but we pretended they were, we hoped that they could be.
The song “Love Generation” came on and we all danced and sang along because it was the song of Australia and we all wanted so badly to be back there. I grabbed Josh’s hand and he pulled it away and that’s when I should have known for sure, but the alcohol made me feel sexy and falsely secure. I kissed him and he turned away, whispering in my ear that we could be friends, that things weren’t the same now, that he couldn’t lose me again.
“We were never friends,” I shouted, the beer-tears swelling up in my eyes.
“We can be now.”
And I stormed out of the bar, waiting for him to follow. When he came outside I was already soaked, my red dress revealing more than I would like and my hair mixing with tears and raindrops sticking to my face.
“You didn’t think this would work did you?”He said, his eyes smiling mildly at my obvious infatuation.
But I said nothing because I came here thinking it could work, that if he saw me he would want me, that I could be good enough for him 10,000 miles from where we had started. He kissed me on the cheek and it made me so mad that I wanted to slap him, but I couldn’t.
“I won’t be your friend,” I said sniffling away the emotions I couldn’t stifle.
“I know,” he said calmly, in that arrogant way that pissed me off but I couldn’t get enough of. He provoked my love hate relationship with myself.
“Well why did you say that then?”
“Because I was playing hard to get,” he laughed.
“You are so arrogant,” I said, and meant it.
“No, I just pretend to be to piss you off.”
We both knew that wasn’t true, and I stood there looking up at him as he rung the water out of my hair.
“I was always too good for you anyway,” I said, thinking if the words were out loud, maybe I could mean them.
“That I know,” he said and he pulled me in close, hugging me with one hand on the small of my back and the other behind my neck
When we got home he slept on the couch and I slept in the bed because now we were both playing hard to get, accept somehow with him, I always managed to be easy. But the weekend didn’t turn out like I had pictured, just like most romanticized dreamt up weekends don’t, and a day later I ended up alone in a cab on my way back to the airport, sexless, knowing that I would probably never see him again, but still pretending that I might.
~

Two years later I stood outside on the damp pavement barefoot, wearing nothing but a grey sweatshirt, hood up and a pair of Spiderman underwear. It was creepy in a way, but I didn’t know that then and I leaned against the side of the A-frame, my back to the water. It was pitch black except for the light from my cell phone that illuminated just enough for me to see my toes, pink with cold. I could only get reception outside, near my car but not inside it, against the house, but not close enough to feel the heat escaping from the doorframe. I was at my aunt’s beach cabin in Washington because it was close to my brother Ryan’s house and to school—the summer school I was attending for my last credits post-Trinity. It was quiet and in the mornings the sun would rise, pouring through the big bay windows and onto my tired eyelids. That’s when I would write, sometimes for hours, looking out at the ocean, using the tide as my muse.
I had been in bed, under the down comforter, imagining my dreams in an empty house. It was after eleven when my phone lit up, and even later when I returned his call. I didn’t recognize the number because it had been so long. I had tucked him away in my memory for safe keeping, out of my head and away from my heart. I knew it was a three hour time difference, but forgot he was an insomniac and so I let him speak, and I only listened. The tone and rhythm of his voice that I once had memorized now sounded strangely unfamiliar.
“I thought about you a lot today,” he said. And I imagined his words were whispered, even though no secrets can be heard by the ocean.
“A lot,” he said “all day.”
I said, “Did you see the new Batman movie?”
“I miss you,” he said.
“I saw it, it was really, really good.”
“Remember the time we went out dancing? And then we ate crepes at Pancakes on the Rocks?” he said “And I told you I loved you and you wouldn’t believe me?”
“Of course;” and I caught myself before saying more.
He said, “Those nights with us were perfect. Remember our first kiss?”
And I closed my eyes so I could remember the taste of his tongue in my mouth, warm, two years ago warm.
“Yes, I remember.”
“That was the best sex I’ve ever had,” he said.
“You’re lucky,” I said.
“You’re gorgeous, how’s your boyfriend?”
“I don’t have one, I’m in between, how’s your girl?”
“Remember that night in bed?” he said.
