I had been unfaithful and I would never do it again. All I wanted was a second chance. And I had gotten it. I was off the hook. Everything was going to be okay now. I thought naively.
But the thing is that a relationship’s like a vase. Once it’s dropped and gets a chip in it, it can be repaired. Fixed. And the damage can be covered up. But the crack and the memory of the damage remain. And it will always be a little weaker in the place of the original crack.
19
The first thing he does is wink at me with those intense brown eyes.
“So, here you are in New York City. Finally,” he says.
It’s October and the leaves are starting to change. The entire city is soggy and putting off a strong pungent smell of decomposing plant matter. The sidewalks glisten from the light rain, which has been falling all afternoon. Headlights flood Broadway, blinding me at every step.
Nick Thomas, our childhood friend, walks behind me. I’d known about his plan for a visit for some time, but the day still crept up on me, leaving me unprepared. Nick has been one of Tristan’s best friends since middle school and I’ve known of Nick for many years. But it was only in the last two years of high school that we’d really gotten close. Nick is tall and lanky, close to 6’4’’ and only 170 pounds. He came to campus in a cab and I waited outside my building to let him up.
Nick’s not wearing a coat. The temperature is in the low 50s, but he’s only wearing a light sweater, jeans, and flip-flops. I’m about to ask him why when I remember that he never really wore a coat. He took some unusual pride in the fact that he never got cold, no matter how cold it was outside.
When we enter the living room, Tristan, Dylan, and Juliet are there waiting. Tristan gives him a warm hug and takes care of the introductions. After a dinner of pizza for the guys and salad and soup for Juliet and I, we all decide to go out to Lion’s Head Tavern, a bar on Amsterdam Avenue. It’s Tristan and Dylan’s favorite mainly because it’s a dive bar that serves greasy food and accepts poorly made fake IDs. Nick doesn’t have one, but luckily the bouncer doesn’t card him. Too tall, probably, I decide.
“So where do you go to school?” Dylan asks.
“Just a local school. Cal State Northridge. I live at home,” Nick says with a sigh. “Agh, I’m so jealous of you two. Your dorm is amazing. And you get to live with girls. Imagine that.”
Tristan’s had a couple of drinks already. “Well, not just girls. My ex-girlfriend,” he jokes. I’ve had two drinks as well and laugh along with everyone else.
“Yes, things could’ve been better.”
“Oh please, you two have been friends forever. This is just a blip in your otherwise smooth relationship.” Nick waves his hand.
Tristan and I exchange looks. I hope that he’s right.
“So how are your folks?” I ask. I’ve always loved Mrs. Thomas. Practically every night that we’ve spend hanging out in Nick’s basement, she came downstairs with a batch of freshly baked cookies.
“Fine. The same.” He shrugs.
“So what’s it like to keep living at home?” Dylan asks. “Do you still have a curfew or anything? Or can you do pretty much anything you want?”
“A curfew?” I smile. “When was the last time you had a curfew, Dylan? When you were twelve?”
“Yeah, I think about that. But I’ve heard that some parents can be sticklers for those.”
I shake my head. Nick laughs and then says, “No, no curfew really. It’s just not as fun. No one to hang out with in the evenings. Mainly because everyone at school is hanging out with people in their dorms.”
“That sucks,” Tristan says.
No one says anything for a moment as we try to imagine what that must be like. I feel bad for Nick. He’s missing out on what college has to offer and the worst thing is that he knows it.
“Why don’t you move to campus next semester?” Dylan suggests.
Nick shrugs. “I can’t.”
“Why?” Juliet asks.
Tristan and I exchange an uncomfortable look. It’s so obvious to us. But not them.
“Money,” Nick finally says.
“But can’t you apply for some sort of financial aid?” Dylan asks.
“You rich kids always think that they’re some sort of solution that the rest of us haven’t thought of, don’t you?” Nick says. Everyone’s taken aback by his tone.
“Hey, I didn’t mean it that way,” Dylan says.
