And I know this: if I get into NYU, I won’t be strong enough to do what you did. I’ll be on the first plane out. I think about the NYU application I’ve already started. The personal statement essay that I’ve written approximately five hundred times. Miss B’s promise to write me a letter of recommendation.
“You gave up your dream school for me,” I whisper, stunned. I had no idea how much you love me.
“I’d give up anything for you.” You run the backs of your fingers across my cheek. “Anything.”
My mind’s reeling, like I’m on one of those merry-go-rounds in the park, going faster and faster and trying like hell not to fall off into the sand.
“I didn’t ask you—didn’t expect you—to do that.”
“I know.” You give me a half smile. “Guess I’m a romantic like that.”
“But when I move to New York, what are you—”
You stand there, waiting. There’s something I’m missing, something I … Oh. I lean against the car, the realization of what’s happening right now washing over me, cold as the Pacific. It suddenly becomes harder to breathe. To think. To feel.
And then I feel everything all at once.
How can you ask this of me? Before you, this was the one thing getting me through. And you want to take it away. Nobody knows more than you how much I need to go to New York.
“Gavin…”
You are very still. Watching me. Waiting.
“I love you,” I whisper. “I love you so much, but—”
“But? It’s like that now?” you say. “I love you but? But what, Grace?”
I start crying. Big, messy tears and I don’t even know what they mean. Grief. I feel something like grief. Because I know what you expect now. I can’t go to New York, can I? Because if I do, then I don’t love you as much as you love me. Then we’re over.
After a minute you reach for me. “Hey. Baby, it’s okay. The band’s starting to get good gigs in LA,” you say as you wrap your arms around me. “If you get into a school there, I’ll transfer. I swear. We can get an apartment together. Can you imagine?”
I’m sobbing, my whole body shaking, and you just hold me, murmuring nonsense like I’m a spooked horse. I cling to you even though you’ve just stabbed me in the gut with a dirty knife, quick, out of nowhere. But then this still, small voice inside me starts to get louder. Louder. It’s shouting and I pull away from you, staggering back. Dust swirls in the headlights and clouds drift over the moon. Cars pass on the highway, oblivious to the drama on the side of the road. We could sell tickets.
I know I have to fight for this. It wouldn’t be my life if I didn’t have to go into battle for what I wanted. The universe doesn’t hook me up. It doesn’t give a damn about me. I’m lucky if it puts a sword in my hand before throwing me out into the shit.
“Gav.” I swallow, take a breath. “This is my dream. Like my whole life, I’ve wanted to live in New York and do theatre. It’s … it’s who I am. You know that.”
A lone car passes by us on the highway, its lights cutting through the darkness. I hear a snatch of music, loud rock with jagged edges.
“LA drama schools are just as good,” you say. “Plus there’s the whole film industry.” You take my hands and intertwine your fingers with mine. “I already talked to the band. They’re not willing to go to New York. LA’s a better scene for us, it’s cheaper, easier to get into the clubs … I tried. I swear I tried.”
“When were you going to tell me any of this?”
“I thought … I didn’t think you were still seriously planning on going to New York. I was waiting for you to change your mind. Or I thought, you know, maybe you wouldn’t get in.”
Was this a test? If it was, I failed it.
“You don’t think I’d get in? What, like I’m not smart enough—”
You’re not very deep.
“No! I just…” You sigh and pull off your fedora, run your fingers through your hair. “I mean, we’ve talked about living together.”
We went to Ikea once, for fun. We picked out all the furniture for our imaginary apartment and your bought me the ugliest stuffed heart with arms coming out the sides of it and a big grin on its face. You named it Fernando and when you came over that one time when no one was home, we had to hide the thing under the bed because it was weird having sex in front of it.
“I thought the apartment and all that was for after college. I mean, of course we’re going to live together someday.”
“Someday,” you say, your voice flat. “Five years from now? Really?”
“What if we did, like, a long-distance thing—”
You shake your head. “Those don’t last. Everyone I know at school who had a boyfriend or girlfriend at the beginning of the semester has already broken up with them, and we’ve barely finished midterms. You know what they say happens over Thanksgiving break? The ‘turkey drop’—when everyone in college dumps their boyfriend or girlfriend from home. We wouldn’t even make it to Christmas.”
“Yes we would. Those people aren’t us,” I say. “We’re soul mates. Nothing’s going to come between us.”
This is my dream. My future. My life. How can I just give that up?
“We’ll get there someday,” you say. “I promise. New York’s not going anywhere.”
My head is pounding and I pull off the stupid cat ears. I can’t believe I’ve been talking about the most important thing in my life looking like an ensemble member of Cats.
“We’re probably fighting over nothing. I might not even get in—”
“Don’t apply,” you say. “Please.”
I don’t say anything.
“Four years is a really long time, Grace. You won’t be at any of my shows. I won’t get to know your friends. I wouldn’t be able to come by and pick you up after rehearsal and go out for Denny’s. You’d be going to bars and clubs and I wouldn’t be there to dance with you, to buy you drinks and make sure you got home safely. Our lives would be totally separate. I mean, look how hard it is now, and we live five minutes from each other.”