“No,” I said, though I knew them all by heart.
“When we listened to that song, what was that song? And you had just gotten your tattoo?”
“Such Great Heights.” I said, “The Postal Service.”
“I know. Remember when we smoked a cigarette together?”
“Yes,” I said, because it was the only one I had ever smoked.
“Do you think about me when you look at your tattoo every day?”
“No, I think of how it’s permanent.”
“Sexy Bunny,” he laughed.
I could feel my feet shifting on the pavement, and my cheeks getting rosy pink from the moisture. I wondered how much longer I could stay warm here, before my blood raced back to my heart and hid from his.
“It’s late,” I said.
“I know,” he said.
And for a minute I listened to his breath from the other side of the country. I thought about what his fingers would feel like next to my fingers, and how his skin would smell on my sheets.
“Hurry up and move to Boston,” he said, “fight for me.”
“No, I won’t. Be with the girl you love, get married, invite me to the wedding. I promise not to mention the sex or the crepes.”
“She’s not you. We’re not engaged, we’re not talking about forever.”
“We will always have Australia,” I said.
“It’s better than nothing,” he said “You know that night I kissed you in the street, and everyone applauded and you told me that you wanted me forever?”
“Yes.”
“Did you mean that? Do you think about it sometimes?”
But I didn’t answer, because I had thought about it, on nights when I laid next to the wrong people in bed.
I said, “Sweet dreams Josh.”
“I’ll meet you at Bondi Beach in my dreams,” he said.
And I would never tell him that the short story I wrote about him got published, or that his kisses made my body shiver, or that I sometimes close my eyes and think about those nights we spent together, and wish they were tonight. And that’s just the thing about memories, they grab a hold of you sometimes late at night and make you question everything you believe in, and sometimes, you start to believe in something else.

Chapter 4: I'll Have a Blue Christmas

For Halloween we had all gone to a party, paired off in couples’ attire. Scoob and LaShell were a doctor and nurse; I was a Victoria’s Secret angel and Joe a Calvin Klein underwear model. College is really one of the only times to get away with wearing underwear out in public, to a party, cheeky underwear rimmed with lace and a matching corset, along with angel wings, dark eye makeup and glitter. Joe wore only black boxer briefs and when the pictures were developed we appeared more of a couple than usual, our model poses and smiling faces enough to convince even me that we were together. We would hold hands, flirt casually, and go home together, but that’s where it always ended, skin touching skin in my twin bed that never ended in anything but sleep. I knew too that I should end things with Adam Wadsworth, but I was scared of what that would mean, of the changes that would cause to slip into place. Looking back I don’t know how I was possibly afraid of change, of taking a chance on something new, when I’d already made the three thousand mile trek down to Texas. But it seemed to me that I could never really be with someone my mom would never meet, and so in my mind that meant being with Adam Wadsworth forever.
~
I didn’t go home for Thanksgiving. Instead, I planned to spend it alone with a full turkey dinner from Whole Foods, watching the Macy’s Thanksgiving parade on TV. But on the morning of, I was talked into driving to spend it with Joe’s family, an hour or so away.
“What are you doing?” Joe’s voice was anxious on the phone.
“Sitting in my pajamas, about to take a shower, happy Thanksgiving!” I said, in my best attempt at cheery.
“Come here, spend it with me, please,” his voice was sincere and though I thought I couldn’t be convinced, he convinced me.
I put on a burgundy and black dress, that was too warm for the Texas November, but looked right for the fall and meeting the family, and I got in my Avalon and drove to get flowers, and then onto I-35 north. I was a little nervous I’ll admit, my hands clamming up on the stirring wheel and the open road not offering many distractions as I traveled that day to spend Thanksgiving with a family other than my own. It was weird in a way too, because I wasn’t the girlfriend, I was only the friend, and I couldn’t help but think of it that way, about what this meant in the grand scheme of me and Joe.
“We’re so glad you could come,” his dad greeted me with open arms, Texas warmth, that southern hospitality I was still getting used to my first semester down south.
