by Britt Morrow
My emotions are disorganized, and I’m having trouble processing everything that’s happening. I’m feeling a surge of happiness at hearing her tell me that she loves me, but the pit that has lodged itself in my stomach at the idea of breaking up hasn’t dissipated at all.
“We both love each other; why not stay together while you figure out what you want to do next?” I plead, cringing at the sullen sound of my own voice.
“Because I think I need to be on my own to figure that out. Because I don’t want to spend the next nine months pining for you. Because if we stay together, I don’t trust myself not to just blindly follow you.” It comes out in a rush, as if she’s been thinking about it for a while and it’s a relief to finally voice it. I understand, even though I don’t want to. I want to argue with her, come up with reasons why we should try to make it work. But that would be selfish. She has done so much to enhance my life: helping me prepare for my university visit, ensuring that I was fed without making me feel ashamed about my predicament, reassuring me that I was capable of loving and being loved. To hold her back from the self-actualization that she’s helped me achieve would be exceedingly unfair.
So I don’t argue, just hold her close. She’s still seated on the rock, with her legs wrapped tightly around my waist and her head buried against my shoulder. I don’t acknowledge the tears slowly sliding down my back. And I hope she doesn’t notice the ones catching in her hair.
After what feels like an hour, but is probably only ten minutes, Charlie pulls away. “I don’t want to end on a bad note, let’s have some fun.”
I feel like there’s so much that I’ve left unsaid. Too many things that I haven’t properly thanked her for. Right now though, I’d rather drink about it than think about it, so I gladly accept the bottle of whiskey that Charlie retrieves from the muddy creek bank.
We drink. Then fuck - and it is definitely fucking - until we’re slick with sweat. Then cool off in the water before repeating. I lose track of time, but the sky is an inky abyss punctuated only by a nearly-full moon and a smattering of stars by the time we return to the truck.
The bottle of whiskey is drained, and so are we, so we decide to sleep in the bed of the truck, heedless of Charlie’s curfew. I’m not sure if it’s because we’re being responsible by not driving, or if it’s just an excuse to prolong the night. Either way, I’m relieved when Charlie slides into my arms. Maybe for the last time.
That thought keeps me awake despite my physical exhaustion and the copious amount of alcohol that I’ve consumed. Under normal circumstances, I’d be frustrated by my inability to drift off, but tonight I’m relieved. I don’t want to feel like I’ve wasted any of my time with Charlie.
I’m not sure if she feels the same way, or if the hard metal we’re laying on is keeping her awake. But I can tell by the shallowness of her breaths that she isn’t asleep either. We just lay together in the darkness, mute. There’s nothing I can say that will change her mind. And I know that that shouldn’t be my goal anyway.
“So, I guess you don’t want me to pick you up from work tomorrow then?”
It’s the first thing I’ve said to Charlie since last night. I’m dropping her off at the end of her street, as per usual. Maybe we’re not as close as I’d imagined. Even after nearly a year together, I haven’t been to her place, nor has she been to mine.
“No, I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
Neither do I. But I haven’t had any good ideas since she first broached the topic of breaking up.
“Ok. So this is goodbye?”
She nods before abruptly jumping out of the truck. I don’t even get a kiss on the cheek. I tell myself that she’s putting on a brave front, trying not to make me feel guilty for leaving. The alternative - that this isn’t utterly heart-wrenching for her, that she shed a few tears yesterday, and now she’s over it - is too excruciating to contemplate.
Chapter 12
Today is the day that I make my escape. I have all of my worldly possessions packed in a couple of trash bags in the back of my truck: jeans, flannels, essential hygiene items, and my trusty camping blanket. Looking at the small bundle makes me nervous: I feel woefully unprepared.
