I’m so thoroughly shaken out from my haze of desire that it takes me only a moment to contemplate my self hate before I’m able to bite back with my own thoughts about our confusing feelings.
“I’m sorry,” I shout, “after yesterday’s very clear sign of you dragging me to my room all caveman like and undressing me I thought that’s what you wanted from me! And screw you for thinking I’m just using you!” I am and we both know it, I’m just not ready to admit it so I’ll continue to fight against him and all of the other uncomfortable truths in my life until I no longer can.
When I finish my rant all he does is shake his head in surrender. Now I’m scared because Ashton’s never surrendered before where I’m concerned, not once, not ever! He’s always called me on my shit and that’s exactly why we’ve always worked. He knows I need that kind of push back in order to be authentic. But right now his yielding to me means something and I don’t think I’m going to like what that something is one little bit.
Without looking me in the eyes he says, “It doesn’t matter anymore Cee. The reason I came here last night solves our problem. Remember last week when I was M.I.A?” Ah, is he kidding me? It was a near death experience for me, one I never want to experience again.
He looks up finally and I can see that he’s got more to say so I just shake my head in confirmation and wait for him to continue. “Well, I didn’t tell you but at one of my gigs a girl cornered me after my set (tell me something I didn’t know) and offered me a job to come and be the lead singer of her band.” WHAAA? “I thought she was joking until she invited me to a gig of theirs the next night, you know, so I could see what they were all about; meet the rest of the group. Anyway, their current lead is moving in a different direction and they need a replacement.”
NO! I cover my ears before he can finish but it doesn’t help, I can hear his voice anyway through my stupid, not-soundproof palms.
“They want me.” Looking for my reaction he stops on those last words to let them digest.
My body is beginning to do its fight or flight thing, and I can feel on instinct alone that it’s about to get real up in here. I know what he’s going to say, I just don’t know what it means, for me… for us. When he sees I’m still breathing he finishes me off with the final blow, “I took it Cee… last night. I accepted the offer.”
“Okay,” I shake out as uncontrollable fear settles in my stomach before I ask the final question, the one that instinct tells me is going to end incredibly bad for me, “then why do I feel like I’m not going to be happy at the end of this conversation? What are you not telling me Ash?”
“The band’s from Arizona, HotPants. I’m leaving…”
eight (not so great)
Twenty-four hours ago I had a best friend who was always there for me and my dog, the dog who supposedly shares in a piece of his soul. Well you could’ve fooled us, oh wait, HE DID! Without any thought to how this enormous life decision would affect me (demolish me) he did the most selfish thing imaginable and chose some band over us, his family! As soon as the words “I’m leaving” spewed from his mouth I ran to the bathroom and did the same thing with my breakfast and lunch.
Ashton ran after me and did his usual washcloth to the neck, back rubbing ssh-ing routine that, up until this point, always soothed and calmed me down while we waited for the storm to pass. But not this time, this storm morphed me into a seething, shouting, merciless monster as soon as I was no longer face-planted in the toilet.
“GET OUT! GET OUT... GET OUT… GET OUT!” My body thrashes wildly at him. My limbs are on a rage free-for-all, pushing him away, arms swinging, leg’s kicking. Huh? This must be what they mean when they say “outer-body experience” because, without a doubt, I am out of my body, rage the only thing left occupying my human shape.
“NO! I won’t leave you like this.” He shouts back.
My assault continues but I stop hitting and switch up my technique as I methodically shove him inch-by-inch, using as much force as my small body can muster until we’re finally at the front door. Master is behind me the entire time, barking along with the rhythmic cadence my thrashes are creating, communicating his betrayal as well as my own.
When Ash sees we’ve made it to the door he grabs onto my trembling, fatigued arms with tears streaming down his beautiful face matching my own, willing me to see what this choice has done to him as well as to me and Master. I turn my face away from his miserable gaze unable to look back at him without seeing anything other than the rejection he’s presented to us, breaking not only my fragile heart, but the last tiny bit of faith I had in anyone other than myself or Master.
