The Me That I Became

by Christopher Harlan

  “Except that you just did. You never really told me why, though.”

  There’s a pause on the other end of the phone, and I can practically hear her thinking of just the right reasons why she was never on team Joel. She doesn’t have to, it’s over. “It’s hard to put my finger on one thing, it’s a combination of factors.”

  “Like what?” I ask, curious now as to what she’s referring to.

  “I don’t know. I mean, I’m as single as they come, and my past few relationships have been a who’s who of human garbage, so who am I to dispense opinions?”

  “You don’t have to do that,” I tell her. “You don’t have to degrade yourself to tell me the truth. And you’re my best friend, Abby, that’s who. There’s no way we’re ever getting back together, so take the free shot I’m giving you here.”

  After three seconds of silence she opens the flood gates. “He never got you, okay?” She blurts it out, and it hits me right in the heart. That pause I heard wasn’t her thinking of what to say, it was her thinking about how honest to be. “He thought you were hot, which you are.”

  “Thank you.”

  “You know it’s true,” she jokes. “But I feel like he always just wanted a trophy. He never understood your depression. He wanted your issues to go away instead of finding a way to help you navigate them. Basically, he wanted a move-in-ready woman. You’re more of a fixer-upper.”

  I don’t know whether to be flattered or insulted by what she just said, but I love the analogy. And she’s right. Joel never understood my problems. He came from a family that looked like an episode of Leave It to Beaver—his parents are the nicest people in the world, married for forty years, his brother was a Harvard trained surgical resident, and I never saw Joel have even a moment of family drama when I was with him. He didn’t know how to handle me.

  “So you’re saying, like, I need a new coat of paint? Maybe some new cabinets?”

  “No,” she says, both of us giggling while we talk. “I’m saying you need a man who appreciates a work in progress, not someone who wants you for who you might be, or who you used to be. For good or for bad, your depression is a part of you, and you need a man who accepts that and can help you through the hard times.”

  I know she’s right, but I’m not sure that guy exists. At least I haven’t met him yet. “That sounds great. If you meet anyone like that let me know. Oh, and if he’s tall, dark and handsome, even better!”

  “It seems like you took care of that all on your own Friday night, at least from my vantage point across the store.”

  “Who, Brandon?” I know she’s talking about him, of course, but besides being a really good-looking guy who I’m admittedly intrigued by, I don’t know about his ability to deal with someone like me. I might be way too much for him.

  “Mm-hmm.”

  “Yet to be determined,” I tell her. “Anyway, nothing happened between us. He didn’t ask me out, he asked me to read a really long book and join a club.”

  “And why do you suppose that is? You think he trolls the Barnes & Noble every Friday looking for hot girls to join his reader group?”

  “Alright, point taken.” Our meeting was accidental, but I know that he was vibing with me even though I wasn’t trying too hard to be flirtatious. “On a different subject, I’m hungry, you wanna get lunch?”

  “Can’t today, I’m sorry. Meeting with my parents.”

  “Fun.”

  “Don’t be a hater. We don’t all have drama with those who birthed us, you know.”

  “I guess. Just you healthy people make me sick sometimes.”

  “I’m sorry,” she jokes. “Guilty as charged. I’ll talk to you later, okay? Call me later, and good luck de-Joel’ing your place.”

  “Thanks. Bye.”

  No sooner do I place my phone down next to me on the couch than it vibrates again, only this time it’s a text and not a call. I don’t recognize the number, but it’s local. When I open the phone, all I see is:

  Hey

  I write back, hey to you, strange number—who is this? I see the bubbles appear at the bottom immediately and wait for the response.

  It’s Brandon.

  Brandon! He was the last person I was expecting to hear from, and how he’d get my number? Hey, I text, call me. Five seconds later I pick up the phone to hear Brandon’s deep voice on the other end. Just hearing it gets my heart going, but then I get back to wondering how he got my number. “Didn’t expect to hear your voice outside of the book store.”

  “Is it a bad thing?” he asks.

  “Not a bad thing at all. A really good thing, in fact. It’s nice hearing from you, even though I’m not sure how you got my number.”

  “Well that’s a relief,” he says, dodging my question.

  “So, what’s going on?”

  “Nothing much. I just got back from the gym and showered about an hour ago. Now I need a recovery meal. Something good. Sushi maybe.”

  “Eww.” I know sushi is what all the cool kids are eating these days, but its always grossed me out. Abby tried to take me for it a few different times, and my sister, Carla, practically lives off the stuff, but it’s never really been appealing to me.

  “Eww?” he asks, laughing. “I’ve never heard that reaction before just by mentioning sushi.”

  “That’s because you never met me. It’s gross.”

  “You’ve had?”

  “Umm, no. I’m not eating raw fish. Sorry.”

  “So, you don’t like to try new things? Okay. I get it.”

  I can’t tell if he’s being sarcastic or not. Either he’s a total dick or he’s trying reverse psychology on me. “Woah, I didn’t say that. I’m usually pretty adventurous, for your information.”