I honestly had never thought about it that way and I realize you’re right. I don’t want to spend the next four years on the other side of the country. I want to be with you. I see it play out: the time difference making it impossible to call each other, you getting upset because there are pictures of me on social media with guys you don’t know. And then some cool, arty, hot girl who starts going to your shows finally gets your attention. You run into her at parties, maybe have a class together. Then one night, you drink a little too much and she’s right there and her lips look so soft.…
You rest your forehead against mine. “Choose us. You won’t regret it.”
“For where thou art, there is the world itself … And where thou art not, desolation,” I whisper.
The corner of your lip turns up. “Romeo and Juliet?”
“Henry IV.” Ironic, isn’t it, Gav, me quoting a star-crossed lover at the very moment we were doomed for good? I didn’t realize it then, of course. I just knew the moment was important. A game changer.
I hold the image of me riding the subway and traipsing through the Village close, then let it go. It wouldn’t matter if you weren’t there to share it with me. I’d be miserable, and so would you.
“I need a minute,” I say, and I walk over to a tree standing at the edge of the field you’re parked beside.
You’re supposed to sacrifice for the people you love. It’s what my mom did when Beth and I were little, pre-Giant, working three jobs to keep food in our bellies. It’s what Fantine did for Cosette in Les Mis. I dreamed a dream in times gone by, when hope was high and life worth living. I love you. And the fact of the matter is that you have to be with your band and your band doesn’t want to come to New York. That’s not your fault. It’s not like you’re asking me to move to Omaha. There’s tons of theatre in LA and maybe I can try my hand at film. Get an internship or something. It doesn’t have to be forever.
So w
hy does it feel like I’m drowning?
“Okay,” I say when I walk back to you. “No New York.”
You kiss me, hard. “I love you so much.”
Something in me is dimming, something that I already know I can’t get back. But you’re worth it. You are. I will tell myself this for several more months. And when I realize you aren’t worth it, it’ll be too late.
“I love you, too.”
“Do you still want to go to the party?”
I shake my head. “No, you’re right. There’s not enough time.”
“Are you sad?”
I nod. “Yeah. A little.”
A lot.
My eyes fill and you wipe my tears away with the tips of your fingers. “We’re gonna have the time of our lives in LA—promise.”
You tell me a bedtime story about late-night taco runs and sunsets on the beach. An apartment with our clothes in the same closet. You say maybe we can get a dog. We’ll wake up next to each other every morning and sometimes you’ll even bring me breakfast in bed.
“It’ll be perfect,” you say.
“Perfect,” I agree. Then I tell myself to believe it.
TWENTY-TWO
I’m having a dream—something involving an otter and my world history test on Monday—when I suddenly come awake. You’re leaning over me, a smile on your face. The room is dark and at first I think you’ve snuck in somehow, but then I see that the bedroom door is open and the hallway light is on.
“What?” is all I can manage.
“Happy birthday,” you say as you pull back the covers.
I sit up, rub my eyes. “What’s going on?”
You point to the clock. “It’s officially your birthday.”
“It is?”
“Yep. You were born at exactly three-twenty a.m. on November fourteenth, eighteen years ago.” You stand and grin. “How much time do you need to get ready?”
“For what?” I ask, immediately suspicious.
“We’re going on an adventure. Top secret.”
“My mom’s okay with this?”
“I got parental clearance, don’t worry.”
You hold out your hands and help me up, then pull me against you for a second before letting go. I’m wide awake now, and smiling.
“What do I need to wear for this adventure?”
“Normal stuff. But bring a coat.”
“You’re being very mysterious.”
You blow me a kiss as you back out of the room. “I’ll wait for you in the dining room.”
Things have been weird between us since the night of the cast party. I’m trying not to resent you for asking me to stay in California. It was my choice, you didn’t force me, and yet it felt like I had no choice at all. But more than going to New York, I don’t want to end up like my mom in failed and loveless relationships. I found you, the One, and I’d be stupid to let you go. But it’s hard, giving New York up. I don’t listen to Rent anymore—can’t. I threw away all the pamphlets from NYU. I tell myself that you’re worth it all.
When I’m finished getting ready, I grab my purse and coat. The door to my mom and The Giant’s room is firmly shut, so I turn off the lights as I go back down the hall.
“How’d you get in?” I ask.
“Your mom left a key under the mat for me.” You grab my hand. “Let’s go.”
There’s coffee for me in the car, with lots of cream and sugar, just how I like it. We seem to be the only people in town awake this early—there isn’t a single car on the road.
“It’s kind of creepy this early in the morning,” I say. “Like, apocalypse creepy.”
You laugh. “Getting up this early is a sign of how much I love you, that’s for sure.”
I take a sip of my coffee. “So … where are we going?”
The only place open is Denny’s, but that doesn’t seem like something worth getting up at three in the morning for. Then we turn on a familiar street and you park in front of Nat’s house.
“Okay, now I’m really curious,” I say.
Nat and Lys come bounding out of the house.
“Happy birthday!” they say in unison as they get into the backseat. Nat holds up a pink pastry box. “I come bearing doughnuts.”
