by Penny Reid
But playing angry music on an acoustic guitar is completely dissatisfying, so I stopped. What I needed were drums.
The next week was really strange. Sam said I was in mourning, but somehow I felt like the one who was dead. Life became mostly periods of calm detachment infrequently interrupted by flashes of intense and painful chaos.
Toward the end of this endless week of insignificant moments, I wondered why anyone would want to fall in love. Falling in love sucked—figuratively, it sucked the life out of me, left me hollow, a desolate wasteland of suckage.
Except when I played my guitar.
So I played my guitar, but instead of playing angry music, I played guitar suites—mostly classical—but somehow made them sound angry.
I also ignored George’s messages about the Sunday family agenda. As well I skipped the Sunday call, though I did give my cell phone the double finger salute when it rang. Then I played my guitar.
On the Monday one week after the break up, I was a hot mess. I hadn’t been showering…much. But I took comfort in small accomplishments, like brushing my teeth once a day and making it to my classes.
Going to class gave me something to focus on. As well, before my vector calculus class, I received a huge shock when I overheard that someone in Martin’s fraternity had been kicked out of school and arrested for attempted rape and assault of a minor.
“Who?” I asked loudly, not caring that this question would label me as an unabashed eavesdropper.
The two guys glanced over their shoulders at me, apparently found me harmless in my sweatpants, tangled hair, and stained Lord of the Rings T-shirt, then turned toward me so I could be included in the conversation.
The ginger spoke first. “One of the crew guys, Salsmar. His picture is in the paper if you really want to know and there’s supposed to be a video. They’re not releasing the name of the girl ’cause turns out she’s underage.”
Benjamin Salsmar. Ben. Ben the rapist.
Oh my God!
My stomach dropped. I felt like such a terrible person. I should have called the police about Ben as soon as I arrived back on campus. But I’d forgotten and given myself over to personal drama and now someone had suffered because of me.
Ugh…just, ugh!
“Just another fraternity fuckup,” the darker-haired boy said derisively. “It would be news if this kind of shit didn’t happen all the time. Show me a fraternity guy who doesn’t rape girls, that would be a shocker.”
“Yeah,” the ginger nodded, adding, “it’ll be newsworthy if Salsmar actually gets convicted. Usually these guys get a bailout from their daddy and a slap on the wrist.”
“But with the video?” I pressed. “If they have a video, then surely he’ll see some jail time?”
They both shrugged, like power, money, and influence mattered more than hard and tangible evidence. Then class started and our impromptu gossip fest was over.
But I couldn’t focus on class because I had ants in my pants. I was sure Martin had orchestrated Ben’s arrest, or at least had been responsible for making sure it was caught on tape.
***
By the end of the third week after the breakup, I was showering semi-daily and I hadn’t cried in seven days. I’d also lost fifteen pounds…not even cookies could hold my interest. I hadn’t returned any of my mother’s calls, nor had I participated in Sunday family meetings.
I was once again hiding in closets. After class I would walk back to my dorm, step into my closet, and shut the door. Sometimes I would bring my guitar and play my own compositions and improvisations. All the songs were morose.
I hadn’t seen or heard from Martin and everything still hurt. His absence was everywhere. Therefore, sitting in the darkness and enjoying the lack of sensation, the lack of feeling was a relief.
I was not getting better; things weren’t getting easier. Life was various levels of blah and horrifically painful.
As such, things went from blah to horrifically painful in the middle of the afternoon on Thursday. I was walking home intent on spending some quality time in the blackness of my closet when I saw him.
My feet stopped moving on their own, and I told myself not to blink or breathe, just in case he was a mirage. I didn’t realize until that moment how hungry I was for a glimpse of him. Even though it hurt to the depths of my melodramatic and tortured soul, I stared at Martin.
He was sitting in the student union at a circular table. His big hands were in his hair and he was studying papers on the table before him. Next to Martin sat a very pretty blonde in a grey business suit, a black leather attaché case on the chair next to her. I noted that she looked about ten or so years older than me, but I wondered how much of that was the suit and makeup and air of professionalism.
Meanwhile he looked just the same. His hair was a little messy, but that was probably because he’d been pulling his fingers through it. But his color was fine. He looked fine. He looked perfectly fine.
I forced myself to take a breath and move to the wall, out of the flow of pedestrian traffic. My brain re-booted after close to a minute of standing and staring like a crazy person at my…at my Martin.
But he wasn’t my Martin.
A fresh wave of pain pierced my chest and I struggled to inhale. It felt like someone had stabbed me, right through the heart. Every beat was a sluggish ache.
He wasn’t my anything. And he looked perfectly fine. He was fine and I was a mess because he’d never loved me and I’d allowed myself to fall completely in love with him…like a complete idiot.
Cold certainty and acceptance was a bitter but necessary salve to the open wound I’d been carrying around. It was just as Sam said: he wasn’t capable of love. I was wasting my time, both staring at him now and pining for him over the last three weeks. Everything about my time with Martin Sandeke had been a waste of time.
