“Dylan, I think I’m going to have a heart attack,” I say, coming out of my room into the living room. Dylan’s playing something on the Xbox. Without looking up, he asks what’s wrong and I give him the highlights.
“You’ll do fine,” he says, finally putting the controller down. I watch him as he walks to the refrigerator and gets a soda.
Why does everyone say that when they don’t even know what’s going on? There’s NO way I’m going to do fine. People who freeze and can’t say a word out loud don’t do fine in public speaking classes!
I shake my head. “No way,” I say.
“Well, you were going to do it with Tristan, right? So why not me?” he asks.
“Because…there’s like a million reasons why not,” I say.
“Name one,” he challenges me.
“I don’t know.” I shrug. “But this is worse than being naked. In fact, I think I’d rather be naked with someone than do this.”
“Oh really?” His eyes light up in a mischievous way. “Well, then, we can arrange that.”
“Agh, you’re a pig.” I roll my eyes. “You know what I mean.”
“Okay, okay, I get it.”
“The thing is that I’m terrified. I can’t do it.” I shrug.
“But you were going to do it with Tristan?” he asks.
“I said I would. But I’m not sure I actually would have gone through with it. I think I was just going to try.”
“Well, why don’t you try for me?” Dylan asks. “I’ll help you. I’m great at speeches.”
“That doesn’t surprise me,” I say.
“I know right?” He laughs. “My dad says that I’m the king of bullshitting. That’s why he wants me to go to law school.”
“Wow, that’s a great reflection on this country’s legal system,” I say.
“Eh, I guess,” he says, unfazed. “I’m actually thinking of doing it. Seriously.”
“Wow, that is like the most honest, non-bullshitty conversation I think we’ve ever had,” I say.
“First time for everything,” he says sarcastically.
“So what’s keeping you back?” I ask. “From actually pursuing the path to law school?”
“Well, for one, there’s no real path. I mean, I can major in whatever and I won’t be taking the LSAT until my junior year,” he says. “But what’s really keeping me from it is that I know it’ll make my dad happy. And that’s the last thing I want.”
I smile. The moment has passed. Sincerity is out of the window. Now the real Dylan’s back.
“Okay, enough stalling,” he says. “I want to hear this toast.”
Dammit. I open my crumpled piece of paper. Clear my throat. As soon as my eyes drop down to the first line, at the top, my heart starts to pound loudly. Suddenly, it’s the only thing that I can hear in my head. I try to ignore it. I open my mouth. But nothing comes out. My throat is dry, like a desert. I feel like I haven’t drunk a drop of liquid in days.
“Okay, okay,” Dylan says, cutting off my suffering. He takes the paper out of my hand.
“Alice, look at me. Why are you so scared?” he asks. He’s staring straight into my eyes.
“I have no idea,” I whisper.
“Do you think I’m going to laugh at you? Mock you? Heckle you?” Dylan asks.
No, of course not. I shake my head. He waits for me to reply.
“I have no idea,” I mumble.
“Well, I’m not going to do any of those things. I’m here just to sit and listen and clap.”
Something about someone even listening scares the crap out of me.
“I hope not too attentively,” I say with a shrug.
“Why do you think that you’re so unimportant?” Dylan asks.
There’s clarity in his voice, the kind that only appears when you hit upon the truth. I guess a big part of me does think that I’m unimportant. I mean, I don’t even want anyone to hear what I have to say. That’s pretty pathetic.
“Okay, how about this?” Dylan changes tactics. “There are freshman in this class, right?”
I nod.
“Well, then they probably don’t even care what you have to say. They’re going to be checking their phones. Barely look up at you, let alone actually listen to you.”
“The thought of that does make me feel a lot better,” I say with a little sigh of relief. But quickly old fears creep in and whatever mild feeling of apathy I managed to scrounge up disappears.
“Okay, I don’t feel better anymore. Just as scared as before,” I tell him.