I’ve said my goodbyes. They didn’t take very long. I got a haircut from Amber yesterday so I would look like slightly less of a degenerate, and also so I could thank her for looking out for me when I was younger. Then I swung by the high school where Coach already had the incoming seniors running pre-season drills. I expressed my appreciation for his tutelage over the last few years and promised him a set of tickets if he ever wanted to come up to the university to watch me play. I ended the day by tossing a ball around with Cody for a few hours, listening to him prattle on about the community college that he’s headed off to and how excited he is to meet college girls, pretending to feel the same way.
I don’t, though. I haven’t felt anything but despair since I dropped Charlie off last week. Initially, I didn’t really believe that it was the end. Movies have taught me that breakups are usually drawn out and accompanied by melodramatic gestures like screaming at each other from different rooms or burning each other’s clothing. But with Charlie, there has been no drama - or any contact whatsoever - since our final night together. It feels almost antiseptic, like she excised me from her life and just carried on.
I pull out of the drive and can’t help but feel like this is all very anti-climactic. Brandi is on day three of a bender, so she wasn’t home to throw a final tantrum before I left. I don’t think she’s even aware that I’m going. Since the incident with the official visit letter, I haven’t brought up university or really said much to her at all. I wonder if she’ll be relieved that I’m gone, or if my departure will only serve to make her more bitter; I’m off to experience the world, and she’s now deprived of her favourite punching bag. Either way, I’m pretty sure this is the last we’ll ever see of each other. And that knowledge doesn’t trouble me in the least.
What does trouble me though, is the idea of leaving without saying anything to Charlie. Without her, I’m not sure if I’d even get to leave. And she’s pretty much the only reason that I’ll have to ever look back on this place with any fondness. Mostly though, I don’t want her to think that I left without thinking about her.
I swing by Pete’s on my way out of town, hoping to catch her there. If not, I can at least get a milkshake as a consolation prize.
It turns out that I won’t need one. I spy her long dark hair as soon as I walk in. She doesn’t notice me initially; she’s busy cleaning up Cheerios that a toddler has managed to fling halfway across the restaurant. She flinches when she finally catches a glimpse of me beside the till. The other waitress on duty is preoccupied with setting out food for a large family, so Charlie has no choice but to come over to take my order.
“Hi, Levi. What can I get for you?”
“Hi. A milkshake, I guess.”
Her polite customer-service voice throws me. I didn’t expect her to leap into my arms, but I was hoping that she’d show a little more excitement when she saw me.
“Chocolate?”
“Yes, please,” I reply, before adding: “I didn’t come in just for diabetes, though. I’m leaving today.”
She ignores the joke and takes a deep breath as if steeling herself for whatever she’s going to say next.
“Congratulations, Levi. I would tell you to make the most of it, but I already know that you will,” she pauses, and I can tell that the next part really pains her. “I really want to be happy for you, and I think that I eventually will be.”
She turns abruptly to go make my milkshake. I can tell that she’s trying to suppress tears. I appreciate her honesty; it would have gutted me if she’d given me some platitudes about how excited she is for me. I hate that she’s hurting, but, selfishly, I would hate it even more if she wasn’t.
She hands me the to-go cup and a thick straw. “Thanks for coming to say goodbye. I’ll be here if you ever decide to come for a
visit.”
Right now, I want nothing more than to come back to see her as soon as I can. I don’t want to make any promises that I can’t keep, though; I’m upsetting her enough already.
“Thank you for everything, Charlie. I’ll be thinking about you a lot.”
I wish I could hug her, but we’re separated by a counter. It’s probably for the best; if I touched her, I doubt I would be able to walk away. Or, as I walked out of the diner, say a final goodbye. What a fucking oxymoron.
The irony isn’t lost on me, as I pull onto the highway, that the only other time that I’ve made it this far was with her. I don’t recognize any of the scenery on the drive; my eyes are too blurred by tears. This must be what sacrifice feels like. It’s a foreign experience; I’ve never had anything to lose before.
