Anatomy of a Single Girl

by Snadowsky, Daria

  “Okay, hold up a sec. Now my head hurts.” Guy rubs his temples with his hands. “Dom, you realize we’re not even old enough to drink legally, right?”

  “Yes, I get that this is premature.” I catch my breath and slow down. “All I mean is that, hypothetically, if we keep going out and we’re happy, then why would we need to see anyone else? And as long as we’re going out and happy, wouldn’t marriage be … the goal, even if it’s a decade away? ’Cause if it’s not, all this is pointless.”

  Guy looks blankly toward the surf. Then he sits down on the sand and assumes the Thinker position. I take a seat, too, mortified that I brought up matrimony so early, when I never once discussed it with my ex in all the months we were together. Maybe I’m just on edge from the Gainesville commotion. Still, it feels right putting all this out in the open. Seventeen-year-old me would’ve stewed in silence in the hopes that any red flags would disappear on their own. But that rarely happens. And I simply won’t turn a blind eye anymore.

  Finally, Guy announces, “First of all, I get what you’re saying. I mean, if two people are that positive they belong with each other, then, yeah, I guess it’d be illogical for them to be with anyone else.”

  I nod ardently, now sorry I became so intense.

  “Second, I’m not against marriage, okay? But … it’s a big freakin’ deal. And I couldn’t forgive myself if I screwed it up. So it wouldn’t be until the distant future when I’m ready.”

  “That’s fine. I’m the same way, really.”

  “But there’s a more pressing issue.” He stares gravely at me. “Dom, you know I think you’re awesome, and this summer’s been so much better with you in it. I’d like to keep seeing you—and only you—while you’re here.”

  I stifle my grin. “So where’s the ‘issue’ with that?”

  He repeats slowly, “While you’re here.”

  When his meaning registers a second later, it feels like a tornado sweeping through my heart. From day one Guy gave us an August expiration date, and here I was, daring to hope he could be my ever after. I cover my face with my hands, ashamed at how deluded I was not to detect earlier that he was too good to be true. How is it that two people can be in the same relationship and still have completely different ideas of what’s going on?

  “I’m sorry, Dom, but I thought that was a no-brainer. We can’t stay together next semester if we’re never going to be together. The phone’s a crappy substitute for the real thing.”

  “Believe me, I get that geography’s an obstacle. But people work through it, like Matt and Brie. And you’re already half done with Ford.”

  “Yeah, but it’s not like conditions will clear after graduation. What are the chances of your med school being near my grad school? And then what if I don’t get work near where you match for residency? And you said at your place you wanted to do Doctors Without Borders. That could put you on a separate continent.”

  “Well … it’s not definite I’ll do Doctors Without Borders.”

  “I want you to!” He stands up and waves his arms. “That’s just it—I want us both to do all the cool things we want, where we want, and not be held back by anything, or anyone. And later, whenever our careers are solid and we’ve lived and all that crap, who knows what could happen?” He sits back down closer to me. “And even if you went to Ford, Dom, it’d still be hard to keep things going. I get so busy during the year with classes and Greek stuff. Girls just end up getting mad at me for not being ‘available’ enough.”

  “You mean, for not making the effort to be ‘available’ enough,” I jab, suddenly understanding why Guy didn’t already have a girlfriend when we met.

  “C’mon, Dom. We’re together now, and there’s no one else I’d rather be with. Let’s enjoy this while we have it.”

  I breathe and stiffly shake my head. “I just know myself, Guy. I can’t be happy going out if it’s not … going anywhere. We might as well cool it now.”

  I’m stunned that those words escape me, when minutes ago life was a fairy tale. I always thought you broke up with people because you didn’t want to be with them. But I do want to be with Guy, so I’m dumping him so he can’t dump me first. I recall that Cosmo article about third dates being the make-or-break moment for couples. Maybe that’s rooted in hard science after all.

  Guy falls back on his elbows and harrumphs in exasperation. After some more surf staring, he says, “Wow. This really sucks.”

  “I promised always to tell you what I’m thinking.”