A truly desolate yet comforting numbness wrapped around me like a blanket. I embraced it. Hell, I slathered myself in it and wanted to have its babies. It was armor and a weapon, and finally, finally a tool to combat feeling like an exposed nerve. I was so tired of being vulnerable and helpless.
At last, after indulging myself with one more look—noting with calm detachment that he was now smiling at the woman, and she was laughing at something he’d said—I shook my head to clear it of his image and turned away.
I hadn’t smiled in over three weeks. But I hadn’t cried in seven days and I wasn’t going to cry today. Furthermore, I decided I was never going to cry over Martin Sandeke again.
I decided to take the long way through the student union building rather than walk within feet of his table. The long way took me by a cluster of vending machines, so I stopped and decided to grab a bottle of Dr. Pepper and some peanut M&M’s. I couldn’t actually remember the last time I’d eaten and that was completely unacceptable. I loved food and I’d allowed Martin to suck the joy out of every facet of my life.
I was putting a stop to his joy-sucking right now and I was going to use the magic of food to do it.
I fished two crisp dollar bills from my wallet and had just claimed my lunch of champions when I felt a hand on my shoulder.
I glanced at the owner, expecting to find a fellow student asking for change. Instead my eyes connected with Martin’s. I was surprised, but so completely numb at this point that I’m sure my expression betrayed nothing but indifference.
I did note that he looked great. Really, really great. Beautiful even. He glowed, like he always had. He was dressed in a black T-shirt, the graphic image on the front depicted some rowing scene, and dark jeans. I noted that he never wore skinny jeans; this was probably because his thighs were too muscular and skinny jeans were for skinny guys. He would never be skinny.
Granted, his expression wasn’t happy, but he didn’t look like he’d been suffering. He wasn’t fifteen pounds lighter and white as a sheet. His eyes weren’t bloodshot. His hands weren’t shaking. He appeared to be angry but nowhere near heartbroken, at least not th
e version I saw in the mirror every morning.
I felt like throwing up.
Averting my eyes, I tried to step around him, but he countered and halted my progress.
He moved as though he were going to grab my wrist so I stopped and yanked my arm out of his reach, rocking backward. Since I was basically trapped in the vending machine alcove, I turned my face to the side, inspected the wall, and gave him my profile.
At length he asked, “Will you look at me?”
I tensed. Hearing his voice did something terrible. It broke through this new barrier, the detachment I’d embraced. Therefore I didn’t want to look at him again. I was finally exhibiting control over my feelings and I couldn’t take the chance. I suspected looking at him now would hurt like a motherfucker.
And apparently, in addition to discovering that just seeing someone can cause physical pain and illness, I was discovering the cathartic and necessary nature of curse words. Despite my expansive vocabulary, there existed no other way to describe how much it would hurt to look at Martin.
In my peripheral vision I sensed movement and I flinched away before he could touch me. I crossed my arms over my chest.
“Goddammit,” he seethed. His anger and frustration settled over us, a dark, accusatory cloud.
We stood like that for a minute and I imagined I was building an actual wall of bricks between us. I’d volunteered for three summers during high school with Habitat for Humanity and I could build a heckofa brick wall.
He broke the stalemate. “Talk to me, Parker.”
I shook my head and closed my eyes, pressing my lips together in a firm line. Despite the sounds of college life around us I could hear him breathe. He wasn’t breathing loudly, it’s just I could hear it. And it reminded me of the times he’d held me on the boat. I pushed that thought from my mind before it made me cry—because it would make me cry—and turned my attention back to the fictional brick wall.
“You look like shit,” he said.
Yeah, it was a crappy thing to say. But it was so Martin. So thoughtless and candid. I did look like shit. And I realized that Martin wasn’t a very nice person, not even to me. He was honest first and foremost; sometimes his honesty meant he said nice things to me. But he was never nice for the sake of being nice, or polite because he wanted to spare my feelings. Not once.
I wondered if it even occurred to him that I had feelings…
“Have you been eating?” He shuffled a step forward, his tone nonchalant, almost friendly. “You need a sandwich, let me buy you lunch.”
I opened my eyes, affixed them to the floor, but remained silent. Seeing him had satisfied some fundamental—and likely unhealthy—need to witness how he was dealing with the breakup. Was he as tortured and ruined as me? I had my answer and now I couldn’t wait to never see him again.
Unexpectedly he blurted, “If you don’t talk to me I’ll go crazy.”
His words were quiet but rough, as though torn from his chest. They certainly had the effect of tearing at my chest. Searing pain flared in my stomach and I had to count to ten before I could breathe again.
I said nothing. Had this happened before today, had he approached me even one hour earlier, I likely would have burst into tears and begged him to take me back. But, for better or for worse, seeing him moments ago looking so well had flipped my off switch. I’d finally accepted we were over—mostly due to the fact that we never truly were.
“I love you.” He exhaled the words and I almost believed him. He was so close I could feel the breath fall over my face, a whispered caress that pierced my heart and stomach, ripping and shredding. He repeated, “I love you.”
Then he touched me, his hands cupping my face.
