“Married people go to college too, you know,” he assured me. “I make good money, and I can support us while you’re in school.”
I sat up, clutching the sheet to my chest. Finally, I said, “But we’d have so little in common by that point, you being a mechanic and me a college graduate.”
This turned out to be the wrong thing to say. I’d never seen Ricky get angry before but now he jumped out of bed and began pacing around the room, making fists with his strong, callused hands.
“You just don’t love me, that’s all. Am I right or am I right?”
He was right, of course. I couldn’t say it, but my silence must have said it all. Ricky stood staring at me, clenching his jaw so tight that the sides of his roughly cut face began to spasm. Then he grabbed a shirt and walked out the front door of his little apartment.
A minute later, I heard his motorcycle start up. At first, I thought he was going to storm off but when I heard the motor idling I realized he was waiting to take me home. I got up, threw on my clothes, and took my place on the throbbing machine.
When we reached my house, Ricky kept the motor racing instead of walking me to the door the way he normally did. I got off and stood beside him, not knowing what to say or do. He grabbed me and gave me a long, lingering kiss, and then he drove off. I knew he wouldn’t call me again.
I immediately felt an incredible sense of relief. That had been a very close call, closer than I wanted to experience again. My worst nightmare was to marry some hick from Bakersfield, move into a tract home, and be trapped with a bunch of screaming kids. I’d been planning my escape from Bakersfield for years and I wasn’t going to let anything get in my way. I hadn’t meant to hurt Ricky, but I wasn’t about to sacrifice myself for him either.
As the days went by, I began to miss Ricky. Every time I saw a couple on TV kiss or laugh together I thought of him. I guess I missed him so much because he cared about me. I loved it that he thought I was beautiful and sexy and I loved that he loved me. I wanted to call him just to hear his voice, just to feel connected to someone again. But I knew better. It wouldn’t be fair. I’d only encourage him or hurt him further. So instead, I told myself it was for the best that we weren’t talking anymore, and I got busy making plans for the new school year.
Over the next couple of days, I noticed that Sue sounded more distant when we talked on the phone. I couldn’t help but sense that she was judging me for rejecting Ricky. Then, a week later, she called me and I could tell by the tension in her voice that something was wrong.
“Ricky drove his motorcycle off a cliff,” she said in a serious tone.
“Oh my God, is he all right?” I couldn’t believe what I was hearing.
“He’s alive but he’s in intensive care.”
“But he’s going to be all right?” I couldn’t think of anything else to say.
“I think so,” she said. “But I think he did it on purpose.” I could hear the blame in her voice.
“You mean he tried to k-kill himself?” I stammered. I felt terrible. How could this be? I asked Sue if she would take me to the hospital to see him.
She hesitated.
“What’s going on, why can’t you take me to see him?”
“He doesn’t want to see you,” she said flatly.
“He said that?”
“Yes.”
I was shattered. I knew I’d hurt him but until that moment I hadn’t known that I’d hurt him that much. There was nothing I could do but ask Sue to call me and let me know how he was doing. I did send a card to the hospital telling him I hoped he’d be okay, and that I’d like to come see him, but I never knew if he got it.
A couple of weeks went by with no call from Sue. I missed her but I didn’t want to see her if she was going to be acting as distant and critical of me as she’d sounded during our last phone call. Finally, I called her to ask about Ricky—and this time she was even more distant and evasive than before.
“Will you at least tell me how he is?” I prodded.
“He’s fine.”
“Is he going to be out of the hospital soon?”
“You said you just wanted to know how he is and I told you.” She sounded angry.
“I know he doesn’t want to have anything to do with me,” I said, “so why are you being so evasive?”
“Well, if you must know, he’s getting married,” she said.
“He’s getting married?” I was dumbstruck. “What do you mean he’s getting married? To whom?”
“One of the nurses that took care of him at the hospital.”
For some reason I felt devastated, like I’d just lost my best friend—or maybe more aptly, my puppy. I hadn’t wanted to marry Ricky, and yet the thought of him marrying someone else, and so quickly, left me with conflicting feelings. I suddenly felt abandoned and angry at that same time. He had sure gotten over me quickly. Had it all been a lie? Had he not loved me after all? It seemed to me he just wanted to get married to someone . . . anyone.
In early September, right after school started, Florence and the girls and I were invited to a party. The more I drank the more upset I became about Ricky. In my drunken haze, I grabbed a knife from a kitchen drawer and ran down the street with it. Several guys from the party managed to wrestle me to the