When I pull into the parking lot of my designated dorm nearly an hour-and-a-half later, I need to take a few minutes in my truck to collect myself and drag the sleeve of my t-shirt over my face to clear any remaining tears. It turns out that I have nothing to be embarrassed by, though. The parking lot is full of students and parents in varying states of sorrow, from quivering lips to full-on sobbing.
Witnessing so much sadness certainly isn’t doing anything to improve my mood, so I collect my garbage bags full of belongings and head for the dorm room indicated in the admissions letter I’d received a couple of weeks ago. I’m relieved to discover that my roommate hasn’t arrived yet, and I can unpack in peace. Not that there’s much to unpack. Within minutes, I have my meager belongings unloaded.
It’s ironic sitting in my silent, sterile dorm room. All I ever wanted was to move somewhere tranquil and well-kept. Now, all I want is to return to the trailer and its proximity to Charlie.
Along with the accommodation information, my admissions letter also provided a schedule of frosh events. I have a full afternoon of team building events and faculty speeches to look forward to. As much as I usually hate forced bonding activities, I’m eager to have something to take my mind off of my final conversation with Charlie.
The faculty of engineering is holding a scavenger hunt in a few minutes to familiarize us with the campus and, even though I have no interest in running around the university to find random objects, I figure I should go anyway. At least I’ll learn my way around, and maybe meet a few people.
“Hi, I’m Dawson,” someone introduces himself to me as soon as I walk up to the building where the event is being kicked off.
He’s exactly what I pictured an engineering student to be: a scrawny brunet, at least six inches shorter than I am, with glasses whose frame went out of style at least five years ago. I decide immediately that I like him. He couldn’t be further from the cornfed rednecks that I’m accustomed to.
“Levi. It’s nice to meet you.”
It turns out that my intuition was right. As we run around the campus with a group of other misfit freshmen, noting down the names of various buildings and picking up coffee cups and the other miscellaneous items enumerated on our list, Dawson tells me about himself.
He’s from Murfreesboro, the oldest of two boys. His dad also attended the Tennessee Tech engineering program and works on construction projects. I don’t tell him that much beyond the fact that I’m from a small town and that I play football, by which he seemed pretty impressed. If I had to venture a guess, he’s never set foot in a single wide or on a football field. Exactly the kind of guy I was hoping to meet: amicable, scholarly, and solidly middle class.
When we finish the scavenger hunt - the third of twenty teams thanks to my running ability and Dawson’s knowledge of the university gleaned from his dad - Dawson asks where I’m headed to next.
“Back to my dorm, I guess? I haven’t met my roommate yet, so I should probably go introduce myself.”
It turns out that he’s living in the same building, so we walk back together. He reminds me a bit of a puppy in his enthusiasm and eagerness to please. It’s kind of endearing, though. I’ve spent most of my life surrounded by the disenchanted and the jaded. I hope some of his optimism wears off on me.
Dawson lives on the floor above me, but he accompanies me back to my room, where we find a hulking guy affixing pictures of muscle cars above the bed that I hadn’t already claimed. He introduces himself to both Dawson and me as Jeremiah Johnson.
“Do you mind that I’ve already started decorating?” he asks.
“Not at all.” Not that I would tell him if I did; his biceps are menacing, to say the least. Plus, the posters add some much-needed color to the room.
“We were going to grab lunch from the dining hall if you’re interested?” Dawson offers.
Looking at Dawson and Jeremiah side-by-side is incongruous to the point that it’s almost comical. I guess we’re all nervous and desperate to make friends though, because Jeremiah readily agrees, abandoning his unpacked boxes.
It turns out that Jeremiah is also on the football team. A linebacker - obviously. I’m not sure if the university intentionally paired us up as roommates or if it was pure luck that we ended up together. I feel lucky either way. He strikes me as a pretty carefree guy who doesn’t take much seriously aside from his football training - a significant improvement on my previous roommate.
“Are y’all going to Dancing on Dixie tonight?” Jeremiah asks, heaping his plate with some kind of salad that looks suspiciously like leaves. I’d like my arms to look like his though, so I do the same.
