That night I’m struggling to get to sleep, when my cell beeps that I have a text. I figure it’s Amy complaining about how bored she was at Brie’s bridal shower today.
I was right about Amy being the sender.
Joel fucked another girl & I dumped him. Call me if you’re up.
I gasp and read it several more times before I believe my eyes.
“Hey.” Amy answers my call in a seemingly tranquil voice. “Long story short, Joel and I were video chatting just now, and then out of nowhere he starts blubbering like a baby about getting wasted at that stupid counselors retreat last weekend, blah, blah, blah. The ho-bag was this CIT named Heather. Could he get more embarrassingly cliché?”
I gasp again. Just yesterday Joel sent Amy a huge orchid bouquet for completing her gallery internship, and I still assumed that if anyone in that relationship was going to stray, it would be her. I guess you can never really tell what’s happening between two people.
Amy goes on, “Then he claimed that it didn’t mean anything to him, and he wasn’t even going to tell me! Too bad for Joel, Heather the ho-bag insisted I had the right to know, and she threatened to e-mail me about it unless he fessed up to me first.”
“Wait—so first she screws your boyfriend, and now she’s looking out for you? Ugh, I’m gonna barf. You know she’s just trying to make trouble.”
“Then Joel kept crying about how awful he feels and that he loves me more than ever and to please forgive him. So I was like, ‘Why should I tolerate a lying fuckhead of a boyfriend who I can’t trust to hold his liquor without banging the closest orifice in proximity?’ That’s when I signed off. Good riddance to bad garbage.”
“Wow, Ames … this is so incredibly strong of you. It takes a lot of courage to break up with someone you love, even if there are problems.”
“Well, now he’s free to be someone else’s problem. In the meantime, I’m wiping this mandala clean. As we speak, I’m putting his stupid locket on eBay. Next it’s straight to the fireplace to burn all my sketches of him. Then I’m gonna smash that brush holder he made me in pottery class—it never worked well anyway.”
“Okay, slow down. You’re sure you don’t want to save any of that stuff? It’s, like, your history.”
“Exactly! Out with the old, in with the new! Joel doesn’t deserve one square inch of space in my closet. And seriously, what was the likelihood of my first real boyfriend being ‘the one’ anyway?” She pauses for a sigh. “It just blows because at Amherst he was, like, my male BFF, and I thought we were such a good team, way better than Matt and Brie-dzilla ever were. Now she’s the one at a strip club having a bachelorette party. Life’s twisted.”
“Oh, Ames, I’m so sorry.”
“Sorry? For what?” she snaps.
“W-well,” I stutter, taken aback by her anger.
“I don’t need any sympathy, Dom. Joel’s the one losing out.”
“Ames, I totally agree! All I meant was it’s a shame it had to end like this.”
“I’m just relieved this all happened in time for the wedding next week. Matt’s Cornell friends are gonna be there, and some of them are hot. Now I can actually get with them.”
Amy’s saying all the right things to show she’s okay, and to anyone else it might be convincing. She might even be convinced. After a breakup there’s a momentary relief that you’re free again. But that’s quickly eclipsed by all the good memories you had together and the realization that there won’t be any more of them. She’s in for so much pain. I know.
Amy’s mom and stepdad have already left town for a psychology conference in St. Pete tomorrow, so I tell Amy I’m borrowing the station wagon and driving over for a sleepover whether she likes it or not. When I arrive, she insists again that she’s all right.
“That’s great, Ames, but I still want to keep you company.”
“I wasn’t planning to be alone long. As soon as I dump Joel’s putrid guilt-orchids on the compost pile, we’re hitting Chamber and dancing our asses off!”
“Oh … Well, it’s almost ten, the weather’s sucky, and my head still kinda hurts. I was thinking we’d just raid the fridge and OD on bad reality reruns or something.”
“C’mon, Dom. That reeks of a pity party. I need to have fun! Pop some Tylenol and suck it up!”
I know not to take any of this personally. That night last month when I hit rock bottom in my bathtub, I just wanted to get out and be among people, too. As Amy’s best friend, I should be encouraging her.