“My parents make too much money for most financial aid and not enough to actually pay for the dorm. At least, they think it’s too much,” he says. “And I do, too.” He adds after a moment.
No one knows what to say after that. Awkwardness fills the air like a noxious gas. And no one can breathe. Not even the person who let it out.
Eventually, we head back to the dorm. Tristan and Nick trail behind as Juliet, Dylan, and I walk ahead, just fast enough that it doesn’t quite look like we’re rushing.
“Hey, I’m sorry about Dylan,” I hear Tristan say. “His parents have a lot of money. He doesn’t really get it.”
“No worries,” Nick says.
“He’s not really a bad guy. He just found out that his girlfriend is in love with her Resident Advisor so he’s been kind of a dick since then,” Tristan adds.
Peyton’s in love with her R.A.? The thought echoes in my mind as we head out of earshot.
“How long is he staying again?” Dylan asks me in the elevator.
“Um, a couple of days, I think,” I say. “Listen, he’s not really a bad guy. He was just on a long flight and…”
I find myself repeating Tristan’s words except that, unlike him, I don’t really have a good excuse. Nick was a dick. Dylan didn’t mean anything by what he said and he had no right to get upset or talk like that.
Dylan just shrugs. “Doesn’t matter. I was just wondering.”
20
I wake up in the middle of the night and tiptoe to the bathroom. I don’t usually have to tiptoe, but Nick’s sleeping on our couch and I don’t want to wake him. On my way back, just as I think I’m in the clear, I hear him.
“Alice? Alice?”
“Sorry to wake you,” I say. “I’m just going back to my room.”
“No, it’s okay. I wasn’t asleep. Hey, come here for a second.”
I don’t want to. I’m tired and sleepy. It’s pitch black and my eyes have yet to adjust. But I walk up to the couch.
“Hey, we didn’t really get a chance to talk much tonight,” he says and moves his feet so that I have room to sit down.
“Yeah I know,” I say.
When Nick first texted me and told me that he was coming, I was excited. I was looking forward to it. But now that he is here, everything is different. Things feel off. Awkward. I’d known him for so long and yet he is a stranger. How is that even possible?
“So, how are you?” he asks and puts his hand on my knee.
“Fine,” I say quickly and recoil away from him. His touch takes things to a whole new level of awkwardness.
“Are you okay?” Nick leans closer to me. My eyes have adjusted to the dark and I see his thin lips close to mine. Am I sending out strange signals? What the hell is going on?
“Yes, I’m fine. I’m just tired,” I say and go to stand up.
“Listen, I don’t get it.” He takes my hand. I’m surprised by his aggressiveness.
“Don’t get what?” I ask.
“Weren’t we, like, flirting and stuff over text? You said that you were looking forward to seeing me?”
“I was.” I pull my hand away. “Flirting? I was asking you about Corrin. I was trying to make you feel better about the fact that she dumped you.”
“Oh, that’s mean. Why are you being so mean, Alice? You’re a nice girl.”
I hated the tone in his voice. Who was this person?
“I have to go.” I get up. But he gets up as well. And comes closer to me. For a moment, I think he’s going to apologize. But he doesn’t. Instead, he comes c
loser to me and pulls me in for a kiss. His hands are so strong that I can’t pull away. His lips are pressing so hard to mine that my teeth start to hurt. Finally, I manage to break my mouth free and scream.
“Let go! Let go of me!”
But he doesn’t. Instead, he pushes me onto the couch and jumps on top of me. I’m startled. I can’t believe this is happening. I feel like the whole world is moving in slow motion.
“What the fuck, Nick? What the fuck are you doing?” Tristan says, pushing him off me. He punches him and when I look up, I see Nick sitting on the floor, cradling his nose.
Juliet and Dylan come out of their rooms.
“Don’t you know that no means no?”
“Fuck you, Tristan!” Nick says.
“I want you to leave,” Tristan says.
“Now?” Nick seems surprised.