“Thank you for having me,” I smiled and handed him the flowers, a fall bouquet with a little plastic turkey sticking out, the only ones they had at the only open store I had found in San Antonio. I was introduced to many family members before I found Joe, sitting in the backyard, eating a piece of chocolate pecan pie, and smiling big when he saw me.
“Happy Thanksgiving, Arshley,” he said, hugging me hard, and scooting me toward the kitchen to get a plate of food and to meet his sisters; Natalie and Elizabeth, and to meet his grandma, a very old woman who was sweet and senile and for some reason who kept thinking I was Natalie Portman off of her current issue of Vogue.
When I left that day the sun was setting and I waved goodbye to Joe’s family as the sky turned orangey-pink in my rear view mirror. It was my first holiday without her, but I didn’t think of it all day that day, instead I enjoyed the turkey and the stuffing and the company, and I relished in the fact that Joe and my relationship was platonic, because that meant I could hold onto it forever; romantic love would likely end when college did, but he and I would not.
~
Adam Wadsworth awaited my arrival at SeaTac airport as I de-boarded the plane that December, coming from Manteca where I had just spent my first momless Christmas with only my brother Adam and my dad. My eyes searched frantically for his in the crowd that evening, my hair askew from sleeping on the plane and my black stretch pants covered in lint from the navy blue blanket that Southwest airlines had provided me with. Then I saw him, and he looked the same, I mean he looked different but he hadn’t changed. He saw me a moment later and he walked to me, kissing my forehead while I clung to him like a child attached momentarily to their parents’ leg, desperate and secure.
“You get prettier every time I see you,” he said, his blue eyes smiling into mine and we stood hand-in-hand, awaiting the arrival of my baggage from the carousel.
“Christmas was hard,” I said, eyes red and traveled as he held onto me tighter. And it wasn’t that I loved him then, looking back, but rather that he was familiar to me, that I knew he loved me, and so I allowed the emotion to run freely from my body, permitting his comfort to spread over me like the feeling of home on a Sunday afternoon. He was quiet and strong and when my luggage came we got into his green Honda civic and made our way down I-5 south, toward my brother Ryan’s house. There wasn’t much to say on the drive home, even though we had been apart three months; we’d talked on the phone almost daily. He had clung to the relationship most likely out of boredom, while I had held on because it was the only real link left to back home. While I had been sleeping next to Joe nearly nightly, he had been missing me here, and I felt the guilt pains begin to twitch in my stomach as I thought about Joe while holding Adam’s hand.
“Let’s have dinner tomorrow and just hang out,” he said as he unloaded my luggage from the trunk and we wheeled it up to Ryan’s front porch. It was pitch black outside now and I could hear only the humming buzz of the street lights as we approached.
“Sounds good,” I said and then I kissed him hard on the mouth. And as I let go of his hand and eased back off his lips I found no security in the lack of love I felt for Adam Wadsworth; not so much from that moment or that single kiss but rather from who’s lips I wished upon mine right then. Adam was my comfort from home but Joe had become my new comfort, what was familiar now, what was untied from all the haunting I felt in the state of Washington, on this porch, in the air, suffocating me.
~
I dreaded letting go of Joe that day at the airport in Austin; boarding a plane I didn’t want to go on, facing a reality I wanted to be false. “I’ll call you tomorrow,” he said to me then, and with that as my only glimmer of security I let go of his broad shoulders and forced back tears, tears that crept up just imagining my next two weeks in California, the baking I would do alone, without my mom, the gifts I would buy for everyone except her, the wrapping and the decorating that would bring back memories of her with every stocking hung, with every piece of mistletoe placed. But that was the thing about me now, no matter how strong of fight the tears put up I would never let them win; they would never fall down my cheeks from my lashes, I would forever hold them inside thinking it would make me stronger. It wasn’t fair for me to cling to him so tightly, Joe, I know that now but then he was what I needed, what defined happiness, what made me feel attached when I was detached from everything else. And that was the last time we would be friends again, real friends, the end of that first semester marked a transition in my feelings for him that was either love or something like it.