“Okay, what is going on? I’m dying over here,” I say, grinning.
You pull away from Nat’s house and head toward the freeway.
“We’re going north,” you say.
“I need you to narrow it down a little bit more for me.”
“Oh, let’s play twenty questions,” Nat says, clapping her hands. She hands me a tiara covered in pink rhinestones. “Also, you have to wear this, birthday girl.”
I put it on, giggling. “Okay, question number one: is this place far away?”
Lys nods. “Yes and no.”
“More than two hours?” I ask.
“Yes,” you say.
“Is this place near the ocean?”
“Yes,” Nat says.
I start smiling before I even ask my next question. “Does it have a really big bridge?”
“Yes,” they all say.
“Oh my god, are we seriously going to San Francisco?”
“Hell yeah we are,” you say.
“You guys!” I squeal. “Best birthday ever!”
“Well, you only become a legal adult once,” Nat says.
“Your mom made me promise that you wouldn’t get a tattoo,” you say.
“For real?”
You laugh. “For real.”
Lys hands me her phone. “Here. I made you a birthday playlist.”
A playlist from Lys is a serious thing. She spends hours on them, finding the perfect mix of songs that she puts in a very specific order. Sometimes she goes for a theme, but it’s always an eclectic mix. The last one she made had bluegrass, Rihanna, and the Beatles, with a little bit of Radiohead and Yo-Yo Ma thrown in for good measure.
I plug Lys’s phone into your sound system. The first song that comes on is the Beatles “Birthday.” I laugh as you sing along and dance in your seat. We break open the box of doughnuts, and I get first choice: chocolate with sprinkles, of course.
The three-hour drive goes by fast. There’s no traffic this early and we’re fueled by sugar and caffeine. The first thing we do when we get there is grab breakfast at an old-school diner in the Mission. Pancakes, hash browns, bacon, and more coffee. We’re across the street from an entire building covered in street art—swirling flowers, a huge sun, ocean waves. These are my people.
“I cannot tell you how good it feels to be almost two hundred miles away from my family,” I say as I take the last bite of my hash browns.
You wrap an arm around me and pull me closer. “Ditto.”
“Think about it this way,” Lys says. “This time next year, you might be in New York City, drama major extraordinaire.”
I feel you stiffen beside me. I haven’t told Nat and Lys yet. I know they’ll be mad. They’ll think I’m crazy. And maybe I am. But what’s more important: a city or a person? The love of my life or the city that never sleeps? Mostly, I just don’t want them to hate you. They didn’t understand why I never made it to the cast party, why you’d even be cool with me skipping it.
Strike two, Nat said. You definitely lost their vote somewhere between the bowling alley and the cast party. But I think you bringing them to San Fran was a good call. I can see them softening.
“Speaking of drama,” Lys says, looking at you. “Did you tell her yet?”
You shake your head, a small smile playing on your face.
“What? More secrets?” I say, bumping my shoulder against yours.
You reach into your jacket pocket and hand me four tickets—to see Rent today.
“Are you freaking serious? Oh my god!” I throw my arms around you and you laugh, hugging me back, tight. Then I hit you. “You jerk! You told me they’d sold out.”
You laugh. “Well, I didn’t want to ruin the surprise!”
“Aw, you guys are
so cute,” Nat says as Lys snaps a photo of us.
“I’m so posting this right now,” Lys says. “Caption: Roosevelt High alumnus Gavin Davis wins Boyfriend of the Year award.”
It is a perfect day. Before the show we go to Fisherman’s Wharf and eat clam chowder in sourdough bread bowls. We take pictures with the Golden Gate Bridge in the background, hair whipping around our faces in the wind. We go to Chinatown and the Castro, where I buy a crazy pair of orange sunglasses.
“It’s like gay Disneyland!” Lys says, grinning at all the paraphernalia: T-shirts with gay pride slogans, rainbow-colored everything. She buys a button that says Born This Way in rainbow letters.
Rent is amazing, of course. I don’t let myself think about college, about the promise I made you.
“We’ll get there someday,” you murmur against my hair during intermission. “I promise.”
I squeeze your hand and nod. “I know.”
No day but today, they sing. I wonder if by not sending in that application I made the biggest mistake of my life. But then you lift my hand and kiss my palm and I tell myself—again—that I made the right decision.
I did.
* * *
I CAN HEAR them shouting from the street.
First, The Giant’s baritone, a threatening growl. Then my mom’s voice, softer and uncertain.
You’ve just dropped me off and I’m tired and birthday happy, but as soon as I hear them I slow down and stop a few feet from the door, immediately tense.
“She already pays her cell phone bill, buys her own clothes,” Mom’s saying. “She’s just a kid—”
“No, she’s not. She’s eighteen. I was helping my family when I was sixteen. You’re spoiling her.”
I stand there on the walkway, unable to move.
“She’s in high school. I’m not going to make her pay rent, Roy, that’s—”
“Who owns this house?” he shouts. “Whose name is on the deed?”
“Roy—”
“Who pays the mortgage every month?”
“Honey, please—”
“Who, goddammit?”
Bad Romance Page 17