“This is crazy,” Dylan says with a smile. He shakes his head. I can see that he’s perplexed by this whole thing. “I didn’t know anyone could be in such bad shape,” he says, shaking his head. “Okay, let’s forget about this for a little bit.”
Dylan puts my pitiful, crumpled, and used up speech on the kitchen counter.
“What are you doing?” I ask. “Are you giving up on me? No, you can’t!”
Panic sets in. If he gives up on me then I have no one.
“No, I’m not giving up on you,” Dylan shakes his head. “We just need a break.”
He opens the fridge and hands me a beer.
“No, I can’t drink now,” I say, shaking my head. “I’m too freaked out by all this.”
“You have to. You’re psyching yourself out. It’ll make you feel better.”
“But I have this speech tomorrow. I need to figure out a way to get through it,” I say.
“And you will. But for now, you need to relax. And not freak out so much. Clear your head.”
Despite my better judgment, I end up having two beers. We watch Watch What Happens Live and play a drinking game along with Andy Cohen. I’m a real lightweight when it comes to drinking and even one drink gets me tipsy. So, after two, I’m nice and buzzed. My muscles loosen, my shoulders let up, and most importantly, my mind finally quiets down. I’m finally able to think in complete sentences – my thoughts are no longer running like crazy.
During a commercial break, Dylan hands me my speech.
“What are you doing?” I ask, laughing. He doesn’t say a word, just nudges it toward me.
At first, I pick up the paper as a joke. I laugh a little. I look down at my hands. I expect them to shake just like they did before, but they’re steady. I read the words. Much to my surprise, they all make sense. No thoughts of failure and disappointment trickle in. Instead, I feel a distinct sense of apathy. I don’t really care what Dylan thinks of what I have to say. It’s pretty good and that’s enough for me. Whatever he thinks can’t hurt me.
I start off by reading the first line. When it comes out right, I go on to the next. And the next. By the end of the first paragraph, I’m talking in a normal speaking voice. I’m even pausing for effect and looking up at Dylan to see if he’s paying attention. By the time I’m close to the end, whatever jitters I had are all gone. But not because I’m done speaking. But because I just don’t particularly care what Dylan thinks.
“Awesome!” Dylan says, clapping his hands after I finish. “That was amazing. You were amazing!”
“Wow.” I shake my head. For a moment, I have an out of body experience. I don’t feel like it was actually me who spoke up there.
“See, you can do this!” Dylan says, giving me a warm hug. “You just need to get out of your own way. Not think about the process so much. Let yourself go.”
6
The following afternoon, I arrive to public speaking class early. I’ve had two beers the hour before. It’s undeniable – I feel lose and confident and a little apathetic (and that’s a good thing, according to Dylan). But I also feel guilty. A big part of me, the one I try to suppress with all of my might, thinks this is cheating. I need to go into this cold or not at all. But I know what’s going to happen if I go in cold. If I couldn’t do it in front of Dylan, there’s no way I’m going to be able to do it in front of a room of strangers and Professor Milner.
I need to get this over with, I say t
o myself. The sooner the better. So when Professor Milner asks for volunteers, I raise my hand. Without two beers in me, I would never volunteer for this. Instead, I would pray that I wouldn’t be called on next and if time runs out in class, I would take a big sigh of relief and then fret and worry about this for another week. But now, I’m different. I’m braver. Bolder. Not so afraid.
I go up to the podium. A class of thirty or so bored kids stare back at me. Professor Milner gives me a nod of encouragement. The girl in the front row types frantically on the phone. I can do this, I say to myself.
“Okay, everyone,” I start. My voice is confident, self-assured. Just how it was last night. “Can I have your attention please?” I say. I’m giving a toast, and I pretend that I’m holding a glass in my left hand.