~
I walked into Ryan’s house that night and hugged him tightly, Chase running up to hug me by the still lit up Christmas tree lined with packages clearly marked with my name on them. I picked him up and all my love for home came flowing back and I remembered how much I was missing down in Texas. He had grown so much, his brown hair longer now and his baby face losing all of its chubbiness and transforming into the structure of a little boy. He was talking a mile a minute and showing me Batman and Spiderman and everything else that he loved that I had missed when I left him back in August. On the refrigerator he showed me a picture he had made in school, of grandma and Magic and Contessa—my mom and our dog and cat that had all died a year apart of one another. I couldn’t believe he remembered them, his four and half year old little brain drew a picture of the time grandma saved him from a big wave at the beach they had gone to a year before, and he drew her now up in the clouds, looking down on him from heaven, she had angel wings and was next to our cat and dog, watching over us.
~
Ryan and Chase’s mom, Michelle had only been dating a short while when she got pregnant. Ryan was scared and not ready to have a baby but she wanted to have it. It was one of those stories, where it didn’t work out for the two of them, but out of it came this life changing event for all of us. It’s crazy how much you can love someone from the very beginning, that instant love you feel that runs through your body organically, and you have no idea where it came from or how it got there so quickly. I was there when Chase was born, on June 28th of 1999 and when I sat holding him as he slept I felt the change that happened, and I welcomed it openly, knowing I would do anything for that tiny baby that arrived one summer evening, a week and a half early, with the rise of the full moon.
Coming home now, I felt guilty for leaving him, I wanted to hold onto him forever, not miss a minute of his changing face and speech and life. I wanted to be here because she couldn’t, my mom, his grandma. She wouldn’t get to see him grow up, she wouldn’t be able to save him from anymore waves at the beach or teach him how to make chocolate chip cookies or meatloaf, or take him to Disneyland for his birthday. That night, when I laid in bed with him, reading him the book she had written in for him “Grandma’s promises,” that promised all the things they would do together as he got older, my stomach tightened and he looked up at me, already expecting it,
“Dad always cries in this book too Auntie Ashley,” he said, his huge hazel-brown eyes looking up at me and his tiny fingers resting on my hand.
“I just miss grandma buddy,” I said, pushing back his hair and kissing his forehead. Wondering how often Ryan cried, because he never talked about it with me.
“Me too,” he said, comforting me more than I was comforting him. And I waited for his breath to get soft and heavy with sleep before I left his blue racecar bed and eased his fingers off of my hand.
~
Adam Wadsworth and I had no real epic ending. We spent time together over the break and when I wouldn’t have sex with him one night, after a movie, I think that began the end of everything for us. I’m sure he was suspicious of Joe, as I told him the truth about our friendship, how we were open and honest with each other and that he spent many nights in my bed, but nothing ever happened. I don’t think he believed me, and to be honest, I wouldn’t have believed me either, because the whole thing is pretty hard to believe for anyone, especially an outsider looking in. Especially my boyfriend, who I’d never spent the night with. The weirdest part was, we didn’t share any words, I just allowed it to drift, to ease out, and to be uncomplicated. He was supposed to come to dinner on New Year’s Eve at my brother’s house, and when he didn’t show I called him and he said he was driving back to Portland, that he was sorry. And I never mourned the loss because it was not an epic one, it just seemed right as I couldn’t bear the thought of giving myself to him entirely, because there was barely half of me left, and I needed all of it for Texas.

Chapter 3: Lonestar

“Don’t drink the punch,” LaShell said, looking down at my cup in disapproval—I guess she too had heard the warnings.
It was everything I was expecting, that first college fraternity party. Full of polo-clad boys in various shapes and sizes and freshman girls all trying to flirt and fit in. I met my group outside on the patio, four soccer boys I made friends with those first few days of settling in and LaShell, who’s boyfriend Scooby was a soccer player too. I held a red plastic Solo cup of punch in my hand as I abandon the baseball team boys who’d given me a lift—making a false promise we would see each other later on—because loyalty is important to me, and I’ll always chose soccer over baseball. I wore a hot pink dress that night and the air was balmy, causing my hair to wave up loosely and stick to the back of my neck, no breeze to speak of made the closeness of bodies almost unbearable, and I got my first taste of the real Texas heat, overwhelming and intoxicating all at once, the taste on your lips always slightly salty.
