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