“I’d like to take this opportunity and congratulate Dylan and Peyton on their upcoming wedding. I’ve known Dylan for many years, ever since he was my roommate freshman year in college. Over the years, we grew up, changed, but one thing remained the same, steadfast: his love for Peyton. Anyone who knows them knows that they’ve had their share of breakups, but instead of letting that tear them apart, each breakup somehow made them stronger. I’ve had the privilege of knowing this couple for many years now and I know that they have loved each other for many, many years. Ever since high school. How many of us can say that we met the love of our lives in high school? Not many, that’s for sure. So, let’s put our glasses up in honor of this blessed union. I love you both.”
When I’m done, everyone in the class claps. I’m stunned. I still can’t believe that I actually did that – spoke out loud for a significant amount of time in front of a group of people. Did this really happen or am I going to wake up any minute now and realize that I still have to do the speech in a few hours?
As I make my way back to my desk, I feel my heart filling with pride. Who was that girl speaking so confidently in front of a room of strangers? It’s not every day that you surprise yourself.
The girl who was texting during my speech gets up to give hers. My mind continues to spin, but in a good way. I’m in awe. In addition to my shock that I actually got through the toast in one piece, I’m also surprised about the content of the speech.
This was not the toast that I wrote the week before. And it wasn’t the toast that I practiced with Dylan last night. No, that toast was for Tristan on his birthday. But today at lunch, completely on a whim, I took five minutes and wrote a toast to Dylan. I wanted to thank him for helping me with the speech. I wouldn’t have survived today were it not for him. I didn’t have a good reason to thank him for anything, so I switched it up and wrote a wedding toast.
* * *
“Professor Milner actually said that I did a good job,” I brag to Dylan that evening.
Tristan’s warming up some soup in the microwave.
“Oh, was that today?” Tristan asks. He hadn’t asked me about it before.
I hate the absentminded look on his face. I want to throw my plate at his head. But I restrain myself. This is my time to celebrate. This is a good thing. I’m in a good place. I’m on cloud nine. And nothing he does or doesn’t do will change that.
“I’m sorry, I completely forgot,” Tristan says.
I ignore him.
“Dylan, I was amazing. I had no inhibitions. Okay, very little. I said everything I wanted to say. And all the words came out right. I even paused for dramatic effect!”
“That’s great,” Dylan grins ear to ear. “I knew you could do it.”
“I knew you could do it, too,” Tristan butts in.
“You should’ve heard her toast, Tristan,” Dylan says. “It was to you on your birthday. She had really nice things to say.”
“No, actually, it wasn’t,” I say.
“What? But that’s what we had practiced.”
“I know. But when I was going over it again at lunch, it just felt…off. So, I rewrote it. I congratulated you and Peyton on your upcoming wedding.”
“What?!” Dylan gasps. Tristan also seems to be taken aback. “That’s a scary thought,” Dylan jokes.
“I know, I’m sorry. I just wanted to thank you. And a wedding toast sounded right.”
“Just as long as it’s pretend,” Dylan says, laughing all the way back to his room.
I’m about to walk back toward my room as well, but Tristan catches up with me.
“Hey listen, I’m so, so sorry about this whole thing. I said I’d help and I didn’t.”
I shrug. I don’t want to say that it was no big deal because it was. But I also don’t want to get into all this right now.
“I was just swamped with work and classes. But I know, it’s no excuse,” Tristan says.
“I honestly don’t know what I would’ve done were it not for Dylan. You really let me down,” I say. “And Dylan saved me.”
There’s so much more to say. It’s only the second week and Tristan’s schedule is already impossible. I hate his new internship. I want him to quit. We don’t have any time for each other and we’re in college. If we don’t have time for each other now, when will we?
But I don’t say any of those things. I don’t want to cloud my celebration with a fight. Or even a disagreement.
7
The night after my first speech, Tristan promises to make more time for me. Unfortunately, he doesn’t keep it. He continues to come back home later and later over the next few weeks. Sometimes, even after midnight.
