Ouch.
I wait for him to do something, anything—hug me or stroke my back or repent and go ram his car into a wall to atone for his sins—but he just sits there. Finally, he mumbles, “I’m sorry you were dragged into this.”
I look up and take in the expression on his face—properly, not genuinely, sad. I’m sorry you were dragged into this. Dragged into. It wasn’t even a real apology. He wasn’t owning up to anything. Dragged into. Like I wasn’t even a significant part of his life; like I was just in the way.
Before I rest my case, I just have to ask, “What happened to us, Jaime? We were happy, weren’t we?”
“I guess I was just tired,” he says. There is no “we” anymore. There is just him and the fact that he was “just tired.”
“Of what?” I ask. Of me? I almost add, but I don’t want to sound even more desperate than I already seem.
“Of everything,” he sighs, which of course tells me nothing.
“Of me,” I say. This time, it isn’t a question.
Every Girl’s Guide To
HEARTACHE
Marla Miniano
SUMMIT BOOKS
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, some places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination and are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, places, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Summit Books are published by
Summit Media
6F Robinsons Cybergate 3
Pioneer Street
Mandaluyong City
Philippines 1505
Copyright © 2009 by Marla Miniano
Book design by Studio Dialogo
Cover illustration by Abi Goy
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer, who may quote brief passages in a review.
www.femalenetwork.com/summit-books
For Mommy and Daddy
Rule number 1:
Find comfort in your family.
The day after Jaime and I break up, my mom asks me to clean my room.
One thing you should understand about my mom—her definition of “cleaning my room” does not just involve making my bed, or picking up dirty laundry off the floor, or tidying my bookshelf. No, for my mom, it means sorting out my clothes, shoes, and accessories into three piles: Yes, No, and Maybe. It means emptying my desk drawers and going through each note and letter and greeting card, then throwing everything away. For my mom, the exact opposite of a pack rat, a clean room is an almost empty one. And she has hardly any tolerance for sentimentality.
Another thing you should understand about my mom—she knows everything. So when she shakes me awake on this Saturday morning, taking in my puffy eyes and semi-permanent scowl, she doesn’t just feel that something is up, she knows exactly what’s up. And so I’m guessing that her telling me to drag my sorry self out of bed, take a shower, have breakfast, gulp down some coffee, and proceed to slave over the act of cleaning my room for the rest of the day is her way of helping me deal.
“Get up,” she says, as if I am not already sitting up, rubbing the sleep out of my eyes, and groping around for my glasses.
“What are you dragging me out of bed for, Mom? It’s Saturday, no school,” I remind her, suppressing a duh at the end. I am tempted to dive under the covers again, but I don’t attempt to.
“I know that, Anna,” she replies. She rolls her eyes as she stresses the know, like, Lord, what evil have I done to deserve this much nonsense at the start of what could be such a lovely weekend?
“Then why are you waking me up?” I know I am pushing it by asking too many questions, and not very smart ones, at that, but I just can’t seem to stop.
She looks around my room. Then, at me. “This is a mess,” she declares. I am not sure if she is referring to my room, or to me, or both. She opens my closet. “Too many things in here,” she says. “That gray hoodie has to go, it doesn’t look good on you anymore. And why do you still have that denim skirt? Daddy told you it was too short. Didn’t he ask you to get rid of that?”
“Mom, it’s not—”
“And your desk is ready to collapse any minute now. Can you please empty those drawers? I don’t understand why you have to keep every single letter you receive from every single person you meet. Hay naku, Anna, this won’t do. I want this room spic and span by the end of the day. And don’t even get me started on that bed, if you can even call it that; I honestly don’t know how you can sleep in that thing…”
You know how people tell you that things always look better in the morning? It’s true. Mostly because when you spend almost the entire night crying, you wake up the next day with a dull ache in your head that renders you numb to everything else. In a way, you forget about the emotional pain because you are so focused on the physical pain. Which means you will say yes to anything and anyone just to shut them up, which explains why the only thing I can think of doing as my mom barks orders like a drill sergeant scorned is to wince and nod silently.