  “I know. I’m glad you did. Well, I’m not glad.” He sighs again. “Anyway, this totally stinks, but obviously I’ll respect it. I won’t lay a hand on you from now on.”

  “ ‘From now on’?”

  “Well, whenever we hang out, and then there’s that wedding.” When I don’t respond, he continues, “We’re still hanging out, aren’t we?”

  “I … don’t think … that’d be a good idea.”

  “Whoa, whoa, whoa.” He stands up again and barks, “If you’re not my girlfriend, fine. But that is no reason we have to be strangers. That’s bullshit!”

  I stand up, too, and glare at him indignantly. So it’s all right for him to rule out a serious relationship, but it’s wrong if I’m not ready to settle for less?

  “Guy, I can’t just … automatically switch modes. I need some space—”

  “This is insane!” He stomps his foot. “We were hardly going out! You’ve never even let me French you!”

  I lock my hands on my hips and shout, “What does that have to do with anything?”

  He shouts louder, “You’re making a problem where there isn’t any!”

  I scream, “I’m preventing bigger problems down the line!”

  I’ve occasionally raised my voice to my parents, but I’ve never had it out with anyone like this before. And like most fights, it’s all so stupid. The minutes we squander arguing can all be boiled down to Guy calling me impractical and me calling him insensitive, though I think both of us know neither of those things is true. We carry on until I notice a couple in the distance and demand that we leave before we completely humiliate ourselves. But as awful as yelling is, it’s not nearly as tense as our wordless speedwalk back to his Accord, and the ten-mile drive home. Melodramatically enough, we pull up to my building at the stroke of midnight.

  “So,” he mumbles, “I guess you now think these last two weekends were pointless.”

  “No, Guy. I don’t regret anything, if that’s what you’re after.”

  “I just wish I hadn’t opened my big mouth when you mentioned Matt and what’s-her-name.”

  “Actually, it’s better this came up sooner rather than later.” Otherwise, I might have regretted it.

  Then he does one of those mini-laughs where you exhale quickly through your nose, and I ask him what’s funny.

  “That paper I wrote,” he answers. “Entropy is true in life, too. In the end, everything turns to crap.”

  My stomach crumples. I want to tell him I’m sorry for how everything wound up and that maybe we can hang out again when enough time passes. I have no idea how long that’d be, though, and my throat’s too tight to speak anyway, so I just spill out of the car and slog up to the front entrance. I’m hoping to hear him floor the gas pedal and vroom away like a spiteful man-child I’d be embarrassed to be associated with, but he stays put until the elevator opens and I go inside. I know it’s to make sure I get in safely. There should be a law prohibiting boys who aren’t good for you from acting nice, so it’s easier to justify not being with them.

  Once in my room, I text Amy what happened and ask her to call me if she’s up. When I don’t hear back, I lie awake in bed second-guessing my decision. But Guy and I see things too differently to keep dating. In the same way that a fiancée is a bride-to-be, I’ve always thought a girlfriend is a fiancée-to-be. Yes, most relationships bite the dust before things get long-term. However, that possibility of staying together forever remains the underlying force dr
iving the relationship forward. To Guy, though, a girlfriend can merely be someone you go out with until it’s inconvenient—in effect, a single-girl-to-be. That’s not enough for me, so I suppose I did the right thing. It just sucks when being right means being alone.

  When at five a.m. I still can’t sleep, I try tiring myself out by reorganizing my drawers and bookshelves. Then I remember that’s a waste of energy, since soon I’ll be putting everything into boxes. Growing more somber by the second, I plop in front of my computer and check grades for the umpteenth time this vacation—nothing. Finally I log on to Facebook, where Tulane’s head RA posted photos from the Bastille Day midnight mixer that just ended. I’m not surprised to see that Calvin dominates most of the pictures, striking silly poses on the main quad, and the one of him dangling from an oak tree limb makes me grin. But next I click to a shot of him sitting on the grass with an RA from the girls’ dorm, and they’re kissing.

  Like a woman possessed, I pounce on my cell and start dialing.

  11

  “So, what do you care?” Amy asks groggily. “I never thought you’d call me at the crack of dawn over Calvin Brandon, Coppertone.”