A half hour later I’m driving us over Edison Bridge while Amy’s applying makeup in front of the visor mirror. She insisted I borrow her clubbing gear of pleather pants and a bright turquoise halter top, which look positively modest compared to her black micromini, fishnet shirt, and red sequined bra. We’re quiet for a few moments as Amy draws on her glitter lip pencil and checks e-mail on her phone for the fifth time this car ride. Then, out of the blue, she asks, “Did I ever tell you that Joel was uncircumcised?”
I almost swerve the car into the Caloosahatchee River, I’m so thrown. I want to laugh, but her tone was really solemn.
“Um … no. You left out that minor detail.”
“Well, that’s probably because I tried not to think about it. Uncircumcised dicks are disgusting.”
I’ve never seen one myself other than in anatomy books. I never thought they were pretty, but circumcised ones don’t hold the monopoly on aesthetics, either. “Well, they’re certainly different,” I say.
“And hazardous, too! I got a yeast infection and a urinary tract infection while Joel and I were together. I bet that wouldn’t have happened if he had a regular cock.”
“Actually, there shouldn’t be a correlation unless he had bad hygiene or something. A lot of women develop yeasts and UTIs at some point.”
As if not hearing me, Amy goes on. “I should’ve dumped Joel once I saw he was uncut, but I didn’t want to be judgmental. I remember thinking, It’s not Joel’s fault his parents were too crunchy-granola hippie to get him fixed. But it is Joel’s fault. He’s an adult. He could’ve gone to the doctor himself. Why would any self-respecting male not do that?”
I assume that was a rhetorical question, but then she repeats louder, “Why?”
“Oh … well …” Are we actually having this conversation? “It could be because circumcision hurts a lot more in adults than newborns, and there’s greater risk of complications.”
“A little pain’s not a good enough reason. Joel’s a wimp.”
“Or maybe health insurance doesn’t cover it. It’s usually not medically necessary.”
“Then he’s cheap, too. A wimpy cheapskate freak.”
“Well, it’s not exactly freakish. Something like only fifteen percent of men worldwide get circumcised, so Joel’s actually in the majority—”
“Jesus, Dom!” She slams the visor mirror shut. “Whose side are you on?”
She’s never yelled at me like that before, but I tell myself yet again not to take it personally. She’s simply besieged with emotions and is unloading it on the nearest warm body. I get that her whole circumcision rant is nothing more than a classic breakup defense mechanism of dwelling on the relationship’s bad points. I did the same thing. But recalling how my ex had nasty BO after track practice never made me feel better. It seemed disingenuous to hold things against him that before I readily accepted as the price of love.
“Ames, of course I’m behind you. I didn’t mean to defend him. I was only spouting medical trivia.”
Apparently still not hearing me, Amy continues, “I mean, I am awesome! I’m wicked hot with brains to match and mad talent. Why should I lower myself to put up with a grosser-than-gross pecker?”
“You’re right,” I respond, just trying to placate her at this point. “Foreskin—blech. Who needs it?”
“Exactly! Fuck Joel and his bagel-dog-looking wiener!”
There’s another silence as Amy checks her e-mail again. I can practically hear my Biome
dical Ethics professor narrating the scene as it unfolds, Grief stage one: denial.
“That uncircumcised dickhead,” she grumbles. “Why isn’t he blowing up my phone begging me to take him back? He should’ve at least tried to text.”
“Maybe he’s scared of making you madder.”
“Or maybe he’s having rebound sex with Heather the ho-bag. I knew she was bad news when I met her there. Well, this is what happens when your relationship gets too comfortable and familiar. The guy’s destined to get his rocks off with someone shiny and new.”
The moment we get to Chamber, Amy slinks to the center of the dance floor, where within seconds she attracts a half dozen guys vying to ride her thigh. I attract one, and as we gyrate our hips against each other, I think how just last weekend I was moving very similarly with somebody else. I waver between feeling disconcerted and pleased by that, though soon I feel nothing but faint from the deafening techno music. I try to endure it, but after two more songs, my eardrums are about to explode. I pull away from my dance dude and tug on Amy’s fishnet sleeve four times before she gets that I want her to follow me. Once we’re back outside under the awning, she demands to know what my problem is. When I tell her, she’s unmoved. “Of course it’s loud. It’s a club!”