Several hours later, I have one big No pile and two small Yes and Maybe piles. In the No pile are three pairs of sneakers (all gifts from The Ex—and yes, I shall start referring to him as The Ex from now on, despite the fact that he was given a real name by his parents and I’m sure they think it’s a very nice name), every single dress I wore to every single dinner date with The Ex (twelve, last time I checked), my four-inch heels (The Ex is tall and lean, while I am…short and clumsy), the red bag The Ex gave me from his recent trip to the States, and the shirt I was wearing when The Ex and I officially became a couple (out in my corner in the pouring rain). The Yes and Maybe piles are all stuff that either a) do not remotely remind me of him, b) remind me of him but are too expensive/unique/cute on me to throw away, or c) remind me of him, no longer fit me, and are ugly as hell, but have been with me since the beginning of time.
In the background, “Apologize” (the Timbaland-less and therefore more conducive to emo moments version) is playing over and over and over again. The ache in my head slowly but surely beginning to subside but just as slowly and surely beginning to be replaced by an entirely different kind of pain, I head downstairs to update my mom on my progress—and maybe convince her to let me leave the desk drawers for tomorrow.
When I sit down for breakfast the next day, I am so sure my entire family knows that The Ex is, well, now an ex. The silence is deafening, almost eerie, and in this house, silence is so rare it isn’t just golden, it’s priceless. I’m sure you can name at least one family within your social circle who isn’t quite up to Brady Bunch standards in terms of wholesome perkiness, but comes pretty darn close—you know, the kind of family who actually gets excited to see one another at the end of every single day, the kind of family who plans elaborate surprises for each other on birthdays and special occasions, the kind of family whose house is always buzzing with energy and a happy kind of chaos. My family is that kind of family. And although I will be eternally grateful for having them as constants in my life, the problem with all this family closeness is that there is absolutely no such thing as a secret. Whatever Mommy knows, she tells Daddy. Whatever Daddy knows, he passes on to the rest of the kiddos. That’s just how we roll. Privacy? What privacy?
Kuya Timmy clears his throat and politely asks me to pass the ketchup. The eight-year-old twin terrors, Benjamin and Beatrice, reach for the last piece of bacon at the same time, look at each other, and decide to offer the solitary strip of deep-fried fat to me.
Daddy stirs his coffee about two minutes longer than ne
cessary before saying, “Who wants to go to Tagaytay today?”
“Today?” Kuya Timmy asks. “I have soccer practice.”
Mommy shoots him a look. Not just any old look, but a Didn’t-We-Talk-About-This-While-Anna-Was-In-Her-Room look. We are always doing this, talking about family members who aren’t within hearing range, and then acting like weirdos when that family member comes in, enough to make him/her suspect that he/she was being talked about. It’s part of the whole family closeness package.
“...which, you know, I can skip,” he mutters. Poor guy. He’s a Lit major, writes poetry, and is like, ultra-sensitive for a boy. But he does have a healthy amount of testosterone and takes his sports very seriously, especially since his team is on a winning streak this season.
“Great!” Daddy’s voice comes off a bit too cheerful, even for someone my friends have dubbed Guy Smiley. “We leave at ten.”
Again, silence. Not a single peep of protest. Kuya Timmy stares out the window. Benjamin stares at Beatrice. Beatrice stares at me. Mommy stares at Daddy. Daddy whistles and stares at the ceiling.
Yep, they definitely know. Crap.
Rule number 2:
It’s okay to NOT be okay.
“So you didn’t talk about Jaime at all?” Chrissy, my best friend in the world, asks me.
“No,” I reply. We are sitting on the library steps on Monday morning, discussing the very strange Tagaytay trip and the even stranger way my family acted around me that weekend. I have just finished filling her in on all the throat-clearing, gaze-averting, and awkward silences. “It was a complete disaster. They were all looking at me like I was about to explode. Or go insane. Or jump out of the car and have my insides splatter all over South Luzon Expressway. On the way home, Beatrice remembered something funny The Ex did and was about to say something, but Benjamin poked her in the eye and she cried. She didn’t even poke him back! That, for me, was the clincher.”