  “Just not adventurous enough to eat something most people eat at least once a week. I get it. I’ll go to my favorite sushi place alone, then.”

  That was clever. Well played, sir. “Fine, challenge accepted. I’ll go eat disgusting uncooked seafood if you tell me one thing.”

  “What’s that?”

  “How’d you get my number?”

  “I’ll tell you at lunch, while I’m enjoying my disgusting uncooked seafood. I’ll text you the address. Meet you there in forty-five minutes.”

  “How will I know who you are?” I joke.

  “Oh, I’m sorry. I’m the tall guy who’ll most likely be staring at you and smiling uncontrollably.”

  I’ll be staring right back, Brandon, don’t you worry. “Ah, okay. So, I’ll look for a tall creep. Got it.”

  “Yup, that’s me. See you in forty-five.”

  We hang up and I realize that it’s only been a few days since things ended with Joel, and I’m about to go on a date with another man. I know there are unwritten rules for this kind of thing— like how long you’re supposed to wait when one relationship ends before pursuing another, but I’ve never been so good at following the rules. If I was normal I’d be pining away, mourning the loss of what I had with Joel. But I’m not, and I’m not.

  I get ready, feeling a twinge of anxiety at the idea of seeing Brandon, or maybe just at going on a date with someone new, I’m not sure which. I get dressed, but nothing too fancy. It’s only lunch, and I don’t have it in me to go all out right now. I call an Uber and go to the address he texted me. A few minutes later I see a place called ‘Yiro’s Sushi’ on the corner and my stomach does a 180 just thinking about that awful food. I wasn’t joking—the thought of sushi really grosses me out, but I’ll try to be open minded. If nasty food is the price of hanging out with this gorgeous man, then so be it.

  I see Brandon before he sees me. He’s sitting at one of the outdoor tables for two, sitting across from an empty seat that’s soon to have my butt on it, surrounded by a lunch rush of people. I’m still in the Uber when I catch him looking around, scanning the crowd of people, looking for me. I hop out and wave so that he’ll see me, and when he catches my frantic hand gestures his whole face lights up in a smile. I’ve
been looked at like I’m beautiful before, but when Brandon looks at me it’s like he’s looking at me in spite of everything else around him, as though he’s making a conscious choice to disregard the rest of the world—all the noise, the other people, the cars going by, all of it—in order to focus those beautiful eyes on only me. It makes me feel special, like I’m the only person in his world.

  “Fancy meeting you here,” he says.

  “Well, I do love sushi,” I joke. “Can’t keep me away.”

  “Shall we?”

  We shall Brandon. We definitely shall.

  Chapter Five

  “I took your number from the form you filled out,” he blurts before my butt is even in the seat.

  “Huh?”

  “I promised you that I’d reveal my little secret when you got here, right? Well, I’m a man of my word. I’m just keeping up my end of the bargain. I stole it off the form you filled out for the book club.”

  I’m kind of shocked, but in a good way. I can’t help but smile. I didn’t expect something so. . . bad from him. I like it. Maybe there’s more to him than meets the eye. “Mr. Book Club President,” I joke. “Are you telling me that you abused your executive powers just to get my number?”

  “Am I under oath? I did not have sexual relations with that woman.” I crack up. He’s doing that weird presidential thumb thing and talking in his best Bill Clinton voice.

  “I hope you’re a better liar than he was,” I say. “I think I’ll be calling for your impeachment, sir. There must be some kind of protocol for that kind of thing.” We both smile as I look up at the sky. “Actually, scratch that, impeachment can wait. I’m really into this book we’re reading, and I want to see what happens. But after that—I’m calling a committee, or whatever, and bringing you up on charges of. . . I don’t even know what. I’ll think of something.”

  “Okay, well, I deserve whatever comes to me. In the meantime, I’ll enjoy my last few weeks as president and try to serve the office with diligence and integrity, at least until you have me thrown out.”

  “Sounds like a plan.”

  I love how playful he is. We have a real natural back and forth banter that doesn’t feel forced, and I really enjoy talking with him. His eyes are sparkling as the sunlight bounces off of them, and whenever my sarcasm can make him smile his whole face becomes even more attractive. “But I do have a follow up question.”

  “Hit me with your best shot.”

  “Why?” I ask.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Why breach your ethics and abuse your title as president just to get my number?”

  He looks at me and raises an eyebrow. “You know why, Talia.” There he goes, using my full name again. If he were anyone else I’d be correcting him, but I love the way he says it. It sounds like music.

  “Come on, what? It’s a valid question.”

  “Isn’t it obvious? I wanted to eat raw fish with you. Seeing the look on your face when your lunch comes is all the reason in world. And, by the way, I pre-ordered some stuff that should be coming out. I’m not the guy who orders for his date, but in this case, I thought you’d trust my judgment.” He’s good at evasion. I don’t know if that’s a good thing, but I tend to be critical when people aren’t painfully honest. Ironic, I know, since I lied through my teeth the other day when we met.

  “That’s fine, I have full confidence in your knowledge of gross fish.”

