Crashing into Her

by Mia Sosa

  His head snaps back as though I’ve slapped him. The silence that follows is so uncomfortable my skin prickles. I force myself not to scratch away the itchiness, wanting to stand strong and appear unbroken.

  Anthony grinds his jaw as he considers me, while I throw daggers at him with my eyes.

  “So what does that mean?” he asks, his face absent of any expression whatsoever. “You’re done?”

  “I can’t tell you one way or the other,” I say, honestly.

  He scowls at me. “I would have expected you to know exactly what to do in this situation. Don’t you have a handbook for dealing with guys like me? Because let’s be honest, Eva, you were expecting me to fuck up, weren’t you? Because everyone fucks up eventually, according to you.”

  Heat courses through my body. And not the good kind. The gall of this man. “We are not going to play this game, Anthony. We’re not going to flip this so that I’m the bad guy in this scenario. That’s not how it works.”

  He scrubs the back of his head, ruffling his hair every which way. “Look, if I can admit that I was wrong, you can admit that you wanted me to be wrong. My mistake is just further proof that you shouldn’t give your heart to anyone, isn’t it? I will accept that I’m the one who did something wrong here. I’m not denying that. But Eva, in many ways, you’re just as unavailable as I am.”

  I point an unsteady finger at him, inwardly cringing at the way my voice breaks when I speak. “No, I will not let you pin any of this on me. You made this problem, not me.”

  A muscle in his jaw twitches, and then his expression dulls. “You’re right. It’s my fault. I didn’t want to hurt you, but I did it anyway. And unfortunately, it’ll happen again and again, whether or not I mean to. Every bit of this proves what I’ve known all along. I can’t be in a relationship. I’m sorry I made you think it would work when I should have known it wouldn’t.”

  He’s talking over me, not with me. As though he’s working off a script and he’s plotted out how this discussion will end. Whatever I say, he’s going to redirect the conversation to fit his goal: ending this relationship. But what future do we have if he’s always going to run when things are messy? Relationships are messy. Who the fuck told him to expect otherwise?

  He gathers a few papers on his desk and stuffs them in his gym bag. “Let me take you home.”

  I snort at that suggestion. “Um. That’s okay. I’ll take the bus.”

  Sadness clouds his features. “Eva, I can give you a ride.”

  “No, really. I’m good. It’ll give me plenty of time to think. I’ll see you soon, I’m sure.”

  Unfortunately, unless I drop out of the training program, soon will be as early as Sunday of this week. The possibility of seeing him again with all this unresolved tension swirling between us is too much to consider in my present state. But I do know one thing: I need to buy a used car. It’s not a dramatic exit if you end it by boarding a bus.

  Anthony

  Five minutes after Eva leaves, I’m still standing in the same place, my hands resting on the top of my head. A dog barking outside the warehouse jolts me out of my daze. Somehow I generate enough brainpower to complete my lockup routine, lumber out back to the lot, and climb into the truck.

  “No Me Ames,” a Spanish-language ballad, is playing on the radio when I start the engine. In the song, Marc Antony tells Jennifer Lopez not to love him; it’s a serenade tailor made for my drive home.

  Hitting the steering wheel with the palms of my hands, I let out a deep growl of frustration. I know I messed up. I’d never pretend otherwise. And I hate that Eva’s hurting because I made a poor and thoughtless choice. But this breakup is for the best. We both know the confrontation in my office was a formality, the obligatory showdown before Eva inevitably decided she didn’t want to be with me. I simply sped up the process so that neither one of us would get too invested in a situation destined to fail.

  I will say this: Hats off to the people who brave being in a committed relationship. I respect them. But if I’ve learned anything from my experience today, it’s that I should trust my instincts. I can live a comfortable, mostly stress-free life if I avoid romantic connections and stick with the random hookups that have served me well in the past. If I’m honest, no one gets hurt. Why would I ever want or need anything more complicated than that?