“Oh, it’ll be fine,” I said, blowing her off, getting to know the soccer boys a little bit better and making conversation with strangers as I scanned the crowd for potential male bondage. Adam Wadsworth and I were still talking nightly, he was saying I love you and while I sometimes said it back, it was more routine than real, like it had been ever since that night in the swimming pool, when he said it to me and I declined to offer it back. As the Texas night wore on and the punch caught up I realized that Trinity was seriously lacking in the babe department. In fact, the only tens there were the soccer guys I was quickly becoming friends with and this was turning into another classic Ashley moment: when I realize I’ll have no one to date because I’m good friends with all the attractive guys. Shit, I thought, and I remember thinking it then, as I stared at all of the sloppy drunk coeds on the dance floor, practically undressing and grinding on anyone close to them. And next to me was Joe, who clearly had looked me over more than twice and so I grabbed him and took him on the dance floor for two songs, grinding my hips into his and feeling stares in my direction because let’s face it: Joe was a hot commodity from that first ‘let’s see if there’s any hot freshman’ party; his dirty blond hair, the sexy wavy kind, his chiseled jaw and golden skin, and his 6’2 build, that looked just about like the cover of Men’s Health magazine. I got in some sly moves and some body grazing before we all piled in the car and went to IHop for 3am pancakes. I don’t know if it was the feeling of being free or the atmosphere or the gin bucket shots that were poured into my mouth by a stranger with a turkey bester, but crammed up against him in the tiny back seat of Scooby’s two door red Lexus was where I first felt the urge to make out with Joe Houchins—and then I reminded myself I sort of had a half-boyfriend back home.
~
My dorm room was all set up, pictures framing my twin bed, my shiny new computer in its place on my built in wooden desk, and my mattress covered in the quilt my mom had made me when I was eleven. Each square a different pattern, all colors of a little girl—pinks and purples—a princess sort of feel. I brought it here and laid it on my bed, next to the newly bright colors of all the other comforters in my suite; bed sets from IKEA or Bed Bath and Beyond, mine seemed to pale in comparison, it’s pastels washing out my designated six feet of square footage, the only thing I brought that still smelled slightly of home.
The first week at Trinity was a blur: freshman orientation, placement exams, new faces; everything unfamiliar yet, somehow, unintimidating. I tried nearly every day to separate myself from my roommate LaShell, who seemed to tag along with me wherever we went: the cafeteria, the bathroom, Target. It was my first time sharing my room, my first time living with a girl (other than my mom), and thus far, I wasn’t reaping any benefits. LaShell and I were polar opposites beginning with our looks and ending with every single one of our interests. She was pre-med and I was an acting major, she was there to study, I was there to party. We fought like sisters but had no family or blood ties to make us love each other, and within that first week it was clear that my living situation would be less than ideal.
She brought sugar gliders, two of them, those little rodents that “fly” through the air by gliding with webbed appendages and that stunk up our shared closet in a mere matter of days. I was too nice to be openly annoyed, and too determined to mask the odor with my fresh scent Febreez that promised me a college dorm room that could smell sweet no matter what it was up against. But Febreez lost the battle over time and I prayed my clothes wouldn’t absorb the smell of rodent as I tried to meet new friends.
Tuesday was my first day of class, and I rolled out of bed at 10am, though I had woken up far before that to the sound of the toilet flushing when it was still dark outside. LaShell was already reading her thick Biology text book when my alarm went off, jarring me from false dreams.
“Morning!” She called over to me, though I had already told her not to greet me cheerily before my shower and coffee.
“Morning,” I grumbled back on my way to the shower, which was already occupied by my singing suitemate Janet—the oober Christian who wore jumpers and mom jeans, but was so sweet and endearing it was difficult not to love her.
After my turn in the shower I departed with wet hair, because in Texas only the crazies use blow dryers in August, and LaShell not only blew dry but also straightened. I shoveled down some Special K at the dining hall, reluctantly with 2% milk, because the small cartons of non-fat were already all gone, and I thought to myself, ‘this must be how it starts…the freshman 15…’.
