The Girl I Didn't Marry

by Annabelle Costa

  “Tony will take care of Nico,” Pop says. “He promised me. We got money so Nico will be okay. He don’t gotta ever go on welfare or nothing like that.”

  I swallow hard, the small amount of chicken parmigiana in my belly threatening to come out the way it went down. Nobody believes I’ll be anything more than a cripple. They’re making arrangements for me to be taken care of.

  And the worst part is that on some days, I’m scared they might be right.

  Chapter 33

  Jessie

  This isn’t how I imagined college would be.

  I dreamed I’d be taking exciting classes with distinguished professors, including some performing arts classes. I thought I’d have dozens of friends by now, but that I’d spend my nights and weekends with Nick. It was something I’d fantasized about for years. It was all that kept me going some days.

  It isn’t like that at all.

  At least I’m away from home—that’s a plus. Although NYU is threatening to cut off my housing money for next year, which means that I’d have to pay out of pocket for my tiny yet pricey dorm room. I’m trying to figure out loan money—even being in debt would be better than living with my father again.

  My classes are all boring. I’m taking the standard freshman requirements, but also a music performance class. It’s the first singing class I’ve ever taken and I’m not only intimidated by the talent around me, but also depressed by the dismal career prospects that my classmates murmur about.

  Also, I have no friends.

  My roommate Corinne tries to get me to go out from time to time, but almost without exception, I spend my nights and weekends alone. To be fair, I’ve been so depressed this year I can’t imagine I’ve very good company.

  I haven’t tried to contact Nick since my pregnancy scare. I’ve picked up the phone to call him at least a dozen times, but I never do it. I figure he’ll find me if he wants to talk to me. One thing I’m confident in is Nick’s ability to track me down.

  Tonight Corinne has dragged me to a dorm room party. The party is in a four-bedroom suite, but the common area is oppressively tiny and lit only by a strobe light. A Snoop Doggy Dogg song is blasting out of the speakers, making conversation difficult if not impossible, although it is effectively making me crave gin and juice.

  Corinne dressed me in sleek dark slacks and a pink blouse that came from her sister, who is a “big girl” like me. When Corinne said that, I nearly cried. I’d always been a little chubby, but nobody would ever have described me as a “big girl” before. Then I gained the Freshman Thirty. Yes, I know it’s supposed to be the Freshman Fifteen. But I decided to be an overachiever in that one area.

  I’m standing in the corner of the room, sipping my vodka and juice (they didn’t have gin) and watching Corinne get hit on by just about every guy in the room. She’s gorgeous and also hella smart. She also doesn’t have a boy back home she can’t stop thinking about. I’m wildly jealous of Corinne.

  “I can’t figure out who looks more miserable,” a voice to my right says, “you or me.”

  I look over in the general direction of the voice. I see a boy about my age, dressed in a black T-shirt and jeans. He’s fairly ordinary-looking, with light brown hair, a bit of a pug nose, and some remnants of teenage acne on his cheeks.

  “Probably me,” I say. I look him over. “But it’s a close call.”

  “See, I disagree,” the boy says. “When my roommate drags me to one of these parties, I just have to sit around all by myself. But at least when a pretty girl like you goes to a party, you have guys who want to talk to you.”

  I smile despite myself. It’s been a while since anyone has called me “pretty.” I certainly don’t think of myself that way. “Sorry to disappoint you,” I say, “but no guys have been trying to talk to me at this party.”

  “Uh,” he says, “Seth has been trying to talk to you.”

  I look around the room, scanning the occupants briefly. I frown at him. “Who’s Seth?”

  The boy sticks his thumb into his chest. “I’m Seth. Sorry, I thought that was obvious.”

  I shake my head. “No, it wasn’t.”

  “Were you hoping Seth was some cute guy in the corner of the room?”

  “No.” I take a swig from my drink. “I’m glad it’s you.”

  Seth smiles now. He has a crooked incisor, but he’s cute when he smiles. It’s been so long since I’ve thought about any guy besides Nick. And Seth seems really nice. Maybe something will happen. I need something to take my mind off Nick Moretti.