The university is shutting down Dixie Avenue for the day to set up games and booths for the clubs, fraternities, and academic groups to recruit. I can’t see myself joining anything other than the football team - I’ve never learned to golf and don’t own any boat shoes, so a fraternity is clearly out of the question - but I want to see what all the hype is about.
“Yeah, I think I’ll head over there.”
“Me too,” Dawson agrees, struggling to be heard over the din.
The noise level in the dormitory dining hall rivals that of my hometown football games, even though there are less than a hundred students currently assembled here. Everyone is overexcited and vying for attention. A girl at the table next to us is laughing loudly at nearly everything her blond companion is saying, while a group on the other side of the room is obnoxiously cheering on an arm wrestling competition. I’m relieved when Dawson finally finishes nibbling on a biscuit doused in gravy, and we’re ready to head outside.
None of us is familiar enough with campus yet to know where Dixie Avenue is, but it’s easy to navigate just by following the sound of music ringing out across the quad. Dixie Avenue looks like Mardi Gras - or at least the way I would picture it - albeit on what is probably a much smaller scale. There are beads and scantily clad women in addition to a dance team, marching band and various student groups trying to pull in anyone who appears interested, or just an easy mark.
Jeremiah, Dawson, and I begin to wade through the pandemonium, trying to take everything in and ward off the frat guys who are practically salivating over Jeremiah and seem mildly interested in me. Apparently, the requirements for being in a fraternity are height, athletic ability, and vague attractiveness.
We duck off to a side street to avoid a rogue trumpet player who seems to have become separated from the rest of the band and is touting loudly behind us. I spy a familiar face heading towards the action: Beau is leading a group of guys all clad in football jerseys towards one of the booths. He breaks into an easy smile when he sees us.
“Jeremiah! Levi! It’s great to see you guys!”He offers us both hearty pats on the back and introduces the other guys. They’re all polite when introduced to Dawson, but it’s evident that they’re confused about his relationship with us.
“How’s frosh week treating you guys so far?” Beau asks.
“We’re only a couple of hours in, and I can’t imagine being more overwhelmed,” Jeremiah admits.
I couldn’t agree with him more. The multitudes of people, activities, and sounds have left me feeling more than a
little overstimulated.
“Yeah, welcome to frosh,” Beau smiles. “This week will be one of the craziest of your life…”
“As long as you’re doing it right!” chimes in one of the other guys. I’ve met too many people in the last six hours to be able to remember names.
“We were hoping to find you guys - and the rest of the freshmen. It’s a tradition to have a keg party to christen the team locker room on the first night of frosh,” Beau continues.
“We’ll be there!” Jeremiah replies enthusiastically.
I’m feeling considerably less enthused. It’s been an emotionally exhausting day, and I was hoping to unwind with a hot shower and an early bedtime tonight. I don’t think the invitation is optional, though. At least not if I want to develop good relationships with my teammates.
“You can come too if you want,” Beau offers to Dawson.
It’s a perfunctory invitation, but Dawson doesn’t seem to realize this. He nods even more enthusiastically than Jeremiah. This moment probably epitomizes everything that he’d dreamed college would be: an invitation to party with the campus heroes. It’s even better than what I’d envisioned, and yet it still feels lackluster. I’m enjoying myself with Dawson and Jeremiah, at least more than when I was crying in my truck this morning. But my conversation with Charlie is still weighing on me.
It’s been the most stimulating day of my life, and it still doesn’t compare to a day with her.
“Cool, we’ll see you guys in the locker room tonight then!” Beau exclaims.
We finish making our rounds of the street party, encountering an enormous game of Jenga where Dawson proves his aptitude for civil engineering by beating us repeatedly, and introducing ourselves to a couple of girls who are eager to soothe Jeremiah’s wounded ego. After making plans to meet up with the prettier of the two at a later date, Jeremiah suggests that we clean up a bit before the party.