I arrived at acting class in Ruth Taylor Theatre sweaty and still a little tired, looking around the room of peers that were all 5 or 6 minutes early, wide eyed and ready like me. The professor looked like a hippie, with a long flowing dress, bare feet, and an aura of ease. Her short hair and red framed glasses framed her kind blue eyes. She sat cross legged on the floor and invited us to remove our shoes and do the same. With one minute left before start time, in sauntered Joe, in a green polo shirt and khaki shorts, looking red cheeked and flustered.
“Hey,” I waved over to him and motioned for him to sit down beside me.
“Hey, I didn’t know you were in here,” he smiled, looking a little relieved to know someone.
I felt the opposite; acting class was the class that mattered to me, where I wanted to grow and explore, and the slight crush that I may or may not have felt seemed to go against my inhibitions I was priorly calling upon to help me succeed in there.
“How’s preseason going?” I asked him, but I wouldn’t get an answer because that’s when class began. We paired off for an icebreaker exercise and he and I ended up being in a silent staring pose for five minutes. Five minutes seems short until you are asked to silently stare at someone who is essentially a stranger who you find fairly attractive and you are asked to take each other in; every inch and angle. This can be intimidating, when standing across from a handsome soccer player, trying not to blush—my acting skills were faltering on day one.
“You were so uncomfortable,” Joe teased afterward, giving me the elbow. And I smiled shyly, my silence not offering a response. I shrugged my shoulders. After more icebreakers and yoga poses we were given scene assignments from Stacey—the hippie professor—and when my name was called out it was alongside Joe Houchins, who would be my scene partner, who I would spend many hours of my time within the next several weeks; rehearsing. We were then handed the scenes and as we read them to ourselves I gasped audibly when I arrived at the sex scene in the end. When he looked up, he was blushing.
Our final exercise that first day was to bring in a poem that meant something to us and read it aloud to the class. I brought in something I had written about my mom the year before; back in February when we knew that the cancer would kill her. I chose the poem because it meant something to me, and I thought nothing of it other than that it would be a short read for my first class presentation. I was third to read as we went around the circle:
“It wasn’t the day they said cancer.
It was the day after that.”
That was all that came out before the tears burst from a place I didn’t feel or see them waiting, a dark corner perhaps, hidden from me entirely. They came down so hard and fast, that I removed myself entirely from my body and sat there, watching myself cry in front of strangers, shaking my head at the mess that sat before me, unable to control it in the slightest. That’s when Joe took the paper from me, damp from my sweaty hands and finished reading it aloud,
“It wasn’t staying home from college,
It was helping her get dressed.
It wasn’t the day she started chemo,
It was the day her hair fell in chunks into my fingertips.
It wasn’t crying by myself,
It was watching my brother cry in bed next to her.
It wasn’t the hospital,
It was having to help her climb up the stairs at home.
It wasn’t when she fell,
It was seeing her use a walker.
It wasn’t the hospice bed in our living room,
It was watching her sleep in it.”
I was out of control, sobbing, now more from humiliation than anything else, and so I walked out and left class that very first day, and Joe followed close behind. I didn’t say anything for several minutes, maybe more, and when I looked back he was there, smiling patiently. I didn’t owe him anything, I knew that, but I offered it up anyway, because there was nothing but the truth waiting there now, everything else had come out already.
“She died,” I said, praying the tears wouldn’t work their way up the well again.
“In May, she died,” I looked at him and something seemed to click, like he understood everything from that poem, and he knew how to handle what I was saying now.
“You can talk to me,” he said, looking me in the eyes and then, unexpectedly, hugging me for how long I needed to be hugged. I realized then that I hadn’t hugged anyone in two weeks, since I hugged Ryan and Chase goodbye. My mom hugged me every day, and it’s so stupid, the small things like that that you remember later, when someone hugs you unexpectedly and you hold on too tight, trying to make up for the loss, trying to feel something that’s not meant to be felt again. Joe’s hug felt real, strong, safe, it felt like home three thousand miles from anything like it.