“Don’t.” I tried to jerk my head away but he held me tighter, stepping into me and backing me against the wall.
I lifted my eyes but couldn’t raise them above his neck as he tilted my chin up and pressed his lips to mine. He kissed me. I didn’t kiss him back, holding onto my earlier resolve and numbness like a lifeline. His forehead fell against mine and he held me there, breathing my air.
“Please talk to me. Please.”
“There is nothing to say.” I was gratified by the hollow quality and steadiness of my voice.
“I need you.”
I shook my head in denial, because I knew he didn’t. If he needed me then he wouldn’t have let me go, he would have chosen us over revenge. If he needed me then he wouldn’t have been able to smile at pretty blondes and look exactly the same as he had three weeks ago after a vacation in the Caribbean.
“You need to leave me alone,” I responded through clenched teeth.
“I can’t.” He pressed his lips to mine again, taking another kiss, lingering there like he was afraid to move, like it would be the last time. He spoke against my mouth. “I can’t leave you alone. It’s been almost a month and you’re all I think about.”
“That’s a lie.”
“No, goddamn you, it isn’t! Haven’t you noticed me following you? Haven’t you seen me outside your dorm, waiting for you? Fucking hell, Parker, you never see me, you never have, but that doesn’t mean I’m not there.”
I gripped his wrists and pulled his hands from my face, twisting away and seeking to put distance between us. His words were confusing because I did see him, just moments ago, smiling at someone else and appearing completely fine. I didn’t want his words. I didn’t want anything from him.
Despite my certainty and earlier pledge, I felt the beginning of a chin wobble and a stinging moisture behind my eyes. “If I’m all you think about then are you ready to tell the world your father is an evil asshole and being with me is not an alliance between our families?”
This was met with silence and the silence fed my detachment.
I huffed a humorless laugh. “Yeah, I thought so.”
“Kaitlyn, there is no reason why we can’t be together in secret, if you would only—”
It was the same argument; nothing had changed, so I interrupted him. “If we’re seen together then all of this has been pointless. My mother—”
“Fuck your mother,” he growled.
I winced, stared at the floor because I didn’t want to see him, and when I spoke my voice was unsteady. “This is pointless. You need to let me go.”
“What if I can’t? Hmm? What if I don’t? What if I call the Washington Post and tell the reporter that we’re still together, that our families are closer than ever?”
I finally lifted my eyes to his so he could see how serious I was, and that—in that moment—I hated him a little. I looked at him even though it hurt like a motherfucker.
Somehow I managed to say, “That’s blackmail.”
“If that’s what it takes.” He punctuated this with a belligerent shrug.
I shook my head, mostly at myself for thinking we were ever a team. “Martin, there’s a time to fight, and there is a time to bow out gracefully.”
“You never fight,” he spat, his mouth twisted in an unattractive sneer, his eyes dark blue flames.
I fleetingly thought of how I’d fought for him in front of his father, how I’d fought for him and for us in his room three weeks ago. But what was the point? Arguing would get us nowhere. We didn’t exist.
Instead I said, “What do you want me to do? Do you want me to blackmail you? Issue threats? Call your father and tell him about your plan to sell his houses?”
He winced like I’d struck him, blinking several times in rapid succession. “You wouldn’t do that.”
“No. I wouldn’t. I respect your decision, even if I think it’s a mistake.”
“So you bow out gracefully, like a coward.”
“You’re wrong. You’re so wrong. I’m fighting for what I believe in, I’m going to do the right thing—”
“Self-sacrificing, martyring bullshit!’
“—and I’m not going to change my mind. So it’s time for you to find the self-control to bow out gracefully and let me go.”
/> Eyes flashing, Martin shifted on his feet, his stance telling me he was preparing to launch another verbal volley, so I quickly added, allowing a hint of pleading in my voice, letting it waver and shake, “If you ever had the slightest feeling for me, you will respect my decision. You will walk away right now and you will leave me alone. I need you to leave me alone. You are ruining me.”
His blue-green eyes were glassy and raw with pain as they searched mine. I recognized his hurt because it was an echo of the suffocating agony I’d been carrying with me every day.
After a long moment he nodded once, his mouth a flat line. His eyes fell away, searching but not looking at any one thing. I saw his chest rise and fall, heard the end of an unsteady exhale, before he turned and left.
His stride (as expected) was confident as always. Every step of his smooth gait just proved that Sam had been right. He was a universe of one and I wasn’t enough.
I watched him go, watched the back of his head until he turned a corner.
Then I ran home. I sat in my dark closet. And I cried.
~END PART 2~
(Part 3) CAPTURE: Elements of Chemistry releases May 16
Pre-order on Amazon: http://tinyurl.com/q2fdstt
About the Author
This is the eighth novel published by Penny Reid. Her days are spent writing federal grant proposals for biomedical research; her evenings are either spent playing dress-up and mad-scientist with her two people-children (boy-8, girl-5), or knitting with her knitting group at the local coffee shop. Please feel free to drop her a line. She'd be happy to hijack your thoughts!
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