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Find yourself a best friend who’ll help you eat your weight in pizza to make you feel better. Bonus points if they bring wine.

  Eva

  Desperate for reinforcements, I pace my living room as I wait for Tori and the delivery person Friday evening. When they do arrive—at the same time, as luck would have it—I jump up from the couch to buzz them in. A minute later, I open the door, anxiously awaiting the three pies I’ve ordered. Oh, right, I’m excited to see Tori, too.

  As they climb the stairs, their conversation carries down the hall.

  Tori: “You must be mistaken. We don’t need three pizza pies.”

  Delivery guy: “You may not need them, but that’s what she ordered. See here?”

  Tori: “Well, we can straighten this out in a sec. I’m sure it’s just a misunderstanding.”

  Tori’s head of curls appear at the top of the landing, and I breathe a sigh of relief. Although I joked in my head about pizza being my priority, she’s the person I need to see the most. She strides down the hall, already wearing her jammies—God, I love her so much—and the pizza delivery person trails behind her like a lovesick fool. When she spots me, she mouths, “Oh shit, your hair,” and then she turns around and grabs the pizza.

  “It’s paid for,” I yell as I tuck a few—okay, many—errant strands behind my ear.

  “I’m giving him a tip,” she yells back.

  “I already did that, too,” I point out while shaking my head.

  Tori and the delivery person chat a bit, and then she arrives at my door, a duffel bag on her shoulder and three pizza boxes in her hands.

  For a few seconds, my heart quickens. This night wouldn’t be complete without liquor. “Where’s the wine?”

  She dips her head toward the bag. “In there. Will you let me in?”

  I step out of the way and hold the door open for her.

  She places the pizzas on the counter in my tiny kitchen and drops her bag by the couch. “What’s going on? Why do we need three pizzas?”

  “I broke up with your cousin.” There’s no point in being evasive about it. If I’m going to get beyond this, I need to debrief, discuss, and disengage. Tori knows the steps as well as I do.

  “Damn,” she says. “That’s fast even for you.”

  I stamp my foot and throw out my hand. “Shut the hell up and give me the wine.”

  Unmoved by my tantrum, she pulls me in for a hug. “Sorry, I shouldn’t have joked about it. I know you’re hurting. The pain’s right there in your eyes.”

  I disagree. The pain’s all over. It hangs around me like my own personal cloud, ensuring sadness wherever I turn. It’s seeping into my body, weighing me down so that even typically simple tasks require more effort than I want to expend. “It’s nothing a pepperoni pizza and a bottle of wine won’t soothe,” I say into her shoulder.

  “Bueno, let’s get started, then.”

  After she changes into fluffy socks, we work side by side preparing our meal. There isn’t that much to do: pizza on plates; wine in glasses. Still, it’s comforting to know we’ll soon be sitting on the couch, legs up on the coffee table, as we devour my go-to crappy mood lifter.

  “TV on or off?” I ask as we settle in.

  “Keep it off while we debrief.” She bites into the pizza and rolls her eyes in appreciation. “This crust is delicious. It’s flaky and soft and that touch of sweetness takes it over the top.”

  “Okay, Gordon Ramsay. Tell me more.”

  “Ha. That’s not Gordon Ramsay. This is Gordon Ramsay.” She impersonates the famous, eternally crabby chef. “What the fuck is wrong with this pizza?
The crust is hard and lacks salt, and the tomato sauce tastes like ass. I wouldn’t feed this to my dog.”

  I laugh at her antics, momentarily setting aside my troubles. “You’re too much.”

  She sobers quickly, though, and I brace myself for the conversation to come. “Okay, talk to me. What did he do?”

  I recount the story, stressing the similarities between Anthony and the manipulative men in my past. There are differences, of course—many, in fact—but that’s not the point of this discussion. We eat pizza and sip wine as the narrative unfolds. Tori listens, periodically asking a question for clarification. Because she knows my history, it’s no surprise to her that his interference hurt me deeply.

