by K. B. Draper
“No thanks,” Melonie and Michelle said in unison.
“Sure,” Carly replied.
What? Did I hear her say “sure”? I couldn’t be certain since my heart was pounding so loud in my ears. It felt like I was sitting center circle of the Women and Drums class at the Communiversity as the tribe leader instructed twenty recently dumped forty-something year old women, “Let it out my sisters. Use the drums to show the goddesses you’re strong,” as they all slammed their palms on their bongos. Oh my God, pull yourself together and hand her a damn sucker. She unwrapped it and put it in her mouth. I’d do anything to have a twin and superpowers this instant, because I’d so do the “wonder twin power shape of a sucker” thing right now.
I muddled through the next few minutes of conversation as we decided where and when to meet. I did a mental run-through of my closet, attempting to select the perfect outfit that would make Carly fall immediately and hopelessly in love with me. Yeah, nothing. I’d have to go shopping.
Two hours later, in my new, very expensive Banana Republic shirt I scanned the bar for the love of my life and spied her immediately. She was incredible with the multicolored lights flashing across her face. I tried to memorize everything about the moment so I could someday tell our children about the first day I met and fell in love with their mother. However, in the retelling of the story, I’d leave out the whole sucker incident, that the DJ was playing Barbie Girl, and there were two very non-barbie-ish lesbians dancing and singing the eleven words of the song over and over again at the top of their lungs. I was contemplating my options of a more appropriate first-meeting love song when Carly turned and looked at me. I tried to pull off a “No, really, I’m not weird and daydreaming about our future with our nonexistent children and picking our song that will be played at our wedding or ceremony depending what country or state we decide on” smile and wave. I walked to the table, chanting be cool, be cool, be cool. Luckily, she was sitting alone so I was able to pick the chair next to her.
“Hey! You made it,” she said.
“Yeah,” I replied, praying the music would drown out the shaking in my voice.
“Melonie’s in the bathroom.”
Melonie who? Oh, right. “So, do you come here often?”
Oh God, what was I saying? Great! The filter between my brain and mouth had chosen this particular moment to stop working! And I thought I had a good forty years before I became my grandmother.
She replied with a half grin. “Every once in a while. I’m in med school so I don’t get a chance to get out much.”
Okay, so she’s an attractive soon-to-be-doctor and I’m a broke ex-cop gone private security officer, driving my dad’s car because Loren wanted my Jeep. Oh yeah, she’d want me. Screw it, it doesn’t matter. I’ll just get her to fall in love with me tonight and then tomorrow do something cool like solve world hunger, find the cure for cancer, or figure out the Rubik’s cube and it will all be good.
I managed to hold a relatively normal conversation until Michelle and Melonie came back to the table. Melonie wanted to dance. I wanted to sit and woo Carly into loving me. I danced. After two songs I decided I’d completed the required song/dancing quota and excused myself from the dance floor to get a drink, which just so happened to be placed next to Carly. I sat down and prepared to woo.
I got some smiles and laughs out of her as we talked. My confidence was growing and so was my attraction. I wanted, needed to be closer to her. I disguised my intentions with a grin and my best “I’m really interested in what you’re saying but I can’t quite hear you over the music” gesture and slid my chair closer and leaned toward her. I quickly became aware that I’d slid just a little too close and that now we were touching knees. Or I was touching the table leg. I froze. I held my breath, not wanting to inhale in case it caused me to separate from her. After a few minutes my leg was cramping and I was relatively sure I was suffering from the first stage of oxygen deprivation but I refused to discontinue our first touch for a little thing like paralysis or suffocation.
I had a flashback of the poster my nerdy suitemate had hung above her bed my first semester of college. It was of a sleeping kitten with its head on a stack of textbooks with the line “I study by osmosis.” I began to wonder, if this worked for small kittens and mathematics, could it possibly work for people and feelings? Why not? I started hoping positive love vibes could be absorbed through our touching knees ... Go out with me. It’ll be incredible. We’ll have an amazing life together. We’ll have beautiful children together, well, not together-together but we can pick out beautiful sperm donors together. You want to kiss me. You want to get naked. I figured it wouldn’t hurt to throw out the last one for good measure. I waited for her to lean over and kiss me or for her to start unbuttoning her shirt. Nothing. Damn. Well, so either I was touching the table leg or osmosis only works on plants and animals. Note to self: Check to see if my leg-humping dog had a Kama Sutra book under his doggie bed.