“Forgive me,” he says, panic laced heavily through his words in a final attempt to remind me of our friends-no-matter-what pact that we made two long decades ago. Unfortunately his actions have forever voided that pact and I’m no longer willing to let him hurt me. It’s over. So, when I hear thunder boom on the other side of my door, my shield, I decide to believe it’s my father, shouting from the unforgiving skies, informing Ashton that it’s time to leave, he’s no longer welcome here. He must feel my resolve because he drops my arms and turns away, with an overwhelming sense of defeat marring his natural steady posture.
I refuse to turn my head and watch him go or to even give him the courtesy of a final goodbye. Instead, I will let my silence illustrate the pain I feel, my tears the torment. Unable to bear even the thought of my best friend’s back walking out my door and away from me for the very last time, I turn to leave him to it and head down the hall. Master huffs out a sigh of defeat and follows along behind me, nudging my fingers with his muzzle in need of the solacing stroke he knows I’ll give him. As I enter my room I hear the faint creaking of the front door being pulled shut. From this point forward that terrible, splitting sound will forever be the symbol of the closing bell of our broken friendship.
***
The days following Ashton’s betrayal have felt dreamlike. I’ve woken many times on my closet floor, laptop open beside me, staring at the image of my father on the screen, desperate for his comfort and wisdom. But he’s gone as well. So, for seconds that turn to minutes, minutes that turn to hours and hours that turn to days and weeks, I exist as half. Half of myself, half of a familiar pair, half of a life I knew how to navigate. Now I’m left with a miserable, heartbroken dog, a box of half chewed up tampons, my period looming, and a life I no longer know how to live. The thoughts that continue to loop through my head are these, “How will I get food? How will I get tampons? Who will walk Master (pizza guy?) Will I die a virgin?” And the biggest one of all, “will I ever truly live again?”
Although I have been stuck inside the past couple of years I’ve been able to live vicariously through Ashton’s full and entertaining life that continued on the outside of the well-sealed walls I so painstakingly constructed and lived happily (let me dream) within. His crazy stories, impromptu, silly melodies that woke me in the mornings and relentless harassing to journey back into the world of the living were all things that brought me hope. Because of Ashton I lived with the illusion that I was still needed in the world simply because someone like him chose to spend so much of his time with a shut-in like myself. I was content with that. As long as he was happy and still coming around then I was okay, never great, but always okay. But, not this time. This time his happiness decided to come and stomp all over my okay.
The first couple of days my phone binged away with messages from my brother, but recently they’ve been coming in much more energetically. Actually, he’s been relentless. After reading one that said he’d seen Ashton play with his new band the other night and that he REALLY needed to talk to me I promptly erased the message and hid the phone under my pillow. I knew what that meant; a total idiot does not a shut-in make.
Piecing the puzzle together was simple. Ashton must have told Connor that he was leaving and then he probably relayed the story of my reaction and now my big brother thinks he can swoop in here and save the day. They al
l want to rescue the pathetic damsel in distress, but they can all suck it because that ship has sailed. I may be in distress but I will no longer be anyone’s damsel or anyone’s project. I’m perfectly capable of figuring out solutions to my own problems and I will as soon as I can find the capacity to think again. Then, I’m going to get right on that.
There is, however, one rather large positive that’s come out of Ashton’s leaving: Mrnotsosmall and I have been getting a lot cozier lately. Not cozy in the cuddly traditional way that you think of when you think of two people getting cozy but in the ‘I can no longer play video games without you anymore’ kind of way. Some may call this behavior transference but I’m not one of those people. I’d like to think of it more like me becoming more evolved, open to my own personal fulfillment, no longer content living through someone else’s existence.
I thought things were going really well for us, Mrnotso and myself. I mean, he seemed interested in my character’s life and sometimes hinted at more personal things. Like this one time he was all, “I love the thing you do with your voice when you take down a target. It’s this really great growling sound not many girls can pull off, but you do and it’s awesome.” HELLO PEOPLE, THAT’S CALLED FLIRTING!
