*
The question of whether or not I was going to read it wasn’t a question. As soon as I had the worn leather journal—slipped out, as predicted, from his third dresser drawer—I went into our central library and up into the stacks. I’d taken a sweater as well, a plain green one he wore a lot but that wasn’t distinct enough to be recognized as his, and put it on, which made me feel both sad and safe. I sat at an old desk and opened it from the back, flipping until I saw my name for the first time. His sentences were short, unembellished, repetitive, and it was clear he wasn’t lying to anybody. I scanned quickly, eyes sliding back and forth across the pages, reading paragraphs, excerpts, lists:
I’m acting weird. I know I’m choosing to distract myself. The Claire thing feels uncertain. A distraction. Re: Lauren, I feel like I’m still not comprehending it all. I act like everything is fine and even now I choose to deal with Claire stuff instead of . . .
Lauren on Saturday: I sent her a g-chat to which she didn’t respond (she was at band rehearsal), then texted her. She responded upon leaving, then I responded, then she either didn’t respond or did while my phone was dead. Then I e-mailed her and she may or may not have seen it but didn’t respond and . . .
Lately I’ve felt a kind of numbness. Like this feeling like I’m faking it all—but maybe it’s just because I’m used to being in love. Like I can hug her and move my fingers along her neck but it’s not real. There’s no emotional desire for closeness. She feels it too I think but it’s funny because I wait for her text messages, hoping she’ll contact me and get really pissed and insecure when she doesn’t. I know she waits before responding which is . . .
I need to slow things down. I won’t hook up with other people if I have her as an option and I shouldn’t be entering something serious again. But then again, it’s like what William said with his whole “why change options if this one is good” approach. I like Claire. Maybe I need to stop lying to myself about that. I want a girl that’s full of life and enthusiasm and optimism and creativity and assumed profundity. Who I do not have to brag to. Who I can engage in a dialogue. I want honesty, more than anything, probably because Lauren and I lost that. I just don’t think Claire is that person—too sort of sad all the time and self-deprecating. Or maybe she is, and I just need time to myself to . . .
I worried a lot this week that Lauren might actually be the right girl for me long term, which was depressing because I haven’t had to deal with that whole mindset for a while . . . Not that I made a mistake in breaking up with her. But in that we might have ruined the potential for a future together of some kind. It needed to end for now. THE relationship needed to end for this time of our lives. But it’s obvious I’m not over HER as a person, I just need to admit it. (I know she feels the same.) She had a gig in Laurence the other day and I nearly felt sick thinking about the guys who’d be there to . . .
I had a dream last night where Claire and I were in a Lauren/Brian state of our relationship. She didn’t want to hang out with me (or I sensed that) and I was compensating by being pathetic and always acting, like pretending that I was happy and cool and fun because I felt insecure about how she felt about me. I’m starting to think Claire should just be my girlfriend!? I don’t know what it is. Maybe I’m just exhausted. BUT it also diminishes the fantasy. Why CAN’T we? Maybe it implies there’s something wrong with the relationship. Some reason . . .
I almost feel like I’m settling. I dunno. Maybe I’m just not totally over Lauren (true), maybe I’m just unsure about her on a more fundamental level. The fear of course is to start dating Claire and then not stop. I just need to find out if she can be imaginative and interesting and spontaneous and make me laugh and want to build something together. BE something. I guess I’m not crazy about her. Or don’t really know how I feel. She’s sort of into pretension and that’s unattractive. She just has this look on her face a lot. Sort of aloof and wide eyed and her lips purse slightly when she’s looking somewhere or reading the computer. And it just really turns me off. I look at her at those times and I just think like, fuck, I need to get out of this. And then I feel bad about it because part of me really does like her. Lauren was hotter—or at least had a better body (more in shape). And the sex was better. But it’s probably because Claire’s so clearly insecure when she’s naked and . . .
I went into the bathroom and threw up. I rinsed my mouth in the sink but felt nauseous again and returned to the toilet to vomit a second time, and sat down on the toilet, pressing my fingers into my forehead. I’d never felt so disgusting in my life. Not disgusting—but vacant, punched, like someone had taken a wrench and shoved it into my stomach and twisted it around. I tried to remember that I’d had thoughts like that too. Tried to recount the pros-and-cons list Charlotte and I’d discussed from the depths of my bedroom: he was overemotional, too cocky, didn’t shower enough. And I’d had better sex too. But it didn’t matter.
I walked out of the bathroom and down the narrow staircases through the books and emerged onto the street and the blaring sun. I opened my phone to call Charlotte but realized I wouldn’t know what to say. I walked a few blocks down Pear Street, passing people who didn’t know me, and felt anonymous and fat. I stopped when I got to the quad and turned around because I had no destination in mind; I thought about texting Kyle but realized, again, that the prospect of articulation was too exhausting. I think the one thing I really wanted in that moment was to text Brian and crawl into his bed; complain about Brian and the vigil and his death and fall asleep with his arms pulled around me and my hair tangling against his sheets. I took out my phone and called Lauren Cleaver.
“Hello?” she said.
And I hung up.