And there it is.
We flirted a little bit.
That’s what it is to him.
Because he flirts with everyone.
Because touching means nothing. Great sex is great sex. In private. No one hears about it so no one believes it.
A summer fling.
And I’m the fool.
The fool who wants it to be more than that. More than a joke. More than a rumor.
The fool who wants it to be real.
But it isn’t.
We flirted a little bit. We fucked a little bit.
He’ll go back to making movies. I’ll go back to teaching classes. We’ll be over when the summer is.
God. It even sounds pathetic.
I close my eyes and take a deep breath. Pressing my thumb and forefinger against the bridge of my nose I count to three before opening my eyes.
Women like us. My mother’s voice, reminding me of what some people can have, and some people will never have.
“You’re right,” I say. I even smile. “It is funny.” I laugh. It is small and hollow. “It is very funny.”
“What’s wrong?”
“Just me,” I say. He furrows his brow, trying to understand my words, and I don’t have the energy to explain it to him. To explain how stupid I am. How different we are. How easily I will be heartbroken by flirting a little bit.
How impossible it will be to get over him.
Because, even worse than the photos, the questions, the looks of Why was he interested in her? Worse than all of that is the simple truth: When this ends, I will never be free.
People will always ask me. What was it like? Did you really date David Jacobs? What happened?
And even if they don’t. If they forget or move on or don’t care, I won’t be able to. Most exes, after a few years, fade from memory. The details of their faces blur, mannerisms are forgotten, and hearts heal through distance and time.
How do you recover when your ex is everywhere? On every magazine, in every blog, his beautiful face and deep laugh coming at you through cable, Youtube, streaming services, movies…god, he’ll probably write a book.
He’ll be in the fucking library.
And my casual, fun summer, my fling with the beautiful man, will follow me the rest of my life.
Even if I didn’t love him, I realize, I wouldn’t be able to get over him. And knowing I do love him, I won’t have a chance.
“Jane-”
“I’m tired,” I swallow. My mouth dry and stomach churning. I have a sudden terrifying thought that I will throw up on his shoes and a situation that could not possibly get any worse will get unbelievably, horribly, horrifically, worse. “I left my car in your driveway. Can you drive me back, so I can pick it up?”
He nods, his eyes never leaving mine. “Of course, but Jane-”
“Come on.” I shake my head. “I’m sorry I yelled. I’m not feeling well and I’d like to get home.”
Slowly, he walks to the driver’s side of the car. I feel his eyes on mine, even as I look down at the pavement beneath my feet. I can barely make out the outline of my shoes in the dark, and I am grateful for the absence of moonlight. At least my humiliation can hide.
We don’t talk on the drive. He asks again if I’m ok and I say I’m fine.
Even this. This pathetic lie. The silent treatment I don’t mean to give him but do anyway. I’ve never done that before. Told a man I was fine when I wasn’t. I always assumed the silent treatment was a form of petty revenge. A passive-aggressive manipulation. But not always.
Sometimes it’s preservation.
Sometimes we are silent because if we say anything, even one more little thing, we will burst apart, split in half like a too-full water balloon and everything we are trying to hide will spill out and away and we will be left a small, torn piece of plastic.
His driveway is dark too, and I am grateful for the trees and their willingness to shelter me. I step out of the car and the heat of the night sticks to my skin. If it were any other evening, any other place, I would sneak off into the woods, towel in hand, and go for a swim.
But I can’t do that anymore.
I will never do that again.
It’s too dangerous. The woods at the bottom of the hill.
It’s too dangerous. The swimming hole tucked inside the woods.
Not because of monsters or criminals or savage animals.
But because of me. Of my delicate, childish, foolish heart. That flies out of my chest at the first sight of an improbable, impossible, inappropriate love. That throws itself headfirst into heartbreak and destruction. As if the very organ I need to stay alive knows exactly how to kill me.
I shut his car door behind me.
I will never go in those woods again.
He’s asking if he can get me something to drink, or something to feel better.
I will never go swimming in that pond again.
He calls my name as I tell him I’m fine and shut my car door between us.
I will never be close to him again.
27
David
It’s Angelo again, waking me up and pissing me off.
“Jesus Christ, David.”
“Good morning to you, too,” I mutter, phone to my ear.
Jane was upset last night. I saw it in her face. I apologized for feeling her up in front of her students, but it wasn’t that. She looked…stricken. As if I had unleashed her deepest secret in front of her worst enemy.
I apologized again, when we got to her car and she had brushed me off, smiling, telling me she had a headache. I invited her in but she said it was better for her to sleep alone.
I went to bed alone, reviewing the evening in my mind, wondering what I had missed.
It’s the first morning in a while I haven’t woken up in Jane’s bed, or her in mine, and for a moment I am grateful for her absence, considering the string of