  When I’m done, I’m emotionally exhausted all over again. “I specifically asked him not to undermine me, but that’s exactly what he did.”

  Tori, now facing me and sitting with her legs tucked under her, says, “You also asked him to treat you like everyone else. How could he? He kept his heart locked away for years, thinking it was safer not to love anyone. With you, he wanted to try. Sorry to break this to you, Eva, but you weren’t like everyone else from the beginning.”

  That’s one of the most frustrating aspects of the situation. He knows me. Is fully aware that I’d be crushed by what he did. And he did it anyway. It’s like I handed him my heart and he threw it right back at me. “It may be true that I was different from the beginning, but he doesn’t get a pass simply because he cares about me. That should have given him even more reason to let the process play out and raise his concerns with me directly. Like an adult. In a relationship. I might have heeded his warnings. But he took that choice away from me.”

  She reaches for my hand and squeezes it. “I don’t disagree that he’s the bad guy in this scenario. I just want you to think about what’s really going on here. And before you throw Anthony in with the rest of the men who’ve fucked you over, ask yourself what he gained from doing what he did.”

  I draw back. “What do you mean?”

  “Well, let’s think about this. In college, the douche canoe tried to trap you into pregnancy because he wanted to bind you to him forever. And what about Nate? He didn’t want to release you from your contract because he wanted to force you to stay. He’s an asshat for sure. And your father withdrew his support because he wants you back in Philly. I’ll refrain from calling him any names, but you get the idea. Now let’s think about Anthony here. What did he want, and what did he get?”

  Honestly, the question stumps me, which only makes me more agitated. And if Anthony hadn’t shut down on me, maybe I would have realized this sooner. We could have talked about a way forward. I don’t think he knows how to work through his feelings, though. He runs—and I’m not a chaser.

  I fall over onto my back in frustration. “I don’t want to think about this anymore. I’d rather watch awful bakers try to recreate fabulous cakes and fail spectacularly.”

  Tori picks up the remote, pulls up my Netflix account, and locates the latest episode of “Nailed It.” Before she hits Play, she turns to me and bites her lip.

  “Say it, Tori.”

  “I just want to point out that sometimes people do remarkably stupid shit when they care about someone. Remember the stuff Carter pulled when we were first together?”

  Do I. The man screwed up so badly he took to national television to admit his mistake. “Oh yes, neither one of us will ever forget that.”

  “Doesn’t excuse it. But relationships are about working through these kinds of issues. No one’s perfect, you know, yourself included.”

  The thing is, if relationships are about working through these kinds of issues, then maybe Anthony’s had the right idea all along: They aren’t worth this kind of turmoil.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Anthony

  This show is wild. Too bad my father won’t let me watch it in peace.

  Once again, he shuffles past me, his bathrobe hanging loosely from his shoulders. “Antonio, mijo, the lawn’s looking really bad. When are you planning to cut it?”

  I’m lying on the couch watching Westworld, and I have no interest in doing anything, let alone mowing the front yard. But yeah, I know it’s my responsibility. “I’ll do it this week, okay? I’ve got some other things I need to do first.”

  He plants himself in front of the TV. “Oh yeah? Like what?”

  “Just a few errands I’ve been meaning to take care of. Don’t worry, Papi, I’ll handle it.” I grab the remote and turn up the volume. “Not today, though.”

  My father snatches the remote out of my hands and turns off the TV.

  I sit up slowly, knowing that if he wants my attention, he’ll make sure he gets it no matter what. “Okay, I’m listening.”

  “It’s Saturday afternoon,” he says, gesturing toward the light coming from the living room windows. “You should be out somewhere with your pretty girlfriend. Instead, you’re moping around here in your boxers, scratching your ass and watching television.”

  I throw up my hands. “What? A man can’t relax in his own home?”

  He narrows his eyes. “What happened?”