“Well, my headache came back times ten, and I wasn’t comfortable in there anyway. I saw people doing bong hits near the bathroom.”
“So, what are you going to do? Tell your daddy on them?”
“No. Of course not,” I reply calmly, even though I’m starting to get irritated. I never knew she was capable of sounding so mean. “And I hate to be a killjoy, Ames, but I’m just really not feeling well. Can we please bail?”
“I am not going home now. No one’s offered to buy me a drink yet, and there’re major hotties here. Now that I’m free to hump anything that moves, I want to get some action tonight.”
“Well, we can try somewhere else, preferably a place that’s not a drug bust waiting to happen.”
“Anyplace else worth going you have to be twenty-one.”
“I guess I can wait in the car while you go back in.”
“Dom, that’s stupid. Why don’t you just leave, and I’ll find my way back later.”
“Ames, I’m not abandoning you here! This isn’t exactly in the best neighborhood. What if you can’t get a cab? I don’t want some strange guy driving you, especially if you’re planning to get drunk. Also, my stuff’s at your place, and we have only one set of your house keys between us, so how would we—”
“Fine, fine, fine! I swear, for someone who bitches about her parents being annoying, you’re sure becoming a lot like them.” Amy barrels toward the station wagon without waiting for me.
Soon we’re cruising back over Edison Bridge, and Amy’s looking straight ahead as if I’m not here. There’s no sound except for the engine, the windshield wipers, and an occasional thunderclap. To my horror I realize we’re having our first awkward silence ever. I consider pretending nothing is wrong and telling her about the kidney transplant I saw yesterday, but spontaneously going off about organ donations seems too out of place now. So I just keep driving, and because I don’t know where else to go, I head back to the Braffs’.
When we pull into her driveway, Amy checks her cell once more. “Well, this was a fun end to a fun day.”
“Ames, listen. When I had my big split this winter, I was destroyed, as you remember better than anyone. Except for death and disease, I don’t think there’s anything worse than a breakup you don’t want. But it’s like what Dad told me when I was bawling after it happened—you can’t have highs without the lows. So I just feel really helpless because I know there’s nothing I can say to ease this for you—”
“Dom, hold on.” She glowers at me. “What happened to me isn’t anything like what happened to you. You got broken up with. I broke up with Joel.”
“Well, yeah. But what Joel did was a massive betrayal. So either way, the only boys we ever loved broke our hearts—”
“I’m not heartbroken, Dom! I’m not! No guy’s worth my tears,” she shouts. “Okay, I wasn’t expecting it all to go down like it did, but I’m over it. At least, I was getting over it at Chamber until you stopped me, best friend. Thanks a lot.” Her voice breaks.
This whole year Amy has been my shoulder to cry on, so it must feel as confusing to her as it does to me that the tables are turning. I lay my hand over Amy’s, but she pulls away.
“And who are you to dispense breakup advice, Dom? That you’ve finally had a few G-spot Big Os doesn’t magically turn you into some guru of moving on. I think your track record shows you suck at it.”
“Wait. Excuse me?” I say defensively. This has gone beyond taking things out on me. She’s putting me down—another first for us. “Yeah, Ames, it’s been a long, hard haul, but I think I’m doing damn well, considering. I kept my scholarship, I have an internship, I started dating again—”
“Please. Perpetual booty calls isn’t dating, Domi-nympho. What Joel and I have—had—isn’t in the same galaxy as you and Guy. And no matter how much of a sex fiend you’ve become, you’re still always thinking about your ex!”
“Not always!” I yell. “I’m getting better all the time. And, anyway, how can I not think about him? He was a huge part of my life. Just like Joel is forever part of your life no matter how many drawings of him you incinerate.”