  Seth leans in close to my ear and says, “This is the part where you tell me your name.”

  “Oh.” Wow, I must have had more to drink than I thought. “I’m Jess.”

  I remember how Nick always used to call me “Jessie,” like people did when I was a little kid. Everyone else eventually switched to “Jess,” but with Nick, I was always Jessie.

  “Is that short for something?” Seth asks. “Or is it just Jess? Like Madonna. Or Prince.”

  “It’s short for Jessica,” I say, “but I’m thinking about changing it to The Freshman Formerly Known as Jessica.”

  Seth grins. “So you’ll go by a symbol then?”

  “Actually,” I say, “I was thinking I might go by a song.”

  If I were to go by a song, it would be “Total Eclipse of the Heart.”

  But no, I don’t want to think about that song. It’s only going to make me think about Nick when I ought to be forgetting him. God, why do I keep thinking about Nick, even when a cute guy is chatting me up?

  “Nice.” Seth nods his head in approval. “I like that idea. Just please, nothing by Puff Daddy. The music at this party is making me sick.”

  “I know what you mean,” I agree.

  He jerks his head in the direction of the door. “So what do you say, Freshman Formerly Known as Jessica? You want to get out of here?”

  I think of all the boys Corinne has brought back to our dorm room. I try not to think about what they do in that bottom bunk. “And go where?”

  “Dollar pizza, obviously,” he says.

  All these restaurants have been popping up over the city that sell slices of decent pizza for a dollar each. They don’t have a place to sit, so you have to take the pizza out on the street and eat it there. I love dollar pizza, but I think about my Freshman Thirty. “I had dinner already.”

  “Dollar pizza isn’t dinner,” Seth says. “It’s a snack that can be enjoyed any time, morning or night.”

  Well, I can’t argue with that.

  “Okay,” I say. “Let’s get dollar pizza.”

  Chapter 34

  Nick

  I dropped the remote control.

  About fifteen minutes ago, some dumb show came on TV that I didn’t want to watch, so I reached for the remote that I keep on the table next to my bed. Except instead of picking it up, I accidentally knocked it off the table.

  Once something is on the floor, I can’t get to it. I can’t reach it from bed and I can’t get out of bed on my own. So dropping the remote meant I had to call for help.

  I yelled for Ma, but she didn’t come right away. I kept yelling but then I remembered she said she might go out shopping. So that means I’m all alone here. I gotta wait till she gets back to get the remote.

  I keep watching this dumb show, my fists clenched with frustration. I wish she’d say something when she leaves. That way I would’ve been more careful. She knows I can’t get up. What the hell is wrong with her?

  After what feels like forever, I heard the front door opening. Right away, before she can do anything else, I yell out, “Ma!”

  Except then I hear heavy footsteps that don’t sound like my mother’s. And it’s the middle of the day, which means that it can’t be my father. Who the hell is in this house?

  Shit, is it a burglar? If it were a burglar, I would’ve heard glass breaking, right? They wouldn’t just march in through the front door.

  If it’s a burglar, there�
�s nothing I can do about it. They can take anything they want. Including the goddamn remote control.

  My heart starts pounding when the footsteps grow closer. I’m about ready to have a heart attack when my brother’s face appears at the door. Thank fucking God—it’s just Tony.

  “You okay, Nico?” he asks although he doesn’t have that concerned look on his face that everyone usually gets whenever they talk to me these days.

  “I dropped the remote,” I say, pointing to where it fell.

  “That sucks,” Tony says.

  I sigh. “Could you pick it up for me? Please?”

  He raises his eyebrows. “You can’t get it yourself?”

  My hands squeeze back into fists. “If I could get the remote for myself, do you think I’d be lying here watching reruns of Blossom?”

  Tony laughs. “I don’t know. Would you?”

  “Just pick up the fucking remote.”

  “How about this?” he says. “I’ll help you get into your wheelchair and then you get the remote yourself.”

  I drop my head down against the pillow. “I’m not in the mood for this shit, Tony.”

