by Kat Pace
This is drowning.
There’s a new song for the tape. First by Cold War Kids. If you don’t know it, well, get on it. It never stops being ironic when the one who needs convincing ends up being the one screwed over. He was there first.
I can’t even be unhappy because I know it’s for the better. Really if I’m being honest, it should have happened months ago. But we all know old habits are hard to kick. Sometimes old flames burn the brightest.
Sometimes you don’t make the same mistake twice.
Sometimes you do.
People. Never. Change.
New Normal
Fucking Tuesday. Who likes fucking Tuesdays?
So what if I want to eat ice cream all day and waste away in my elastic pajamas? So what if I listen to Kodaline All I Want on repeat. It’s not even a soundtrack moment. I have literally racked up 237 listens in the last two days.
It’s an emotional aesthetic. A vibe. A dream.
The new dream.
I don’t want to sound melodramatic. But I am being melodramatic. It’s been 48 hours so naturally my mourning is in full-fledge swing. I got back Sunday night and was surprised by how cold and empty my loft felt. Sure I got up yesterday and went to the 5 AM at Go Zen. Had to relieve Zoë of her duty at some point.
But my heart wasn’t super in it. It was still in the Ben & Jerry’s pint I left behind on my nightstand. They never make it back to the freezer anymore. No need to when they’re empty –unless I want a freezer full of hollow pints. Maybe I can use them to collect my tears.
But I got up again today. Made it to the 5 AM. Split the 8 AM class with Zoë. Somehow managed the 11 AM solo. Showered. Had three bites of avocado toast. Progress. Went back for the 2 PM.
I’m just clearing the mats for the last class of the day when Zoë sneaks up on me.
“Em?” Her voice is quiet. I can tell she thinks I’m fragile –like if she even just says my name too loud it might break me apart forever.
“Zoë.”
I repeat her name back to her, forcing a smile on my face. She watches me as I stack the mats on the shelf in the back of the room.
We do our ending stretches and I can tell she’s thinking something over in her head, chewing on her lip.
“We’re going out tonight. McGrath’s Pub. 10:00.” She nods. It would sound like an invite, if I didn’t hear the no ifs, ands, or buts in her tone.
“Zoë, I don’t know,” I whine. “I’m not in the going-out mood.”
“You’re going out,” she insists. “Come on. It’s St. Patrick’s Day and we’re Irish.”
“Literally neither of us is Irish.” I can’t help but laugh at her. I know she means well.
“I am tonight. WE are tonight.” She laughs. “Here, I got you a gift.”
She tosses me a tiny round pin: Kiss me, I’m Irish.
“We’ll see,” I finally yield, taking the pin.
“Come on. It’s like blasphemous if we don’t drink tonight.” She laughs.
“Ugh.” I roll my eyes, giving in.
“Excellent! I’m picking you up at quarter of.” Zoë turns and walks away, her dark hair swaying behind her.
The pub is crowded with 100 people, approximately 5% of who are maybe Irish. I feel good though. Part of me is glad to be out of my apartment –glad for the distraction of noise and booze and people. Part of me is even glad that Zoë dragged me out by my ponytail.
We push ourselves further into the pub, making a clear cut for the bar. If I am going to be out then I am going to be drunk. #IrishWhiskeyMakesMeFrisky
I’m having major Halloween flashback vibes right now. I almost welcome them. Maybe it’ll be just like that night. I’ll make friends in bar bathrooms and go home with a semi-stranger. Maybe I’ll drunk-dial some people I shouldn’t and regret everything in the morning.
“First of many,” Zoë says, holding a beer out to me. I roll my eyes at the beer. “Tonight you drink beer.”
I take it from her and shrug. A long sip later I smile. “Tonight I drink beer.”
“Bryan is meeting us. Should be here soon.” She looks around through the bar. “You know, he’s bringing his friends. I think they’re single.”
“Zoë,” I whine, shrugging her off me.
“Oh stop. You’re sad. You’re not dead!” She sighs.
“I know I’m not dead, thanks.” I swig my beer.
“Do you?”
“Very funny.” I take another sip of beer. It’s not so bad once half the bottle is gone. I already have to pee though.
“Oh, there’s Bryan. Here, hold my beer.” Zoë thrusts her bottle into my hand and skips away to the door.
I watch her go. This place is crowded with lots of leprechaun impersonators with fake red wigs and green overcoats. Green everything. Green everywhere.
I’m not even looking for him, but I find him. I can’t help but smirk when he sees me from the bar. Trevor. The universe keeps putting us on the same path. That or we happen to pick the same bars for drunken holiday parties.
Wow this really is just like Halloween.
I walk to the bar.
“Hey Emmy,” Trevor smiles.
“Hi Trevor,” I say. He kisses my cheek. What a little sweet nerd.
“We need to stop meeting like this,” he laughs, raspy.