  “Sorry I woke you, but I just don’t get it! Cal hasn’t looked twice at this girl before—Samantha Finley.” I mutter her name while skimming her public profile. “Listen. Her interests are fashion, astrology, tattoos, and yoga. Cal hates all those things.”

  “They were only kissing.”

  “Yeah, in the pictures. Right now they could be screwing!”

  “Then good for him! You gave him no reason to hold out for you. Did you really expect he’d keep himself on standby in case you miraculously fell for him?”

  “No, but … I don’t know.” Admittedly, not having a boyfriend is a lot less dejecting when there’s a suitable prospect waiting in the wings. “Oh, Ames. Why didn’t I fall for him?”

  “Because you didn’t!” Amy exclaims, understandably impatient. “You’re the scientist here. You know attraction is all about liking each other’s scents and gauging how the guy would’ve hunted if we still lived in caves. The Cal-man may be awesome, but he just doesn’t do it for you.”

  I think back to how delicious Guy smells and his tall, strong physique. It’s so messed up how little control we have over whether we want somebody.

  “And, Dom, I still don’t get why you chucked that Beta. He’s a chance to have no-strings-attached fun! I love Joel to pieces, but sometimes I wish he hadn’t come along until next year so I could enlist a few more hot summer flings.”

  “You know very well I’m not into random hookups, no offense.”

  “None taken, and Beta-boy’s anything but ‘random.’ He’s a good guy, and you genuinely like each other.”

  “I just don’t see what’s in it for me if he’s only temporary. It’d be relationship suicide.”

  “Well, nothing lasts forever. Buddhist monks spend days constructing these intricate sand paintings called mandalas, only so they can destroy them afterward. The important thing is making the mandalas, not how long they last.”

  “Okay, Ames, but sand art’s a tad different from love.”

  “You’re in love already? It’s been, like, nine days since you two met.”

  I exhale slowly. “No. I can’t say I love Guy … but that’s the direction I hoped this would go.”

  Amy remains on the phone with me until I have to start getting ready for Lee County Medical, and I’m glad today’s Monday so there’s an entire workweek ahead to fill my time. Nevertheless, my internship feels routine now that I’ve been doing it for a couple of weeks, which is making it tougher to stay focused. My supervisor keeps promising that I’ll be allowed to shadow doctors soon, but I still catch myself speculating about what could’ve been had I instead gotten a Res-Life stint as Calvin suggested. It couldn’t be much duller than my clerical duties at the hospital. And perhaps by being near Calvin all day, our body chemistries would’ve naturally synced, and I’d have craved taking things to the next level with him.

  I’m so disgusted with myself for obsessing over boys while surrounded by people suffering from infinitely worse problems. At Tulane we learned how females have extra white matter connecting different parts of the cerebrum. That’s why women tend to be good multitaskers, which started as far back as the caveman era, when mothers had to juggle several thoughts at once in order to care for all their kids. But it also means I can do my work and feel bad for patients while still dwelling on relationships and feeling bad for me. The fact that I’m anatomically hardwired not to compartmentalize emotions doesn’t make my state of mind any less deplorable.

  I ride out the first half of the week without incident, and I’m grateful to my bratsitting kids for adding much-needed silliness to my days. Everyone keeps asking me if I’m okay, however, so my reaction to the Gainesville-Guy-Calvin triple whammy must be plain on my face. Then, by Wednesday, I’m so spacey from not sleeping well that I completely forget to check grades until I’m about to go to bed. I tramp over to my computer and log on to the registrar, expecting to be taunted with another blank screen, so I do a double take when I see that they’ve finally been posted. Neuroscience: A. Biomedical Ethics: A-. My cumulative GPA is holding steady at 3.8, which means my merit scholarship is safe. I have everything I worked for and could’ve wanted.…

  So how come I feel nothing?