  I drop my head and run my fingers through the hair at the nape of my neck. How can a simple question like that hit me in the chest like a two-by-four? Eva happened. Or didn’t happen. Who the fuck knows? When I look up, he’s still standing there patiently waiting for a response. “I’m not in the mood to go out, okay? And FYI, Eva’s not my girlfriend.”

  He slices his hand in the air. “Pfft. I don’t know what you kids call it anymore, and I don’t care. My point is, you like her, she likes you, and you shouldn’t be in this house. And if you are going to be in this house, you should cut the grass.”

  I roll my eyes at him. “I’ll take care of the grass, okay, but you won’t be seeing Eva around. We decided it was best to stop hanging out.”

  That’s the CliffsNotes version, at least. I don’t have it in me to explain any more than that. The shit that’s been popping into my head since we broke up on Wednesday has got me all kinds of fucked up. Everywhere I look, I see a memory of our time together, a joke we shared, something I want to point out to her. Even now, as I look at Papi, I’m thinking some people wear robes much better than others. And just like that, the night she greeted me on her couch in nothing but an open robe slams into my consciousness. I squeeze my temples trying to interrupt whatever frequency is sending me these cruel messages.

  “Did she do something wrong?” he asks, the tenor of his voice tentative.

  “Nope.”

  He widens his eyes. “Did you do something wrong?”

  “Yep.”

  He pinches me on the arm. “Did you do something stupid or worse?”

  I smack his hand away, pissed off that he’s reminding me of Eva in yet another way. “Will you quit it? You know me better than that.”

  He means did I cheat on her or abuse her. When I was growing up, my father would always tell me if I cheated on a woman, I was cheating on myself. And if I ever abused a woman, verbally or physically, he’d defend her himself by kicking my ass. He knows there’s a thousand more ways to screw up a relationship, but those are his three Thou-Shall-Not dating commandments.

  Letting out a deep breath, he nods. “Then love will make a way for you to get back together.”

  Oh good God. This man needs to get a grip. “Right. Is that why you can’t let go of Mami? Because you think love is going to get you two together? News flash, Pop. Love doesn’t conquer all. You can love someone all you want, but that doesn’t mean it’ll work out. If anyone should know that, it’s you.”

  My father avoids my gaze and shuffles his way back to the kitchen.

  Fuck. That was so uncalled for I should slap myself. “Papi, sorry, I shouldn’t have said that. Don’t listen to me. I’m clueless in the love department. I’m just mouthing off because I don’t know what else to say.”

  He shrugs behind the kitchen counter and picks up a plate, rinsing it before pl
acing it in the dishwasher. “There’s no need to apologize, mijo. You can’t help but to see what’s right in front of you.”

  I watch my father as he pretends to be unaffected by my rant, his shoulders nevertheless sagging as he undoubtedly considers what I said. Okay, now I’m bringing my negative energy into this house, and that’s not fair to Papi. “Again, I’m sorry, Pop. If you need me, I’ll be outside, mowing the lawn.” I can’t really hurt anybody doing that.

  Sunday morning, I can’t stop asking myself the same question: Will Eva show up this afternoon?

  I want her to. I’d hate to be the reason she decided not to complete her training. Her raw talent deserves to be honed. And the film industry needs more women like her in it.

  Then why’d you mess with her chances to get a job?

  “Great question, dumbass,” I mumble to myself.

  “What’s that?” Kurt says from his desk seat.

  “Nothing. Just thinking out loud.”

  I’ve been doing a lot of that in here lately. Because Kurt and I haven’t talked much since Wednesday. He’s excellent at giving me a modified version of the silent treatment: He speaks when I speak to him and gives me curt instructions only when necessary. The morning after he found out I didn’t disclose what I knew about Eva, he asked me one question: “Are you screwing around with her?” I told him it wasn’t what he was thinking; he walked away in the middle of my explanation.

  But I’m not letting him ignore me today. “Kurt.”

  “Hmm,” he says, not looking up.