“Yes, now, you asshole. You think you’re going to stay here after you attacked Alice? What the fuck happened to you, Nick? Who are you?”
Nick doesn’t say anything. He simply gathers his things as we all stand around watching him. Somehow, in a daze, I manage to get off the couch and meander over to Juliet, who puts her arm around me. Tristan stands in front of us, in between us and Nick. Tristan throws Nick’s bag at him and escorts him toward the elevator.
“Are you okay?” Dylan asks.
I nod.
“What happened?” he asks. But I can’t bear to relive what happened. Tears pull in my eyes, and I try to hold them back. Unsuccessfully.
“Nothing, really,” I finally say.
“What the fuck did he do?” Juliet asks.
I try to open my mouth to say something, but nothing comes out. “I can’t,” I manage to finally whisper. I run inside our room and slam the door.
I bury my head in my pillow and try to block out the whole world. When Tristan returns, I hear him explain what had happened to Dylan and Juliet. I’m glad he does because I know I don’t have the strength to say it out loud.
The following morning, I’ve decided to skip my morning classes to lie around in bed, staring at the ceiling. Juliet left early for class and the room is awfully quiet. When the silence becomes deafening, I put in my headphones and try to push it out. Being alone with my thoughts right now is the last thing I want.
“Alice?” I hear a slight knock on the door through Lady Gaga’s “Just Dance”.
“Come in,” I say without sitting up in bed or bothering to turn down the music.
Tristan comes in. He looks tired and worried. The last time he had looked like that he had stayed up for two days straight working on his paper on Sherman and the Civil War.
“I just wanted to see how you were,” he asks. He sits down on my bed. I should get up, but all I can manage to do is to turn down the music.
“I’m okay.” I shrug. “Thank you.”
He nods.
“I mean it, really. Thank you. I don’t know what I would’ve done if you didn’t come in.” The very thought of that sends chills through my body and I curl up. He puts his hand on my back and rubs my shoulders slightly.
“Do you want me to stay?” he asks. I look up at him. I don’t know what to say. I shrug and leave it up to him.
He climbs into bed with me, on top of the covers. He wraps me up in the covers and pulls me close to him. He’s the big spoon. I’m the little one. The warmth that emanates from him fills the entire room and finally penetrates the coldness within me. Tears start to roll down my face. They’re not tears of regret or remorse. They aren’t tears of sadness. They’re tears of relief.
Adele’s “Hello” comes on. I take out one of my earphones and put it in Tristan’s ear. I turn up the music and we listen to her belt out what we both feel. He wraps his arms tighter around me as we drift off to sleep.
21
After that day, something unusual happened. I thought everything between Tristan and I would go back to normal. The new normal that we had established at school. The normal that basically consisted of us avoiding each other. Making small talk, but never delving deeper. Never getting closer. But it didn’t. Instead, that coldness that existed between us seemed to have vanished.
Tristan stayed with me in my bed the whole day as I drifted in and out of sleep. And that evening, we ordered Chinese and watched Archer on Netflix. I laughed so hard I almost peed my pants. He laughed along with me.
The following morning, I think that things between us are going to go back to being cold and distant. But, again, they don’t. I see Tristan in the kitchen and he complains about his Econ professor, calling him a know-it-all.
“He’s supposed to know it all; he’s your teacher,” I say.
“But not like this. He’s just a dick about it. He may know it all about Econ 101, but he doesn’t know it all about everything. And he acts like he does. I just hate his fucking arrogance.”
I smile and watch Tristan finish his cup of impossibly black coffee. I’ve never seen him take his coffee with sugar or milk, and his ability to down so much hot caffeine so quickly has always given me pause.
“I’ll see you tonight?” Tristan says on his way out.
“Yeah, sure.” I shrug, trying to act like he hasn’t caught me off-guard.
“Okay, see you then,” he says.
Of course we are going to see each other again. We’re roommates. But the way he said that, it sounded almost like he was looking forward to it. We haven’t spoken like that since we’ve been in New York. All of this is just too weird, I decide. It’s bound to go away by tonight.