“Well, that’s preferable to your hanging on to that stupid ex bag of crap like it was priceless treasures. It’s pathetic.”
“I’m pathetic? You flew halfway across the country twice to share a chigger-filled sleeping bag with someone you spent all summer wanting to cheat on! And let’s not forget the time you tricked Bruce into kissing you! Karma’s a bitch, isn’t it?”
Amy bolts out of the car into the rain and up the steps to her house.
“Don’t even think about following me!” she screams before disappearing behind the front door.
23
I don’t follow her. I’m too incensed. Who the hell does she think she is? And how have I never seen this side of her before? All these months, Amy acted like a bedrock of support for me when really she thought I was a loser. I put my keys into the ignition to drive away … but something tells me to stay put.
Ten minutes later I take my hands off the keys, and I feel I’m cooling off. Amy’s words sting, but I think how breakups can bring out the worst in the best people, and part of being upset is mouthing off crap you don’t mean. I remember lashing out at my parents in the hours after I got broken up with, which I still feel bad about—I feel bad about a lot of stuff I’ve said to them—though they never hold it against me. I would be a loser if I faulted Amy for a few minutes of lunacy after sharing a friendship that’s lasted nearly half our lifetimes.
Another ten minutes later, I’m more puzzled than angry that she hasn’t come back out by now, though I have no reason to think she would. We’ve never seriously argued before, so there’s no precedent for what happens next. I’m still in disbelief that this happened at all. But people blow up and make up all the time. It’s probably even healthy to clear the air once in a while.… So why do I feel like Amy just dumped me?
I’ve been sitting in the car for a half hour now, and any pride I had has been supplanted with worry for Amy. Finally I decide to try her cell, and my stomach sinks when she lets it go to voice mail.
“Hey, Ames. Listen … I’m totally sorry for … everything. It’s late, you had a really rough night, and I can feel I’m running a fever now, so we’re both not in our right minds. Anyway, all I want is to be there for you like you’ve always been for me, so please come out now. Oh, and bring more Tylenol,” I add half jokingly to make it sound like everything’s normal with us. “Okay, see you soon.”
The next twenty minutes feel like twenty years as I wait for Amy to emerge from the house, which she doesn’t. Finally I take the umbrella from the backseat, run up the front path, and ring the Braffs’ doorbell. When Amy doe
sn’t answer, I use the knocker, and more nothing. Then I walk around the house to try to see her through the windows, but she seems to have gone upstairs. I’m about to forage for stones to toss up at her bedroom window, but I don’t want to scare her. Then I recall the crazy outfit I’m wearing and how suspicious this would look to anyone driving by, so I scurry back to the station wagon and resume waiting there like a stalker. I’m also soaked because the wind caused the rain to hit me sideways, rendering my umbrella useless.
Twenty more minutes later it hurts when I swallow. My supervisor warned me I might get sick this summer, since hospitals are paradoxically the easiest places to catch something. I hate to leave Amy like this, but I’m no good to either of us unless I take care of myself. So I record another voice mail imploring her to call and reiterating that I want to help her through this. And since I can’t get inside to change into my regular clothes, I have no choice but to drive home in turquoise, pleather, and stilettos. It’s a good thing my parents are already asleep when I get there.
By morning the rainstorm has passed, but my temperature’s 102, I have the chills, and every muscle in my body aches. My parents forgo their Sunday fishing trip to stay home and take care of me, including bringing in humidifiers and brewing me herbal tea with honey. Being sick is one of the rare times when I let them baby me. I want so much to get their advice about Amy, but as long as no one else knows about last night, it feels more like a bad dream than reality, which I guess means I’m in denial myself. I try to sleep so I won’t have to think about anything, but my searing throat’s constantly waking me up. Or maybe it’s my subconscious prompting me to keep checking my phone to see if Amy called. I didn’t realize it was possible to obsess over a girl as much as you can over a boy.
Meanwhile, everyone but Amy calls me, starting that night with Guy.
“Aw, that sucks you got the flu. You should order some miso soup from the sushi place.”
Anatomy of a Single Girl Page 15