“Let’s go get something to eat,” he said, and he kept his arm around me the whole way to the Coates cafeteria, and it felt comforting, in a way that a family touch does, and we sat down and ate tuna sandwiches and talked about her—my mom. I hadn’t told anyone here about her, it was easier that way, and I didn’t know then if the black blob inside of me would release a little bit now, or continue to tighten and feed itself all these miles away, the guilt of leaving mixed with the pain of losing her that grew daily here, that bread from the sun and the new people and the fake life I was living without her.
~
Joe came over for rehearsal that Friday, sweaty from practice he sat on my bed and we practiced the kissy stuff first, to “get it out of the way.” He’d never acted before and when we started kissing and touching and he stuck his tongue in my mouth I didn’t stop him. I expected to feel something, or an inkling of something, but there was nothing, and I was relieved. Then we got down to business with the lines and the memorization and the acting that had nothing to do with the kissing. We worked well together, great chemistry and an easy flow for dialogue; I was a little excited about acting again.
When we finished I opened the door, to find LaShell and Scooby eavesdropping outside, and the four of us sat down on the carpeted floor and had a bowl of cereal and talked until it got too late for anyone to consider walking back to their dorm rooms, (even though they were only minutes away), and so we had our first sleepover, Joe and I at least, the two of us huddled in my twin bed, pretending not to spoon, while LaShell and Scoob openly spooned on her bed by the window. It all felt so comfortable that I eased into it without thinking about the fact that Joe and I were sleeping together, with nothing sexual in the mix, except the rehearsal make-out session that we both knew was business casual. He never mentioned that he had a sort of girlfriend back home, just as I never mentioned Adam Wadsworth, because if there was really nothing going on between us, what did it matter?
The sleeping thing became routine, so much in fact that it became expected, and on the few nights that Joe didn’t show up at my door in the evening or after class, I would find myself slightly sad and disappointed. We wasted hours together watching bad TV and making each other laugh—and somehow we became the talk of the tiny Trinity population, the “will they or won’t they” couple who ate breakfast together every morning and slept together every night but just wouldn’t fess up to being in love. The funny thing is; we weren’t, and regardless of the comments or the unusualness of the relationship, it was everything I needed at the time. Our acting scene went phenomenally well, and I had become a regular at all the soccer games, painted shirt, screaming voice, and a seat beside the players’ families in the bleachers. All of my activities became the four of us; Me, Joe, LaShell, and Scoob—the couple and the non-couple, and by the time the fall officially blew in I felt at home in the Lone Star state.
~
Fall in Texas doesn’t really count, because the weather stays similar and you still don’t need a jacket when it gets dark at night. The mosquitoes start to quiet down and the humidity doesn’t kill you upon contact, but nothing really marks a significant change to tell you it’s arrived. Back home you could smell fall coming in the air, right around my birthday, October 9th, my mom would smell the air outside and say that fall had officially arrived. It’s really the only season you can smell coming, the fall, but in Texas I felt cheated out of my favorite season, I couldn’t feel her there with me without the fall. So on my birthday I didn’t want to celebrate, because I was melancholy and estranged, and I went to bed at 10pm when I heard a light knock on my door that I thought was just the wind. When I ignored it, it got louder and so I went to the door and peeked out in my nightgown—a long T-shirt I had stolen from my brother.
“Happy Birthday to you…” Joe sang in his best singing voice and he hugged me hard and handed me a mixed CD.
“Thanks,” I said, and I slipped the CD into my player and laid down on my bed, not caring that I was in my underwear and a t-shirt, and him not seeming to either.
“I put a bunch of stuff on there I think you’ll really love. Damien Rice, Imogen Heap, and some other stuff,” he said, lying down beside me.
We listened in silence to Damien Rice’s “Delicate” and it reminded me of Joe even as he lay there, then, beside me in bed. That was the first time I wished for him to kiss me, but he didn’t, and instead he slept over just as he had done for a month and a half, but somehow tonight was different, even though fall hadn’t come, something else had happened in its place. I was 20 now, and I felt like I had earned the extra candle this year.