Then, two days later he found me on Halo and after we kicked serious alien ass together for like two hours straight he finally told me what he did for a living, well he kind of told me when he mentioned he was going to be late for his shift at the hospital if he didn’t “bug-out now”. That means he’s either a: doctor (Whoop whoop!), a nurse (whoop), a radiologist (cool), an anesthesiologist (snore, hee-hee, get it? Snore?), a janitor (please no, though it’s for sure a noble profession), a cafeteria worker (shit, but also very needed), a gurney operator (oh my gosh, this could be true) or maybe a… a… morgue worker (NOOOOOO! That just freaks my freak!).
Then something happened that burst the seemingly perfect, monogamous, love-bubble that we were so happily living within. The British invaded. I’ll explain.
Last night we’re in the middle of a take on the Vietnam War, deep in the jungle, when out of nowhere this beautiful, melodious female voice comes giggling through my headset, “I’m here, darling,” it says in its perfectly lovely voice. Followed by, “did you miss me like I missed you and your very outstanding mrnotsosmall?” I knew what she meant by that, she does NOT have a video game handle so she was definitely referring to his other Mrnotsosmall! SLUT!
“Hey, listen Pretty” (he’d recently started calling me that for short. He’d assigned me a nickname for goodness sakes! All women know that means we’re getting serious!) “I’ve got a friend in from out of town, actually from out of the country, so I won’t be on for a couple of days. She likes my undivided attention. Hey!” he shouts at her. She slapped him playfully when he said that like he was saying she’s needy. SHE IS NEEDY, RUN MR.! RUN!
“Anyway, like I was saying before I was so rudely interrupted,” more of the damn British giggling, “I’ll see you in a couple of days. Your KDR’s (for those of you who forgot, that’s my kill-to-death ratio) are insane recently. You’re on some kind of crazy roll, so keep it up while I’m gone.”
“You know it,” I’m going for fun & unaffected here but I feel nowhere in the ballpark of either. “Have fun for me,” WHAT THE HELL AM I SAYING! NO! NO FUN! I’m all set in the fun department!
“Don’t you worry those pretty little panties because I plan on it! Talk soon!”
Does he have to sound so damn happy about the fun? Without another word he clicks his headset off and his player tag disappears from the screen. When a girl can’t even rely on her fake boyfriend anymore her world starts to feel completely out of sync and we all know in-sync is what I need (P.S. loved that boy-band, I wouldn’t mind some of that. What the hell is wrong with me?). Anyway that’s the story of how I got to the place I’m visiting this morning, the place I like to boldly call I get it. My life sucks.
Master’s on the floor giving me his very best ‘too bad for you’ face, but not because of the rejection I’m currently suffering, no. This snarky face is a direct retaliation for my inability to take him for a damn walk. So now not only am I dealing with the rejection of my true love but also with the contempt of my dog who’s wallowing in the deep-end of his own pity party and is happy to now rub my face in the proverbial, ‘doesn’t feel so good does it?’ pile I’ve found myself in. The last time Ashton went AWOL was bad, but those three measly days seem like a cake-walk in comparison to this nightmare.
The once quaint (tiny as hell) backyard I loved is now covered in the leftovers of Master’s mammoth sized poo’s that I’ve been picking up daily but am never quite able to get all of. It’s a poo nightmare. The smell lingers between the tiny individual green blades that are no longer able to stand up to his daily onslaught. We’re officially in unchartered territory and Ashton’s loss is most definitely not our gain.
“Master, mommy would love to take you out. You have no idea how badly I actually want to go out myself, but... alas, I cannot.” (I may have just fake swooned in a show of my desperation for the dog. I’m bored.)