Melonie danced back to the table and dragged me out to the dance floor again. I looked back just to make sure the table hadn’t been the actual recipient of my love-mosis and was now stalking me. It was still where I left it. That’s good because that could’ve been weird, convenient at Thanksgiving and a crowded bar, but I didn’t figure we’d have much to talk about. I stole another glimpse at Carly and caught her watching me being led off. She tilted her head and smiled at me. Hmmm …
I continued to complete my two-song dance quota with Melonie throughout the night, taking every opportunity I could to get back to Carly’s side. We closed the bar down. Melonie was leaving in the morning so I scrambled desperately to find an excuse to get in touch with Carly after tonight.
I was in another favor negotiation with God when Carly asked, “I know Melonie is going home in the morning but Michelle and I were going to go get breakfast tomorrow if you want to join us.”
“YES!” I responded just a bit too enthusiastically.
I walked with them, via cloud nine, to their car to show Carly my thoughtful and chivalrous side. I reluctantly said goodnight but Melonie didn’t get in the car. Why wasn’t she getting in the car? Oh damn. She wanted a kiss goodnight. I couldn’t kiss her in front of my future, forever girlfriend.
“I thought I’d stay with you tonight,” Melonie said.
Oh ... double damn. “I, I … huhhh.” And before I could find an excuse, she told Michelle and Carly they could go on without her.
The entire drive home Melonie talked while I attempted to figure out an excuse to get out of this little situation unscathed. I ran through the “Sorry, I’m on my period” excuse, but that wouldn’t necessarily stop the making out and “servicing her” activities. I could’ve said I was religious and didn’t believe in sex before marriage, but since there was no gay marriage and I’m Methodist no one was going to believe I was that devoted. I could’ve told her I was in love with her friend, even though we’d just met nine hours earlier, but that was probably not a grand idea since it sounded crazy even to me.
We arrived at my house, Melonie with her big smile and me with my anxiety and dread. I did a slow, very thorough, and time-delaying tour of the house, leaving the bedroom for last. She sat down on my bed.
“What would you like to sleep in?” I asked, but refrained from suggesting the downstairs bedroom, someone else’s bed, a hotel, or another state. She chose a T-shirt. I chose sweatpants and a long-sleeved shirt since I didn’t have a chastity belt handy. We crawled into bed. Maybe I can just keep her talking until she falls asleep. Melonie leaned over and kissed me. Okay, so much for that idea. I kissed her back for a minute, attempting to find an appropriate exit strategy. I tried to make it as natural and fluid as possible because I couldn’t have her reporting to Carly that I was a bad kisser.
I pulled back. “I’m sorry, Melonie. I can’t do this.” I decided to go with the truth minus the I’m in love with Carly part. “I think you’re incredible and sweet but I don’t want a long-distance relation
ship and I don’t … well you know, do this,” I used a little back and forth hand motion instead of words, “without thinking it’s actually going somewhere. I’m so sorry.” We talked for a bit, she took it well, and we fell asleep.
I met Carly and Michelle the next morning for breakfast. There was a long line at the restaurant so we sat out on the sidewalk and waited. Carly and Michelle talked about medical stuff while I listened, nodded, and refrained from yelling “I love you! I love you! I love you!”
After breakfast, we parted ways but I knew I had to see her again. Soon. I wondered if I could talk her into going to lunch too. And dinner. And a midnight snack. I knew I had to get a grip. I wanted a date, not a restraining order.
