The Lucky Kind

by Alyssa B. Sheinmel

  But then he surprises me by saying, “You and Eden, at Thanksgiving. I know it must make me sound like your old, old dad, but it got me thinking about Sarah, you know. The high school girlfriend.”

  Something about the way he’s summed her up makes me uneasy; we’re still dating and in my dad’s mind she’s already just a fond memory.

  “She’s not just a high school girlfriend,” I say, thinking about everything that happened yesterday.

  “I didn’t mean it like that. I just meant … I don’t know. You never love anyone again the way you love your high school girlfriend. I can’t explain it. I love your mother more than anything, but it’s so different from what I felt for Sarah. Maybe it’s because Sarah was the first person I’d ever been in love with. Maybe when an emotion is new, it’s like you’re testing it out, checking to see what the boundaries of it are. And later you can feel it even more, even better, even stronger, but …” He pauses, like he’s looking for the right words. Finally, he says, “But it’ll never feel that fresh again. And that makes it so intense.”

  I think about that. Does that mean what he felt for Sam, when he was born, is more intense than what he felt for me, when I was?

  “Anyway. I just felt like reading what she wrote in my yearbook. I don’t even remember it now.”

  “Oh. Okay.” I’m still standing at the edge of the living room. He’s still standing next to the bookshelves. Neither of us moves.

  “Do you”—he hesitates—“would you like to see her picture?” He says it shyly; I think he’s actually nervous to be talking to me, treading carefully because he doesn’t know what’ll set me off.

  He says, “I thought you might be curious.”

  “If I were curious, I could have looked before,” I say. The idea is so obvious, even if I didn’t think of it myself until last night.

  “Yeah, I guess you could have.” He sits down on the couch now, the yearbook on his lap.

  I go to sit next to him. “I’ll look,” I say, and he smiles. Through the couch cushions, I can actually feel him relaxing. And so I sit with him, and I look at Sarah’s pictures. There’s more than I saw last night. There are pictures of her as a cheerleader, and there’s the note she left in the back of the book, which my father lets me read. She tells him that she loves him, and how much she’ll miss him when he goes away to college, and it’s clear that neither of them thought that the relationship was going to end just because he was going away. And it didn’t, I guess, for a few years.

  And soon it’s late enough that I guess I could call Eden. She’d definitely be awake now, I think, every time I look up and see the clock on the cable box. But I don’t get up. I sit there with my dad, and then we move to the dining room table and we eat leftovers. I sneak some food to Pilot when Dad’s not looking. We watch football and I’m almost comfortable, sitting next to him, or anyway, less uncomfortable than I have been near him in a long time.

  And I don’t call Eden until much, much later.

  Much, Much Later

  It’s nine o’clock that night when I call Eden. I’m sitting on the edge of my bed.

  “Hey.”

  “Hi.” There’s silence, like Eden’s waiting for more from me than “Hi.” I know she thinks I should explain why I haven’t called. But instead I say, “What are you up to?”

  “I’ve been waiting for your call.”

  I laugh, but it comes out like a cackle.

  “Aren’t girls supposed to lie about things like that?” I ask.

  “Like what?”

  “Like, aren’t you supposed to tell me how busy you’ve been, so busy that you haven’t even noticed that I didn’t call?”

  “No. That would give you a free pass for not having called.”

  “But guys are supposed to be flaky about that.” I’m lying; I know it’s a big deal that I haven’t called. I know I’m an asshole for not having called. I shouldn’t make her feel like she’s wrong to think it’s important.

  “Not the guy I’m dating.”

  “Are you dating someone else I should know about?” I say; I mean for it to be a joke, but it’s not. It’s mean.

  “Well, I was dating this nice guy who never forgot to call and certainly never stood me up.”

  “I didn’t stand you up,” I say, but as soon as I say it, I remember that it’s true. We were supposed to go to the movies today.

  “I forgot about the movies,” I say, but then I add, “but you could have called me to remind me.”

  Eden doesn’t say anything for a second. But then she surprises me by saying, “You’re right, I could have called you.”

  “I’m right?” I repeat, genuinely surprised.

  “Look, Nick, you should have called. You definitely should have called. But I should have called, too.”

  “Right,” I say, still not fully understanding, but happy to go along with any conversation that makes me right. But I still press my feet onto the floor and tense the muscles in my legs, just in case I need to be ready to spring to my own defense.

  “Look, it was a big thing that happened. Huge. But maybe …” I can tell she’s chewing her lip, thinking hard. “It was big for both of us, but maybe it was big for you in another way, a way that doesn’t apply to me.”

  I want to make a joke about her using the word “big” again and again.

  But I say, “I don’t understand what you mean.”

  “I mean, you just found out that adolescent sex got your father into … let’s call it trouble. And so maybe you were dealing with some heavy stuff that I can’t relate to.”

  “It wasn’t adolescent sex,” I say.

  “What?”

  “He was in his twenties. So it wasn’t adolescent.”

  I can see her nodding, considering her miscalculation. I can see that she is sitting on the edge of her bed, perched carefully, just like she’s trying to choose her words carefully.