Shit. Shit. Shit.
I come home that afternoon, steaming. How could I let this happen? This was a good paper. I took a whole week to write it. I didn’t procrastinate. I re-read it three times and fixed all typos and errors. It has a clear thesis and great supporting arguments. I actually read the book, unlike some people in my class.
I throw my bag on the chair and open the refrigerator, mindlessly. I’m not hungry. I don’t know what I’m looking for. So I just stare into it as if it holds all the answers to the mysteries of the world, instead of just a packet of moldy mozzarella and a carton of expired milk.
“You okay?” Tristan asks, startling me. I nearly jump out of my shoes.
“Oh my God, you scared me,” I say. “I didn’t see you there.”
He apologizes and asks me if I’m okay, again.
“I’m fine.” I shrug. I don’t want to go into it, but then I do. “I just got a C on my first English paper.”
“Oh, I’m sorry. That sucks.”
“Yeah, especially since I was certain that it was good. I am certain.”
“Maybe it was some kind of a mistake,” Tristan offers. I shrug.
“No, really, I heard of that happening,” he says.
“I don’t think so.” I toss him the paper. “All the mistakes are in red.”
I watch him leaf through my paper. It’s got so much red ink on it, it looks like it’s bleeding.
“The thing that makes me really upset is that now I’m not so sure if I should even be pursuing English. I mean, maybe I’m not so good at it, after all. Maybe I have no business doing it if I can’t do better than a C on some freshman English class.”
It feels good to say that to Tristan. He had been my friend for a long time, way before we ever dated, and we could always talk to each other about things that were going on in our lives.
“Listen, if you think that you should give up on your passion just because of one stupid grade, then you’re insane. You’ve loved English and wanted to be a writer for as long as I can remember. And now, you’re, what, just going to give that up because of one grade?”
I shrug. When he puts it that way, it does sound stupid.
“It just makes me wonder if I’m any good at it. I mean, what if I’m not? What’s the point? It’s such a hard thing to do, it’s so hard to actually make money at it, then shouldn’t I be, like, extraordinary to even pursue it? And if I can’t get better than a C in my first college class
then maybe I’m not so good at all.”
Tristan rolls his eyes and shakes his head.
“What?” I ask. I know that look. He has a lot to say, he’s just holding back.
“Nothing.” He shrugs. “If that’s what you think, then that’s what you think.”
“Okay, okay. What?” I know he wants me to pry it from him.
“You really want to know?”
“Yes, that’s why I’m here.” I nod.
“Well, I think it’s unfair.”
“What’s unfair?”
“That artists are measured on this ridiculous standard of success. The kind of standard that no one else is measured on.”
“What do you mean?” I ask.
“Well, you are considering giving up becoming a writer because of one class, right?”
I nod.
“Well, I bet you that there are thousands of future accountants and economics majors, for that matter, who would never consider giving up their majors just because they got a C one of their first projects in their first college class. What’s unfair is that the whole world has this tendency to think that just because they haven’t heard of some actor, painter, or writer that the person pursing that profession is somehow a failure. The rest of us aren’t compared the same way. What I mean is that people think that if you’re not Hemingway or Picasso or Elizabeth Taylor then you’re a failure as an artist. But there are no such comparisons in accounting.”
“So what you’re really saying is that I should stick it out?” I say.
“Yes! Of course you should stick it out. It’s just one grade or one class. Who the hell cares?”
“And what makes you so sure?” I ask.
“Because I believe in you. I’ve read your stories, remember? I know how good they are. So who cares what some professor thinks of your paper on the Catcher in the Rye?”
“It was actually on The Invisible Man,” I say with a smile.
22
Tristan’s right. Of course he’s right. This is just one paper in one class. And even if it’s the whole class. Even if I get a C in the whole class (the very thought of that makes my body shiver), so what? What does that matter in the grand scheme of things?
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