Eventually, I stop waiting up for him. And I rarely see him in the mornings, too. He’s usually gone before I get up.
“Honestly, I don’t know how he survives on so little sleep,” I finally vent to Juliet one night. “I don’t know what’s going on. He can’t be working all this time, right?”
It’s Monday night and we’re watching The Daily Show and Tristan’s still not back.
“I have a few friends who dated stockbrokers,” she says. “And they do work crazy hours.”
“What about that guy you had a date with? Did he?” I ask.
“I don’t know.” She shrugs. “I just saw him once.”
I shake my head. Something doesn’t feel right.
“So you think it’s fine?” I ask.
“Well, they work crazy hours, but not this crazy.”
“He says that he has to go out every night because that’s what everyone does,” I say. Somehow those words make a lot more sense when they come from him. It sounds completely unconvincing when I say it.
“Hey! I have an idea,” Juliet says. I spot a dangerous twinkle in her eyes.
“What?” I ask cautiously.
“Why don’t we follow him?”
“No,” I say, shaking my head. “I’m not one of those jealous girlfriends.”
“I know you don’t want to see yourself like that, but difficult times call for dangerous measures,” Juliet says. “Or however that saying goes.”
I’m not convinced. I can’t go along with this. Don’t get me wrong, I want to know the truth. But I also don’t. I know my heart will break if he’s lying…and then what?
I shake my head no, decisively. I can’t do this.
“You’re entitled to know the truth, Alice. I mean, what if he’s screwing around on you? Don’t you want to know that?”
No, not really, I want to say. I’d rather not know it. But that sounds old-fashioned and hopeless and pathetic. And, most of all, not true. Because I do want to know. I just don’t want to want to know.
“And if it’s nothing then you won’t be worrying about this so much. It’s a win-win.”
“It sounds like a lose-lose, actually,” I say. “But okay.”
* * *
The following evening, we take a cab to The Martini. It’s a bar that Tristan mentioned to me a couple of times, the place that they all go to after work for happy hour, the place where they don’t card people in suits.
It’s raining and I’m reluctant on putting on a costume but Juliet insists. So I arrive at The Martini
in professional-height heels, a white blouse, a black mini-skirt and my jacket. It’s the closest thing I have to an office wardrobe and even this one I had to compile from Juliet’s closet.
Juliet still straightens and then curls her hair and puts on fake lashes but I take a more relaxed approach. Eye shadow, eyeliner, mascara, lipstick. That’s enough. If this night goes badly, I don’t need to look like a clown when it all starts streaming down my face.
We walk into the bar around 6:30. It’s still relatively empty and we find a dark, quiet table all the way in the back. This is a stakeout, so he’s not supposed to see us immediately, if at all. Juliet quickly orders us two dirty martinis on the rocks with extra olives. On the way over, I promised myself that I would stay sober during this, but one drink doesn’t mean I’ll be drunk. When it arrives, I cave. I need something to calm my nerves. And it fits the bill.
We wait and sit for a while before we see them. I’m not sure how long exactly, except that I finish my martini and Juliet finishes two. And then I see him.
Tristan, dressed in a suit, holds the door open for a woman. She’s wearing a bright red peacoat and high-heel boots. She tosses her hair from side to side as if she’s in a Pantene commercial.
“Who’s that?” Julie asks.
“I don’t know.” I shrug. “Maybe this girl Kathryn.”
“Who’s Kathryn?”
“Just someone he works with.”
“Well, I’m not sure that girl has ever been a ‘just someone’ ever,” Juliet says.
I know exactly what she means. That girl is drop-dead gorgeous. She has light brown hair and expensive-looking highlights. She sits across from Tristan, facing us, and we get a clear view of her. She’s beautiful. A small delicate mouth, high cheekbones, a perfectly-contoured face.
“She reminds me of someone,” Juliet says.
I shrug. I’m more interested in the way that she’s leaning toward Tristan and laughing at everything he says.
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