  “Sure. But still,” she says, and her voice is genuinely sweet. When I respond, my voice is genuinely nasty. I know I sound condescending.

  “No, but still. It’s totally different. One thing has nothing to do with the other.” I press my feet harder into the floor and stand up. I’m doubly an asshole; here she is making excuses for me, for my not calling her, and here I am, giving her a hard time about it.

  “Nick, I’m trying to be sensitive here. To say nothing of the fact that I’m giving you a free pass after we slept together and you didn’t call. Like some cliché out of a bad movie.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry it was such a typical experience for you.”

  “Would you stop it? What is the matter with you?”

  What is the matter with me? I take a step away from the bed. I actually drop the phone from my ear, let my arms hang down at my sides, and let my head fall back so that I’m looking at the ceiling. I lift the phone back up.

  “Are you there?” Eden says.

  “I’m here.” I wish I still had the condom wrapper. I contemplate asking her to fish it out of the garbage. I left it on the floor, but I can picture her picking it up and putting it into the wicker wastebasket under her desk.

  “And?” Eden prompts.

  “And what?”

  “And you’re sorry!” she supplies for me. “Jeez Louise, I can’t pick the words for you on top of everything else.”

  “What everything else?”

  “Being the one to explain why you didn’t call.”

  I want to tell her she’s wrong. She doesn’t know or understand why I didn’t call. I don’t know or understand why I didn’t call. But I’m tired, so I say, “I am sorry, Eden.” And I am, even if I’m not sure what for. But this seems to be enough.

  “I know.”

  “Okay?”

  “Yes, Nick, we’re okay.”

  “Okay,” I repeat, and I walk back over to my bed and sit back down. It doesn’t feel like we’re okay to me. But I decide to ignore it; I’ll wait and see how it feels when I next see her. So I smile and say, “Hey,
lady, did you just say ‘Jeez Louise’?”

  “Of course not,” Eden says quickly.

  “No, I think you did. I think you said ‘Jeez Louise.’ ”

  “It must have been someone else.”

  I lean back now, onto the pillows, relaxing. I imagine Eden is doing the same thing, her hair fanning out on her white bedspread.

  “Must’ve been,” I echo.

  How to Completely Blow Everything with the Girl of Your Dreams

  A Step-by-Step Guide, by Nicholas Brandt

  Step 1: Fall in Love

  Pine over her for the better part of middle school and high school. Finally work up the nerve to kiss her. Spend an amazing few months together. Find out what her favorite color is, take her to her favorite restaurants, learn where she’s ticklish, how she likes to be kissed, and that the back of her neck always smells inexplicably like yellow-cake batter.

  Tell her you love her.

  Step 2: Physical Expression of Said Love

  Have sex with her. Warning: It will be perfect. It will be everything the storybooks said it would be: fireworks, lightning bolts, eyes closed, mouth open. Memorize all of the freckles sprinkled over her torso, especially that dark brown one between her breasts.

  Step 3: Neuroticism

  Obsess over the expiration date of the condom you used, even though you know that the school nurse replenishes her condoms every month and they’ve only been in your pockets for two months, so they can’t be more than three months old. Curse the nurse for being too cheap to get brand-name condoms.

  Step 4: Be an Ass

  Wait more than twenty-four hours following said sex before calling her.

  Step 5: Be a Bigger Ass

  Don’t apologize for taking so long to call her; wait until she gives you the words to say. In fact, let her say all the right things for you. And don’t repeat “I love you.” Decide you’re that kind of tough guy who only needs to say it once, even though over the previous sixteen years, you haven’t exhibited one ounce of tough-guyness.

  Step 6: Everything Feels Different (Even if It’s Only in Your Head)

  When you see her in school on Monday, act totally normal even though everything feels different. You can’t put your finger on it, but being around her will feel itchy when before it would make your skin feel cool all over. You would do anything to make the itch go away, so you pretend you don’t hear her when she asks what you’re up to after school.

  When your best friend asks you what’s up your butt, say:

  “Nothing, nothing. What could you possibly mean? Nothing.”

  “That’s a lot of nothings for a whole bunch of something.”

  “Don’t be a smart-ass.”

  “Don’t be a jackass.”

  “You’re my friend, not hers, aren’t you?”

  “What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”

  “You know exactly what it means. Now let’s get to class.”

  Step 7: Betrayal

  In order to insure that you’re becoming emotionally distant, withhold a significant piece of information about something significant that’s going on in your life. For example, don’t tell her that Sam is coming at Christmas. Then when she finds out through other means, she’ll feel humiliated, hurt, and betrayed.

  Here is a sample scenario to illustrate this all-important step:

  One day after school my father is checking his email and smiling. Eden and I are sitting on the couch, but when Eden gets up for some water, she turns and sees my dad’s smile.

  “What’s got you so happy, Rob?” Eden asks.

  “This? It’s a note from my friend Sam.” My father has developed the annoying habit of referring to Sam as his “friend.” “He was asking what kind of clothes he needs for Ohio the week after next. For Christmas.”