I spent the whole day contemplating what I was going to say to her. Though I’d obviously dated women before, they had always pursued me so I’d never had to doubt their feelings or intentions. Therefore, I’d never had to be vulnerable without some small amount of reassurance they felt the same way. But with Carly I was going to have to put myself out there and tell her how I feel, again leaving out the “I love you, I love you, I love you” part, and let her either accept or reject me. I was nervous but I knew how I felt and I couldn’t let her come and go without at least asking. And maybe begging if need be. I waited until that evening to call. I’d actually started to call in the afternoon but I’d paced for an hour, practiced dialing the phone, rehearsed what I was going to say in the mirror, and then looked up doctors to get an emergency prescription for Prozac. After a while I realized it was Sunday, so I went to church to keep up my deal with God on the whole making-her-single-and-gay thing and to sneak in another favor of “Please don’t let me sound like a nervous idiot when I call her.” I took two shots of communion wine thinking I needed some extra cleansing for the impure thoughts I’d been having for the twenty-four hours since meeting Carly.
Okay, I’ve procrastinated long enough. I picked up the phone. I immediately put it back down, went to the kitchen, and downed a shot of straight vodka to help with the not talking like an nervous idiot issue (just in case God wasn’t listening earlier), then walked back in and dialed the phone. My heart raced as the phone rang. Fear and the vodka shot hitting my stomach almost made me hang up but Carly answered, and when I heard her voice I knew I couldn’t do anything but tell her how I felt. So in one long rambling confession I told her everything, well almost everything. I strategically omitted the “I love you, I love you, I love you” part, the part about our 2.5 kids, that I selected “our” song, and that I thought brown, cream, and a vintage blue would be great wedding invitation colors. All that could wait until our second date.
Finished, I took a deep breath and simply asked, “So will you go out with me sometime?”
Silence.
Then she replied. “I can’t. I’m sorry.”
What? I was confused and crushed because I was almost positive there was a mutual attraction there. This couldn’t be happening. I couldn’t let it happen.
“Why not?” I asked.
“Melonie really likes you. I couldn’t do that to her.”
“But there’s nothing between Melonie and me. She’s great and all but there’s nothing.”
“She stayed the night with you last night.”
“True, but nothing happened and I told her how I felt or more accurately how I didn’t feel.”
“I still can’t. I couldn’t do that to her.”
“Tell me you don’t feel something between us.”
“I … I can’t say that, but—”
“No, no buts … Carly, from the moment I saw you I knew I wanted to get to know you. Can you please just give me, give us, a chance to do that?”
More silence.
“I can’t say “yes,” but I’ll call Melonie and talk to her. If she’s okay with the idea, then we’ll talk about it.”
She called a few hours later. We went out the next weekend. She moved in three months after that. We met each other’s families. We spent summers at the lake. We were inseparable, finding we had even more in common than I’d originally realized. She was all I ever wanted, more than I deserved, and I was thankful she hadn’t figured that out. She was comfortable, she was safe, and she was familiar. The more time I spent with her and the longer we were together, the more I admired her, the more I loved her. I’d found the love of a lifetime and I couldn’t imagine my life without her.
One day Carly came into the kitchen to greet me in her normal affectionate way with a smile, a lingering hug, and a kiss. “So, you have a minute so we can talk about my residency?” she began as my heart dropped.
I had successfully avoided this discussion the last few days and I still wasn’t prepared to chat about this particular topic.
“Okay,” I replied with dread.
“We need to decide what other cities we’d want to live in, in case I don’t get a local residency.”
“I think you’ll get a local residency. How could you not? You’re the hottest girl in your class.” I kissed her and slid out of her embrace to let the dogs out because I was sure they needed to go to the bathroom at that exact moment.
I’d dreamt of our future a thousand times, but I never pictured it in its entirety. I’d just played the reoccurring theme of us loving each other here. I’d never changed our location. I wanted life to continue as it had been, spending our days together, spending our nights together, her falling asleep in my arms, her waking in my arms, me finally losing the five, okay seven, happy pounds I’d gained since I’d met her, but otherwise to be together as we were.