“Drunk at bars? Seems like a pretty good way to meet.” I laugh back, leaning closer to him.
“I like your shirt,” he screams in my ear, moving his hand around my waist to pull me closer.
“Thanks!” I find myself laughing at him.
He’s not telling a joke, idiot. The shirt isn’t even funny. I look down at my own T-shirt, the one Zoë gave me to wear. It’s a small pot of gold with a rainbow that says I’m magically delicious.
OK. It is cute.
“You’re not very festive,” I say, pointing to his blue button-down and jeans. I feel like he’s always wearing button-downs.
“Short notice.” He laughs.
“Yea, if only Saint Patrick’s Day was the same every year!” I shout.
“Good one,” he grins.
I unfasten my pin and tack it to his shirt pocket, patting it for good measure. “There you go!”
He looks down at the new addition to his outfit and smirks. “Kiss me, I’m Irish. You know, I actually am Irish.”
Maybe I need to take Zoë’s advice; maybe I should listen to what Trix and Meg have been telling me. Trix –the strongest most pro-Brooks & Emmy advocate I know spent all last night telling me I needed to just, what was it? Bang one out.
Of course I didn’t tell Trix. I couldn’t face her. She only knew because Mr. Douche-ola and Ms. Fake Boobs did the unthinkable. They went public. Kissing picture and sappy caption to boot.
Maybe Trix is right. Maybe I do need to bang one out. I think all this standing one-foot from Trevor. We always find each other at bars –on holidays –when we’re drunk. It’s like a thing we do. Our thing. He’d be a nice way to bookend this whole fiasco –bookend the last seven months.
As Trevor asks if he can get me a shot, I don’t even hesitate to say ya bitch, buy it. OK, really I just nod. There’s something wildly bizarre about agreeing to a drink with a stranger that you’ve already slept with. Twice. It’s almost like you’re automatically agreeing to do it again.
He looks at me now with almost that exact question on his face. Are we going to do this?
I look at him. I look around. Under the dim bar light, surrounded by drunken wannabe Irishmen and neon green shamrock hats, both of us holding tepid shots and already starting to sweat in the crowd, I decide this will do.
Third time’s a charm.
Sure, it’s not a mountain rave or a Cuban nightclub dance party and sure it is painfully average. But maybe painfully average is what I need. I toss my head back and down the shot, placing the glass back in Trevor’s hand.
“Buy me a second?” This is my answer.
“You got it.” Trevor laughs easily.
&n
bsp; “And a third.”
He tilts his head back and looks at me like I’m such a surprise to him. Like every word I say is a treat to his ears. I realize this is likely how we ended up together last time.
Met at a bar. Drank shots. And then six more. I was OK with it then and I’m OK with it now. I smile to myself. For some unexplainable reason, I find I am free.
We exchange numbers this time, so it’s more than a third one night stand. Maybe it’ll be more. Maybe weirdly, I’m OK with that. Into it even. My heart’s not entirely dead, ya know.
April 6th
Eventually, after weeks and after several more nights with Trevor, I stop looking at my phone long enough to forget. I stop getting a flutter of excitement every time I have a noti (notification). I stop waiting for something to happen.
I couldn’t unfollow him on the social scene. I didn’t want him to know that it bothered me. Silly, I think. The whole crying-in-front-of-him-and-storming-out thing probably tipped him off that it bothered me, somewhat. But like I remind myself every morning, it’s OK.
I’m OK.
Trevor makes it easier. Kind of full circle to be back with him after all this. Makes me wonder what would have happened if I had just missed my flight to Jersey all those months ago. If I had just slept in with Trevor and gone to brunch and fell for him then –before I fell for Brooks again.
But that’s the conspiracy theory. The butterfly effect in full force. Everything that happened happened.
Trevor works in finance. He has a real job, almost a 9-5 if you can imagine that. He is 6 foot, with dark blonde hair and light hazel eyes. Trevor wears blazers and fancy men pea coats and almost always a button-down. He is commercial handsome, like catalogue model status.
He’s everything that any other girl would be happy with.
“Hey babe.” Trevor appears in the bathroom door, towel around his waist. Not quite a demi, but definitely beats an empty doorway.
“Babe.” I smirk back at him.
Somehow this became our thing. Babe-ing each other. Of course there’s our other thing: Meeting up at bars, sometimes going out together for dinner, but always ending up together at the end of the night. Booty calls.
It works for us both. And as I watch him move toward me in a towel, I am reminded it definitely works for me. If you know what I mean.
“Breakfast?” Trevor asks.
“Sure. Where?” I ask, moving to the foot of the bed. It’s my turn to shower.
One thing we don’t do together –one thing we’ll never do together is shower.
“Oh, how about that place with the yellow umbrellas? Down on 2nd? You said you wanted to try it when we passed it last week.” Trevor suggests, moving over to the edge of the bed.