  “Pop says you do nothing but lie in bed all day,” he says.

  I grit my teeth. “I can’t walk yet. What the hell else am I supposed to do?”

  “Uh, use the wheelchair?”

  “You know I’m not going to do that.”

  Tony sits down in the chair himself. He puts his hands on the push rims and backs up about foot. “This ain’t so bad, Nico.”

  That’s easy for him to say, when he can get up and walk any time he wants to. I hate him for sitting there and acting like it’s no big deal. He has no clue what it’s like to watch everyone else in the world be able to walk like it’s nothing. “Great. Take it with you.”

  “Look,” Tony says, “there are people out there who spend their whole lives in wheelchairs—”

  “Not me though,” I interrupt him before he can go any further with his little speech. I already heard it from Pop. From Ma. I’m sick of it.

  “It’s been ten months,” Tony says. “The doctor told you that if you were going to get any recovery at all, you’d have gotten it by a year. You’re not any stronger, are you?”

  I turn my head, unwilling to answer the question. The answer is no, I’m not. I have no strength or sensation starting from a few inches above my belly button down to my toes. Nothing. Nothing has come back, just like Dr. Stark predicted.

  But that doesn’t mean I’ve given up hope.

  “Look,” he says. “I’m your big brother and I’ll always take care of you. But it’s hard to watch you like this, lying in bed all day every day. You need to get up and start doing stuff for yourself.”

  “I’m fine,” I say through my teeth.

  “Well,” Tony says, “I’m not getting you the remote. So either you lie in bed and watch Joey and Blossom spar with each other, or you let me help you into the wheelchair.”

  Asshole.

  But unlike my mother, I know Tony’s not making empty threats. He will absolutely leave me here in bed without helping me. And I don’t know when the hell Ma will be back from the store.

  “Okay,” I grumble. “Get me in the chair.”

  Like Pop, Tony can get me in and out of my chair by just lifting me up behind my arms and legs. I hate being lifted that way, like I’m being cradled, but it’s the easiest for someone like Tony, who’s strong like I used to be. Tony gets his arms under me and starts to lift me, and I remember almost too late about my catheter. When I know I’m going to be in bed most of the day, I just keep the big bag hanging off the bed instead of the smaller one that attaches to my leg and needs to be emptied more frequently.

  “Wait,” I say urgently. “Don’t lift me.”

  Tony puts me down. “What’s wrong?”

  He’s never dealt with my leg bag before. He’s not going to be happy about it—better not to bother. “My catheter bag is hanging off the bed,” I explain. “You gotta pick it up when you’re lifting me and hang it off the side of my chair.”

  My brother looks about as embarrassed as I feel. “I didn’t know you still needed that.”

  “Yeah,” I mutter. I’ll probably need it forever. I have no sensation of when I need to go number one or number two. Ma does a bowel program with me every other day in bed—and that’s all I’m going to say about that.

  He frowns. “You can’t feel… any of that? Down there?”

  Tony says the word “dick” in every other sentence, but somehow he can’t bring himself to say it now, when he’s asking me if I can feel mine. “Nope,” I say.

  “Aw, that sucks.” He chews on his lip for a minute. “I’m sorry, Nico.”

  Yeah, it does suck. The only plus is that considering how much time I spend in bed and how bored out of my skull I am, I’d probably have gone blind from all the jerking off I’d do if I could actually feel it.

  “Just make sure to grab the bag,” is all I say.

  Tony does. He lifts me easily into my chair and then hands me the bag so that I can hang it myself. I position my own legs in the uneven footrests, pushing away the dizzy feeling I get when I even sit up fully these days. My body has gotten used to lying down.

  “Shit, Nico,” Tony says. “You weigh, like, nothing. Don’t you eat anymore?”

  Not really.

  “Okay, now here’s what we’re gonna do,” Tony says. “We’re gonna get in my car, drive down to O’Reilly’s Pub, and we’re going to hit on girls.”

  I nearly choke. “We’re not going to do that.”

  “Why the hell not?” He punches me gently in the shoulder. “You used to be good with the ladies.”