But her schooling was coming to an end and decisions had to be made. She had to apply for her residency program. She offered to apply for a local hospital so we wouldn’t have to move but there were no guarantees that she’d be placed there. So now she needed for us both to decide where “we” would like to go as alternatives. I realized suddenly that until this point I was living in a clouded reality. I had the girl, we had a home, we had a life, and we were going to be happy. But what I hadn’t wanted to face was the fact that “the girl’s” life was just getting started. She was going to be a doctor. She was going to be an amazing doctor and I was going to be an amazing … what?
I began to realize how non-amazing I was. She was finishing med school, she had straight A’s, and she had run a marathon. I had watched her study, watched her get straight A’s, and watched her run a marathon. What could I possibly offer her? I knew the deadline for residency submissions was looming and it would only be days before she would again ask me where “we” wanted to move. Each time she asked, I got a futuristic flash of a different horrifying scenario. We’d be at some fancy dinner party and she’d be talking to all her doctor friends about some kind of disease ending in “osis” or some new medicine that used every letter in the alphabet. They would be talking about its usage, its ingredients, and its potential side effects while I was just wishing I knew how to spell it so I could use it in Scrabble since I always drew the W, Q, Z, and X. Then I’d be standing there sipping merlot from some unknown valley and eating fancy appetizers until one of the doctors, who looked exactly like some daytime soap doctor, would ask, “So what do you do?”
I’d reply, “Well, I used to be a detective, but now I’m a …” I couldn’t picture anything that would be good enough. I couldn’t talk “osis-es” with them. I wouldn’t even be able to hold an intelligent conversation about the wine, vintage or valley, or even about the grapes. Insecurity and self-doubt began to consume my thoughts. What could I offer Carly? Maybe I could make a good house-girlfriend? Which just sounds stupid and if for no other reason than that they should legalize gay marriage. But even that would be a ridiculous possibility because I’m completely incompetent at folding clothes and forget about me folding sheets, especially the fitted ones. My grandma is the only human I know that can fold them back into a symmetrical square. I absolutely hate unloading the dishwasher and think it’s a perfectly okay to use it as a temporary holding facility un
til the dishes are needed again. Then there’s my dusting habits, which would be better suited for raking sand in a Chinese Zen garden because I don’t actually pick things up to dust but rather make a natural fluid wiping motion around them. Knowing this about myself, I realized Carly didn’t need me or, for that matter, why she would even want me.
I continued to be evasive when she asked me about other cities we could live in if she didn’t get the local residency. It didn’t take long for her questions to turn from “where” to “if.” Though my feelings for her never wavered, I knew hers inevitably would. If I were to move away from my family, my friends, and give up my home to be with her, I was confident Carly would wake up one day and realize what I had now come to know: she could do better than me. Eventually, she’d figure this out for herself, stop loving me, and then leave me. I pictured myself in a strange city, heartbroken, lost, and alone.
I began to emotionally close down, like boarding the windows and doors before a storm in an effort to minimize the damage. She didn’t understand. She asked me, begged me at times, to tell her what was going on, why I didn’t hold her like I used to and why I stopped making love to her like I used to. I couldn’t or didn’t answer her. I’d make an excuse or pretend to doze off. Despite my actions or lack thereof, she’d still curl up to my shoulder every night to fall asleep. I’d then lay awake for hours, wanting to say so much, but all I could do was let out silent tears that would slip from my eyes and slide down my cheek and wait, wait for her to leave me.
This went on a few months as I battled the thoughts in my head and the emotions in my heart. She came home one day after class as she had a hundred times before and told me about her day. And like a hundred times before I nodded my head like I understood what she was talking about. But this time, after she’d detailed a gruesome description of some tissue-deteriorating disease, she went on to say she’d met a couple of nurses who seemed nice and she’d gone to lunch with one of them. As it had been when Carly informed me that we have microscopic bug-like things in our eyelashes, my stomach contracted and was nauseated. Carly had always had a lot of friends and classmates. She’d spent many days and nights in study groups, and she ran each weekend for two hours with a group of women who she’d then have breakfast or lunch with and I’d never been jealous or concerned. But now my girlfriend intuition was sounding alarms in my heart.