“Sounds good. Be ready in 5.”
I hop from the bed, but he catches me, hooking an arm around my waist. He tickles me. I lay back on the bed and laugh, trying to calm myself.
“Be ready in 10,” he corrects, dropping the towel from his waist. I bring my hand to my mouth to cover my squeal.
He crawls over me, slowly forcing me back to the end of the bed with all my pillows. I plop down, my back arched against the pile of pillows. He reaches a hand down between my thighs and lowers his lips to mine. He doesn’t tease me –something I like about Trevor.
Waves are rolling over me in the form of Trevor’s agile hand. He’s propped against the stack of pillows, laying on his side just barely hovering over me. It’s so he can see me. I try to lean into him and pull his head down to mine, to kiss him, but he resists. I know what he’s waiting for and I’m so close.
Finally as my body shivers against his he leans down to kiss me, his lips wet and clean. Another thing I like about Trevor: His skin smells clean, airy like citrus and cotton. I pull him on top of me and in me –to cloak my body with his inviting scent.
Trevor may be the best kisser ever. Sure, it’s not an end-of-the-world kiss. He’s not breathing his life into me, but he’s also not sucking out my soul. He kisses like each one is the first one. As he moves over me, faster and deeper, his lips rise from mine and then fall back as he grinds down on me. Each time they find my lips it’s like we’ve never kissed before.
I wrap my arms around his back and lift myself to him so I’m almost off the bed. Trevor’s hand wraps under me, finding my butt. He squeezes and I stifle a laugh. I can’t help but laugh and then he’s laughing. Faster we’re laughing until it’s not funny. Until instead I curl up inside myself and he inside of me. Until he collapses on top of me and we share our first kiss again.
“OK. You have two minutes left.” He says, smirking. “Sorry.”
I laugh on my way to the bathroom. I peel my tank off my sweaty chest and turn on the water. I find myself smiling in the mirror.
So what if he never tugs on my hair at the base of my neck. He never presses me down by the hips so hard that it almost hurts. He doesn’t tease me or make me do any work myself. It is easy with Trevor. Light with Trevor.
So what if he leaves my soul intact when we kiss.
A soul is a good thing to have.
And that’s coming from me.
My shower is quick and I’m already brushing out my hair when I step back into my room. I look up and see Trevor sitting on the edge of my bed.
“Hey,” he says.
“Hi,” I smile. “You look guilty.”
“Your phone rang. It was Brooks,” Trevor says quietly.
Shit.
“Oh,” is all I can say. Trevor knows about Brooks –well knows he’s the last guy I dated. If you can even call it dating.
“Sorry. The phone stopped ringing right away, but I knew you’d see the missed call so…” Trevor’s voice trails off. He looks awkwardly at my duvet.
“No, it’s fine. Prob a pocket dial,” I say, nodding. My insides are melting. Why did Brooks call me? WHY?
“If you want to call him back –I mean, that’s fine. I know it didn’t end well–”
“No, I don’t want to. Trevor it’s fine. I do not want to call him back. I don’t,” I say.
“Say it one more time,” Trevor teases.
I walk over to the edge of my bed where he’s sitting and take my phone from his hand. There is it –his name on my screen. I’m flashing back to Halloween –to six mf months. A pang in my heart makes me want to time-travel. But even if I did I know I’d end up here again.
Alone.
Well, not alone but not with him.
“You don’t owe me anything, Emmy. You can call the guy if you have to –or if you want to,” Trevor says.
“Really, I don’t want to. Not going to call him back,” I say, shaking my head. My phone is on my dresser top, out of sight.
“Well, if you’re sure, then OK.” Trevor smiles, perking up a bit at my insistence.
“I’m sure,” I say.
He leans up and kisses me.
Yo, I don’t deserve Trevor.
Earth Day
April 22nd
“It’s been like a month,” Trevor says, nodding.
“Really? Wasn’t counting.” I shrug.
“Shocked.” Trevor’s looking at me, arms crossed. He’s just asked the age-old cringe worthy Q. What are we?
Ladies, I shit you not. Here’s a 26-year-old boy asking me to V clearly define our relationship parameters. Why yes. I know what you’re thinking and hell has frozen over.
Is it me? Maybe it’s me. Maybe I have the words define us, please written across my forehead. I must.
“Sorry,” I smile. “I didn’t know you were keeping count either.” I say, trying to keep the peace.
“It’s just, I mean. We don’t see each other for two months, don’t even know each other really and then we run into each other on Halloween.”
“Yes, I was there,” I laugh.
“Then we don’t talk for almost five months. Still hardly know each other and we happen to be in the same bar on Saint Patrick’s Day.”
“With you so far.” I
nod.
“And neither of us are even Irish!” Trevor grabs my shoulders.