  Eden looks at me, frozen between the couch and the kitchen. She looks confused. This must be some other Sam, her face says; Nick would have told me if it was that Sam. But I don’t say anything, and I know she would never ask me in front of my dad. And I make sure we’re not alone for the rest of the evening; we stay in the living room with my dad, and even when she leaves, I say good-bye at the doorway, where my father can still see us.

  Step 8: Communication Is Key

  Now this one is really very important: Don’t have sex with her again. I know, this sounds physically impossible for a healthy, active adolescent boy. But it can be done. Wait until you’re alone—and make sure that’s not until at least a week has passed since you had sex the first time—and when she kisses you, all your muscles will clench. Believe me; her kisses will actually turn you off. And then she’ll stop and ask:

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing.”

  “You’re lying.”

  I lean my head back against her bed. We’re on the floor of her room again. I look down at her carpet.

  “I remember the first time I came over here.”

  “Me too,” she says quietly. She is sitting crossed-legged, facing me.

  “I was excited just to be in your room. I was so curious to see what it looked like, what was on your walls, whether your bed would be up against the wall or in the middle of the room, what street your window looked out on.”

  “And now?” she asks.

  “Now I can see it all with my eyes closed. Now I don’t have to wonder.” There is something strange in my voice; it sounds like I miss wondering.

  “Nick, seriously, talk to me. What’s wrong?”

  “Seriously talk to you?”

  “You’re not funny, Nick. You haven’t been the same since last week.”

  I sit up. “Well, everything changed last week. Nothing is the same anymore.”

  Eden sits up and faces me. “Many things are the same. My room is the same: that my bed is in the middle of the room is the same, that my window looks out onto Duane Street is the same. That my walls are painted green is the same.”

  I look at the walls above us. “You call this green? I think it’s blue.”

  “Nick. Look at me.” I look her straight in the eyes, and she says, “The way I feel about you is the same.”

  “I know.”

  “So, what’s changed?”

  I can’t tell her, and I can’t even feel bad about it because it’s not my fault I can’t tell her, because I truly can’t explain it. Something has shifted; something feels different.

  “Nick. The way I feel about you is the same,” she repeats.

  And I say, looking at the carpet between my legs, “I don’t think the way I feel about you is the same.” The words taste terrible in my mouth, like something I should spit out.

  I wait before looking back up at her. I wait as long as I can manage. Because when I look back up at her, her eyes are wet. They are shining so brightly that I think they have never looked more beautiful.

  “You told me you loved me.”

  I don’t say anything. I’m concentrating, trying to conjure up the feeling from the day after Thanksgiving. But I don’t feel it. I can’t remember what it feels like, and I’m surprised that something that felt so strong could disappear so quickly.

  “Why would you say that?” Eden prompts.

  “I don’t know,” I say finally.

  “Bullshit,” she says. “You can do better than that.”

  “I just can’t feel it anymore,” I say, and it’s the truth.

  “That doesn’t mean it’s not there anymore.”

  I shrug.

  “What do you feel?”

  I honestly don’t know. But I don’t feel good; and before, when I was with Eden, I felt so good, all the time.

  “Nick, I think you’re just completely overwhelmed by the way you feel about your dad right now,” she says, and I can tell she’s struggling to keep her voice even. “And I think that that’s just making it impossible for you to feel anything else.”

  She leans in so that her head is so close to mine I can taste her breath when she talks. “I know you probably want t
o make your life go back to the way it was before you found out about Sam Roth, but you can’t go back. And getting rid of me isn’t going to make it any more like it was then.”

  “I’m not an idiot, Eden. I’m not trying to reverse the space-time continuum here. I know the difference between feeling something about my dad and feeling something about you.”

  She shakes her head. “No, I don’t think you do.”

  I don’t want to look at her anymore, but I don’t want to look away, either.

  “Nick,” she says, “you’ve got to trust me, trust me about this.”

  “Trust you about what?”

  “Nick—this—us—what we have—this is the lucky kind.” Everything about her seems crinkled to me: her eyes, where she’s trying to hold her tears so that she doesn’t cry; her mouth, which she’s set tightly; her voice, which is cracking. Even her hands, which she opens and shuts, in and out of fists, on her lap.

  “The lucky kind?” I repeat.

  “Remember when we said that there was the lucky kind and the unlucky kind?” I nod. I feel insanely like I’m a little kid who’s behaved badly.

  “Well, this, Nick, this is the lucky kind. You just have to trust me, and hang on to me.” She takes my hands in between hers, and presses them together, and it feels like she’s literally trying to hold us, our relationship, together, with both hands. She says, “I’ll wait for you to catch on to what I already know.”

  I shake my head. “This has nothing to do with my dad.”

  “It does. You’re just displacing your anxiety.”

  I look at her meanly. “What, did you read a psych textbook this afternoon?”

  “I’m right, Nick. I’m right and you have to trust me.” She’s dropped my hands, and her fists are clenched in her lap now.

  “You’re wrong,” I say, and I believe it. And so I get up to go. But I can still feel her touch on my hands; even hours later, my fingers are still warm where she’d pressed them together.