Chrissy laughs. “You do realize you could have just made things easier by taking the initiative and answering all their unspoken questions, don’t you? I think we both know they were just concerned about you.”
“Of course I do,” I tell her. “But then where would the fun be in that?”
“Dude, you’re evil.” She laughs again. The thing about Chrissy is that she makes me feel like the most hilarious person alive, which is probably why we’re friends in the first place. We’ve been buddies for almost ten years now, and I still cannot understand how someone as smart and cool and charming as she is would ever notice someone like me, let alone be my best friend. “But seriously, Anna,” she says, “okay ka lang ba talaga?”
“Ano ba,” I snap, standing up and slinging my purple messenger bag over my shoulder. “Let’s go. We don’t want to be late for class.”
She looks up at me. “Answer the question, Anna.”
“I’m okay.” I fiddle with my bag’s straps. “Okay?” I add lamely.
She continues looking at me, taking her sweet time in making me squirm, until we hear the first bell ring. “Okay,” she finally echoes. I know her well enough to read the thought bubble dangling over her head: If you say so.
Rickie throws a Malteser at me, which I attempt to catch with my mouth. It lands on the sticky canteen floor, and I seriously consider picking it up. Wala pang five minutes. Sayang. But then if The Ex can throw away one year and three months just like that, then my definition of sayang obviously needs some major revising. Why am I feeling this way when he’s out there being fine and possibly moving on? (In the words of JT, can you tell me, is this fair?) Is he even thinking about me at all? I have not heard anything from him since The Breakup—not a hi, or a how are you, or a hey, are you still alive after I cruelly ripped your hopeful, unsuspecting heart from your chest and gleefully stomped on it? I crush the Malteser with my foot. Maybe he was giving me space. Or maybe he just doesn’t care about me anymore. Maybe he never did.
“You broke up?!” Rickie shrieks. “Why was I not informed of this? Hindi na ba tayo friends? I hate you, Anna!” She seems genuinely hurt and upset, like Anna and I have uncovered a mysterious relic pointing to evidence that she might have been the Queen of England in her past life, and have been keeping it from her for years in an attempt to steal the kingdom that is rightfully hers. Trust Rickie to make something as exclusive as my breakup about her.
“Ric, it’s been three days,” Chris tells her. “We were planning to tell you today; it’s not like we were hiding anything from you. Stop being such a drama queen and let Anna hog the spotlight for once.” I wanted dibs on telling Rickie to bug off, but I left the honor to Chrissy because when she says stuff like this, it comes off as witty and slightly endearing, not mean. Once, our Home Economics teacher mispronounced “hors d’oeuvres” for five whole weeks, and nobody had the heart (or the guts, for that matter) to correct her. At the end of the semester, only Chrissy could tell her, with a straight face and a sincerely compassionate tone, that when you say it as “horse-doov-res” in front of your entire class, it kind of becomes a running joke—YOU kind of become a running joke, actually—for months. And then she patted her on the back when she began sobbing.
“But YOU knew, didn’t you?” Rickie accuses.
“Of course she did,” I answer, resisting the urge to roll my eyes.
“Why?” she persists. “Why does she get to find out before I do?”
Gee, I’m not quite sure, I say in my head. Maybe because she’s my best friend, and you’re, oh, I don’t know...NOT? The fact that I held my tongue, boys and girls, exemplifies what you call supreme self-control. And speaking of self-control... I’ve had a surprisingly respectable amount of it in the past three days. When The Ex and I would fight, I’d usually be the one to apologize, no matter whose fault it was. I’d call him up in the dead of the night, asking him not to be mad at me anymore, even when I had no idea why he was mad at me. He’d grunt a reluctant “sige na, okay na tayo,” then ask me to please hang up so he can get some sleep. I always knew I shouldn’t let him get away with making me the default target of his crankiness (it usually turned out he wasn’t angry at me, but at someone or something else), but I couldn’t help it—I would have done anything for him. But these days, I don’t want to do anything. I don’t want to get drunk or go to a wild party or make out with random boys—not that I’ve ever wanted to. I don’t want to watch chick flicks or eat ice cream or get a haircut or buy out half of the mall. I don’t want cold, cruel revenge. I don’t want to see him suffer when karma catches up with him and kicks his ass. I don’t even want to talk to him right now, simply because it would be awkward and pathetic and I wouldn’t know what to say to him. Yes, there is self-control, preventing me from being stupid and acting like a desperate doofus in the manner most heartbroken people do. But there is also a weary numbness threatening to consume every inch of me: Isn’t there a way for me to skip straight to the part where I’m fine again?