  I bet I’d be more excited if I could share the news, but tonight Amy’s preoccupied at her own computer having another video chat date with Joel. As for my parents, they’re huddled around the dining room table poring over printouts of Gainesville house listings, which are the last things I want to see right now. It’s about time I call Calvin, especially because we haven’t spoken since texting each other “Happy 4th of July” almost two weeks ago. But I feel like such a loser having nothing better to do than talk about exams, when he’s probably naked in bed with Samantha. Next I log on to Facebook, and, just as I predicted, he has changed his status to “in a relationship” with her. Calvin must know I’m seeing this.…

  Maybe he wants me to see it.

  Or maybe he’s not thinking about me at all. I hate how you can feel broken up with someone without ever having dated.

  In a fit of self-pity, I switch to Guy’s page. His latest post shows that he’ll be going to the Midsummer Night’s Rockfest, a free concert 101 FM is throwing this Friday. I bet he’s going to have so much fun. That it’s my choice not to join him won’t make me less lonely. It’s hard to believe, though, that we were dating just last weekend. It was all over so rapidly that Guy feels like a phantom. I decided not to unfriend him because it seemed mean to cut him off completely when he didn’t do anything wrong. And like I told Amy, I didn’t love him yet, so what I’m experiencing isn’t exactly heartbreak. I don’t loathe myself for not being loved by him, and thinking about him doesn’t leave me in excruciating physical pain. I’m just disappointed. And disillusioned. Guy and I fit on so many levels, and given the chance, maybe it could’ve been love, and maybe it could’ve been for forever.

  It all begs the question, though: Was my not loving Guy really because we knew each other for only a few days?

  My parents claim they fell in love on the first day.…

  Or was my not loving Guy because you can’t fall for someone if you’re still hung up on someone else?

  Now devolving into full-out masochism, I run a Facebook search for the NYU track and field page so I can see my high school boyfriend’s face among the team photos. He was a total heartbreak situation, which is why I keep his personal page blocked. I realize that’s immature of me, considering we went through so much more together than Guy and I did—my ex and I were each other’s first everything. But loving him had become like an addiction, so I figured the best way to beat it was to make a clean break. That’s why I’m not tagging along with Amy to their high school track reunion this Friday. Even though she told me that he RSVP’d no to the Evite because he’s in Manhattan working a summer j
ob, I don’t want to subject myself to the possibility of his old friends grilling me like Brie did, or hearing them talk about how he’s doing better than I am. At least, I presume he’s doing better. From his mile-wide smile in the pictures, it’s doubtful he’s home alone cyber-stalking me. That’s the thing about exes—for eternity you feel like rivals in a kind of happiness contest, and losing would be the epitome of tragedy.

  I switch off my monitor and crawl under the covers, knowing full well this will be another sleep-deficient night. Then I remember another thing Cosmo said. It typically takes half the time you’re dating a guy to fall out of love with him. My ex and I were together almost ten months before he admitted over the holidays that he’d fallen out of love with me, so by that measure I should’ve been cured weeks ago. But once you’ve anticipated spending forever with someone, I’m not convinced you can ever feel complete after being uncoupled. I think you just learn to live without the person. Like when someone dies, you don’t stop loving them just because they’re not around to love you back anymore. Breakups truly are a kind of death. All year I plodded through the stages of mourning that I was just tested on in Biomedical Ethics—shock, anger, depression, and acceptance. The hitch, though, is that even when you’ve reached acceptance, you can sometimes regress so quickly, it’s scary.

  Like I did at the Braffs’ barbecue.

  Like I’m doing now.

  I sit up and clutch my head in my hands. I have two options: I can distract myself from my ex—by reading, packing, or working out—or I can feed my addiction. It’s obvious which one’s right, and most of the time I go with it. Tonight, though, I trudge toward my linen closet, where I keep the big, bulky garbage bag that I filled with all my reminders of him on the night he dumped me.

  I strew the bag’s contents over my bathroom floor—movie ticket stubs, a mood ring he gave me, dozens of framed photos. The inventory goes on. Sure, seeing this stuff again is torture. But it’s soothing, too, because it’s familiar. The only difference is that now everything’s coated with the crumbled remains of my rose prom corsage, making it all appear as if it’s been dug up from a grave, which I guess it has.