  “Why not?” I stare at him. “First of all, I haven’t had a shower in three days and I’m wearing gym shorts. Second of all, I’ve got a fucking bag of urine hanging off my chair. Third of all, no fucking way.”

  “Fine,” Tony grumbles. “But we’re going to do this. Next week sometime. I’m going to tell Ma to get you showered and dressed in something nice. And we’re going to go out.”

  I don’t argue because it’s easier not to. But if he thinks I’m leaving the house like this, much less to go to a bar to try to meet women, he’s out of his goddamn mind.

  Chapter 35

  Jessie

  If you count dollar pizza with Seth as my first date, right now is our second. We’re in one of the Greek diners that are ubiquitous in Manhattan. Seth’s hair is hanging in his eyes and he looks very cute. As cute as Nick? Well, it’s dumb to make that comparison. Seth is here and Nick isn’t.

  “And what can I get for you lovely people today?” asks our waiter, whose nametag declares, “HI! MY NAME IS GREG!”

  “Get whatever you want, Jessie,” Seth tells me.

  I hesitate over the menu. I know I’ve been stress eating a lot this year, but for the first time, I’ve decided not to order the most calorie-laden item on the menu. “I’ll have the side salad. With a Diet Coke.”

  “I’ll have a moussaka,” Seth tells the waiter.

  “What’s a moussaka?” I ask after the waiter dances away with our orders.

  “It’s a Greek lasagna,” he explains. “Instead of noodles, it’s got potato slices and eggplant. And it’s coated in this really good béchamel topping.”

  I shake my head. “Eggplant is gross.”

  “No way,” Seth says. “Eggplant is great. But you know what is gross? Diet Coke.”

  “How can Diet Coke be gross?” I retort. “It’s soda.”

  “It tastes like…” He thinks for a second. “Cherry Coke.”

  “And what’s wrong with Cherry Coke?”

  “You know what? I think I should leave because this obviously isn’t going to work out between us if you don’t get what’s gross about Cherry Coke.” He’s smiling though. He doesn’t mean it. We can work out our Eggplant vs. Diet Coke differences.

  That’s definitely not our biggest problem.

  “You know what I
miss?” Seth says. “Crystal Pepsi. That was epic.”

  I laugh. “I never tried Crystal Pepsi. I didn’t really get it. I mean, who cares if Pepsi is clear or not? It’s the same drink!”

  “Really, ‘cuz I thought they should have expanded it,” he says. “You know, make more food items clear.”

  “Oh really?” I say. “Like what?”

  Seth shrugs. “I don’t know. Ice cream? Barbecue sauce?”

  “Cheez whiz?” I suggest.

  “Tartar sauce…”

  “Mustard…”

  “Steak…”

  I laugh again. “Clear steak?”

  “Sure.” Seth grins. “Why not?”

  “If it’s clear, how would you even know it’s there?” I say.

  “You’d sense it.”

  Our waiter Greg comes over with my pathetic salad and Seth’s Greek lasagna. He places them in front of us quite ceremoniously and beams at us, “May I do anything else for you? Anything at all?”

  We shake our heads no in unison. Greg bows at us, twirls on his heels, and dances away.

  “Christ,” Seth mutters to me. “That guy is so flamboyant. I feel like he’s going to burst into show tunes at any moment.”

  I frown at Seth’s comment. Well, it’s slightly true. But I didn’t like the way he said it. Greg the Waiter seems really nice. Seth doesn’t know me well enough to make homophobic jokes in my presence.

  “I want you to try some moussaka,” Seth says.

  “That’s okay,” I say as I drench my lettuce leaves in low fat oil and vinegar dressing.

  He digs his fork into the food and scoops out some eggplant and potato with that white creamy sauce on top. He holds it out in my direction. I have to admit, this food looks tasty and it smells even better.

  But what am I supposed to do? Do I let him feed me the bite? This is only our second date. Feeding your date seems like more of a fifth or sixth date maneuver.

  But before I can overthink it, I lean forward and take the bite. I taste the vegetables, a hint of cinnamon and red wine, and that creamy white sauce.