“We’re just going to have to make do, no pun intended, and use what we’ve got. I know! How about a treat?” Usually this gets me a great big jumpy, ‘I’m excited’ doggy reaction but I’ve been using treats as a distraction too often lately and he’s totally figured me out. Unfortunately, even his favorite treats have lost their luster and now he seems impartial. I never thought I’d see the day. Hell has, in fact, frozen over. Those fat ladies are at last all sung out and the pigs, they are a flyin’…
He begrudgingly accepts the pity treat from my traitorous hand and when he turns to walk away I notice his tale is lying limp, almost dragging along the floor, sagging. It’s the perfect reflection of my heart, saggy and limp.
Caffeine and sugar always help with a hangover so I make myself a cup, sit at the circular oak dining table that was once in my childhood home and hope to find some solace in its warmth. As I look down at the cup, pleading for it to do its intended job and fix me I see it, the word Ashton etched there so many years ago:
Hotpants
That day (sigh…). I’ll never forget that day. To say that my father was furious would be the understatement of the century. Ash was band from my room for a total of seven days and was only allowed back in when my father was convinced there was no “hanky-panky” going on in there. After a week of ‘I’m sorry’ and ‘I was only trying to make her laugh’ dad finally took pity on the poor kid and let him back in but it was only after he’d come to the decision on his own that nothing was going on between Ash and I every night when we were left alone in my room.
***
“What are you making me for dinner there, Hotpants?” This is a new term Ash’s been experimenting with lately. He’s always trying to ruffle my feathers with his derogatory nicknames, but joke’s on him because it’s not working this time, I rather like this one. I find it to be flattering. Who doesn’t want to be hot in their pants, right ladies?
“I’m making all of us dinner, not just you, lover-boy, and you’ll see what I’m making when I’ve finished. It’s a big day. Dad will be home soon and I want everything perfect for our celebration. Cancer-free for five years is a big deal!”
“I didn’t say it wasn’t. I just think we should celebrate after we talk to your dad, that’s all I’m trying to say. Calm down girl.”
“I am calm. Go do something and stop watching me and my hot pants, you’re making me nervous,” just for fun I turn and whip him a good one on the thigh with the kitchen towel that I have slung over my shoulder. It makes a nasty swack sound and I know it burned. I bet right about now he’s wishing that he hadn’t taught me that handy little trick.
Rubbing his leg, he looks up at me with a cocky grin before he continues, “Fine, I’ll go. But it’s funny, I was under the impression my stare didn’t make you nervous.
Guess you’re more like the rest of the ladies than you thought. My guitar n
eeds tuning. I’ll be in your room. Come get me when pops gets here would ya?”
With that he struts out of the room like the stud he believes himself to be. Douche. He’s just trying to make himself feel better because he knows more than anyone that his infamous charm doesn’t work on me. That ship sailed after I destroyed his leather pants last year. I woke up the next morning thanking the vomit gods who were responsible for saving our relationship. Romance of any kind would ruin everything we have and I’d never be able to live with myself if I was the one responsible for destroying us.
Thirty minutes later, with the sound of Ashton’s guitar in the foreground, I’m setting out the dishes when I finally notice what he’s done to our tabletop. While he was watching me cook he’d been etching my new nickname into the wood in front of the spot where I sit as a sort of permanent place marker, and though my dad will probably be livid, I kinda love it. It’s his way of letting me know that Hotpants will forever be my moniker. The thing I love most is that I think he waited until I was happy with his choice before solidifying it permanently. Sometimes, he’s not such a douche.
***
So today when I sit at ‘my spot’ and look down at the pet name reflected back at me on the once shiny oak table I can’t help but be reminded of the healthy relationship that I once had with not only Ashton but with my own life. In that etching I am reminded of the girl I used to be, the girl who went outside, who took for granted the simple things in life like walking Ashton’s lab Cindy on beautiful days and who was game to try almost anything at least once. Simply put, she was fearless and she had hot pants. Today that girl would be (and is) so disappointed in the pathetic woman she’s slowly morphed into over the years. I know because, I am.
Single Player: Humor, Love, Breast Cancer and a Gaming Girl... Page 10
