“She’s going to be there with this guy…” He shook his head. Smiled to deflect. Shrugged to lighten the words. “Movie producer. She says they’re friends, but I think it doesn’t matter.”
I took a sip of the cheap black coffee. Cream and sugar never helped it, so I just drank it black in all its bitter badness.
“You want me to make Michelle jealous? I’m all for it, but…” I didn’t like seeing my friends hurt, but I’d met Michelle. She was a bodybuilder. I looked down at myself. There was nothing wrong with me, but a bodybuilder I wasn’t. “I’m not the ‘make the ex-girlfriend jealous’ type.”
“You’re joking.”
“My friend Francine? You’ve met her. She might do the trick, and she loves cars.”
“Okay.” He put down his coffee so he could talk with his hands. His mother was Sicilian, and he’d gotten his gestures from her side. “I want you to know it’s not like that between us. You’re my friend. I enjoy the hell out of you in a totally platonic way. But you’re gorgeous. Even with the glasses and baggy shirts. You’re bomb sexy. Not for nothing.”
I looked at my coffee and cleared my throat. He wasn’t lying, but that didn’t make him right. “If I argue, you’re going to think I’m fishing for compliments.”
“I won’t think that. But don’t argue. Come on. If you’re sexy enough for me, you’re sexy enough. It’ll be fun. They have games and exhibits. It’s crazy. I’ll drive so you can have a drink.”
Why not? I had contact lenses and a closet full of designer dresses. If I didn’t make Michelle jealous, so what? I could keep Jim company and have a good time with him.
I was totally putting on mascara for this.
“Let’s go have fun then,” I said. “I’ll take a cab over to your house, and we can go sit in the Batman car. I have a dress that will knock you over. I hope she sees it.”
“You’re a good sport, Viv.”
The bell rang.
“This is going to be the height of my week,” I said.
I grabbed my bag of apples, turned on my springy little heel, and walked out.
Carl hadn’t been a bad sort. There was nothing technically wrong with him. He wasn’t scary or arrogant. Wasn’t too confident. Just an approachable, low-key guy who didn’t shine too bright or demand too much. I’d felt comfortable about him right away, and we slipped into three years together without thinking. He took my virginity without hurting me or being intentionally gentle. He freaked out a little after at what he’d done and who he’d be for me for the rest of his life. I told him to take it easy. It wasn’t that big a deal.
We never fought either, which had seemed great. Who wanted to fight? I didn’t. I wanted to come home and relax, watch some tube, have sex (or not), and go to sleep. So that was what I got. Everything was copasetic.
Then there was a day like any other. I came home from a rough day at Hobart. It was a Friday, and I was looking forward to going out for a drink with Francine and a few of Carl’s friends. He was on the couch after his own rough day of cranking out coffee and saying “yes” a hundred times, binge-watching a show about people who actually did things.
I asked him if he wanted to come with me to meet Francine and the guys.
He kept his eyes on the TV. “Nah. You go.”
“It’s okay. I’ll stay here with you.”
I texted Francine to bail on Friday and plan for Saturday and plopped onto the couch.
I don’t know if it was ten minutes into the show, after a few jokes and bonding comments, or an hour later. I just don’t remember. His feet were entwined with mine and half-buried in the space between couch cushions.
“I’m bored,” he said.
“Wanna go out? It’s not too late.”
“No,” he said, poking at his popcorn as if he was unsure what he wanted out of the conversation. “I’m bored overall.”
“I get it,” I said, not getting it at all. “Maybe take some art classes? You can do nights at the coffee shop.”
“Listen to me!” he hissed. “I’m dead inside. I’m dead in this apartment. I feel like I’m a rat in a glue trap.”
For months, I couldn’t get over how he’d seemed angry at my suggestion. How he’d tightened his jaw as if I was a complete imbecile. He’d never spoken to me like that. We’d never raised our voices at each other. I thought that was the mark of something good and strong, but it left me unprepared for his venom that night.
“This is going absolutely nowhere in the biggest hurry.” He tossed the popcorn aside as if he’d just had it with everything.
My eyes must have been the size of saucers. I’d never been so surprised by anything he’d done.
“Okay?” I tiptoed around his emotions, which seemed more toxic and messy than usual. “So what do you want to do?”
He leapt off the couch. “Be done! Just done! I can’t be here anymore!”
“With me? You’re breaking up with me?”
“Yes!”
In retrospect I understood that he really wasn’t angry with me but had to whip up his emotions to initiate the breakup. He was a complete *, but I didn’t really believe that until months later. At the time, I was convinced I’d done something to piss him off.