“Okay, okay,” Rickie sniffs. “No need to explain anything. I forgive you.” And in an uncharacteristic fit of interest in someone other than herself, she asks, “But hey, how have you been holding up?”
“I’m great,” I tell her, the smile plastered on my face becoming increasingly familiar the more I use it, “Never been better.”
“Great!” she exclaims. How quickly we are to believe that our friends are okay, if only to spare us the responsibility of cheering them up and hauling them out of the darkness that is post-breakup depression. No matter how much you care for someone, the point where all the comforting and ego-stroking becomes a chore is inevitable. At some point, you will get tired of listening to this person whine about a broken heart, or a failed test, or a fight with her mom—at some point, you will start wanting this person to stop being a miserable brat and just get on with life. After all, there is only so much you can do as a friend, as an outsider. Rickie leans in to whisper, “It was his loss, anyway.” And how easy it is for us to believe that clichés such as this can actually make ev
erything better.
“I know,” I say. I’m getting pretty decent at this whole fake coping thing. “Thanks, Ric. That’s exactly what I needed to hear.”
Ways In Which The Ex Will Try to Get Back Together With Me:
Ligaw all over again, but the effort multiplied by ten. Flowers (a dozen yellow roses—never mind that I don’t really like flowers, it’s the thought that counts), chocolate (Royce flown in from Singapore), the works.
Uso pa ang harana. Dashboard Confessional’s “Stolen,” with a string quartet and Chris Carraba himself.
Write me a heartfelt letter and apologize for every single time he forgot to text me, or was late for a date, or made me feel like I wasn't pretty or smart or talented enough. Or thin enough. He thought it was funny, the way he was always patting my tummy and pinching my arms. (Note to self: Must hit the gym and cut down on the carbs!)
Treat my parents to dinner and explain to them that he was wrong—very, very wrong—but has seen the light and will never hurt their precious daughter again for the remainder of his stay on Earth.
Re-create that scene when we became a couple. One rainy night, he'll stand outside my house with a soggy bouquet and a heart heavy with longing for my elusive touch. But unlike before, I won't go out right away. And when I do, I'll only bring an umbrella for myself. Bwahaha!
Get on his knees, wrap his arms around my legs, and bawl like a baby.
Rule number 3:
Know that despite your heartbreak,
the world revolves without you—
and does not revolve around you.
The rest of the school day passes me by in a blur. I try to concentrate in class, take notes, listen to lectures, and participate in discussions. There are probably people out there who are going through bigger love problems and worse kinds of heartache, which means I have no right to slack off in pursuing my educational goals and possibly ruin my future. It would be uncharacteristically OA for me to think of this as the end of the world, because there are people out there whose husbands of twenty years have walked out on their families to run off with their twenty-one-year-old doe-eyed secretaries, whose fiances have gone ahead and hooked up with their best buds behind their backs, whose boyfriends have just realized they were irreversibly gay (come to think of it, that wouldn’t be so bad: contrary to popular opinion, I’d rather have a boyfriend break up with me because of another guy than break up with me because of another girl. At least we can be shopping partners, right? Also, I’d rather have my boyfriend leave me for someone less attractive, ugly even. Common notion has it that this means you and the new person are on the same level of attractiveness, which would be terribly insulting [i.e., ‘Yan lang?! ‘Yan lang ang pinalit mo sa ‘kin?]. But the way I see it, being prettier than the current girl gives you a gloating advantage [i.e., ‘Yan lang?! ‘Yan lang ang pinalit mo sa ‘kin?], and gives your self-esteem a much-needed boost. And as far as moving on with your dignity intact is concerned, I believe self-esteem boosts should always be a priority).
Every Girl's Guide to Heartache Page 1