  “Good,” he says. “Glad to hear that I made the right decision, then. So, how’s your brother doing?”

  Fuck my stupid little life.

  I decide to just lie quickly to put an end to the discussion. “He’s good. Doing a little better, thanks.”

  “That’s great. It’s a day to day thing, sometimes, you know?”

  All too well, Brandon, I think. If only you knew. “That’s true. How’s your sister?” I pivot to change the subject. People with mental issues fall into two categories—those who can’t stop talking about their problems, and those who practically need to be forced to discuss them. I’m in the second category, but I’ve met my share of people in the first. I never understood it, personally. Like my friend, Janice. She’ll tell anyone who’ll listen that she’s on anti-anxiety meds, and about her divorce, and her stress, and just about anything else that’s bothering her. Meanwhile I’m popping pills that I literally call my Dirty Little Secrets, and lying to people left and right.

  “Good. She wanted me to thank you.”

  “Me?” I ask, a little shocked. “For what?”

  “For the book,” he answers. “You know, for not fighting me for it like two dogs pulling at a bone.”

  “Two things—one, I think you just called me a dog.”

  “Technically, I called both of us dogs, but it was just a metaphor. Go on.”

  “And second,” I continue, not really able to hold my smile back. “Did you tell her you offered to give it to me a few times?”

  “Nah, I conveniently left that part out,” he says. “It made us both look better.”

  “Well, then, tell her it was my pleasure, and that I really do hope it helps.”

  “That’s kind of you. I will.”

  I wanted to avoid where this discussion is leading ever since I agreed to meet him. I guess I was being stupidly optimistic in hoping that my lies would have lived, grown up, and died right there in Barnes & Noble—a small side note to the story of our meeting that we tell our grandkids one day. But that was just wishful thinking. I try to pivot again by repeating how much I enjoyed the first few chapters of It, but Brandon brings us right back to the subject matter I don’t feel like talking about.

  “Is your brother younger or older?” he asks me. I get it, we don’t know much about each other, so he’s just trying to ask about what I told him, but it’s forcing me to have to make up more lies, which I really don’t want to have to do. I’m actually a pretty honest person, normally, I just wasn’t ready to disclose my own mental illness issues to a stranger—however handsome and electrifying he may have been. I take a sip of water—a long one, to think of a strategy to avoid telling him the truth and risking him getting up and telling me to screw myself.

  “We’re twins, actually. Fraternal, of course.”

  “Oh, wow.”

  You’re an asshole, Lia. “How about your sister? Is she younger or older than you?”

  “Younger,” he answers sincerely. “By three years.”

  “Why don’t you tell me more about her. I mean, you seem like a good older brother to be looking for materials to help her with her issues. What’s her story?” This is the pivot of all pivots because while he elaborates on his family it leaves me some time to think of what to say when he asks about mine.

  “We’re best friends. Been that way ever since we were kids. I was always the protective older brother, and whenever she had a problem or got into something she couldn’t handle, I was always there to help her.” There’s a glimmer in his eye when he talks about her. There are few things more attractive than a man who loves his family above all else, and I can see the loving brother in him as he speaks about her. “That’s why it’s been a rough few years,” he continues. His voice shifts from reminiscent to sad in a single sentence. “More than a few.”

  “I’m so sorry, Brandon. I know what that’s like.” I hate myself for lying because all I want to do is comfort him. I have to think of a way.

  “I know you do, ‘cause of Henry, right?”

  There it is. My bullshit coming home to roost. Right there I decide what I’m going to do. “Right, exactly. We’re twins, so we’re alike in a lot of ways. He suffers from bad depression and anxiety. Started years ago, after our grandmother died. We were eighteen. It’s only gotten worse as time has passed.”

  “That’s terrible, Talia. I’m sorry, too. Honestly, I’ve never found anyone who can relate to what I’ve gone through with my sister.” I want to die when he says that. I want to punch myself in the face like Ed Norton in Fight Club, be
cause I’m such a terrible person. I should just come clean right now—pull the band-aid off and just see what happens. Maybe he won’t be pissed if I explain. Maybe. . . “I’m really glad we found each other, Talia. It was like some happy accident of the universe.”

  “Yeah,” I say, fighting off the tears of guilt I can feel rising in my throat. “The universe is funny like that.” The food comes out—a crazy looking spread of all sorts of rolls and fancy, cut up raw fish. I don’t know why I expect it to smell bad, but it doesn’t. It doesn’t smell like anything. I’m still not convinced that I want to eat any of it, but the plating and presentation is really stunning. “Wow, what is all this?”

  “I told you, trust me.”

  “I’m starting to.” Now if only I could stop lying so that you could trust me. “So, which of this is mine?”

  “Here.” He’s pointing to a few rolls on the side of the plate. He opens up the chopsticks and goes to work, taking the fishy looking rolls for himself and then carefully placing some of the other rolls on my plate. “These are for you.”

  I’m no expert, but I notice the total absence of anything looking remotely fishy on my plate. “What are they?” I ask.

  “This one’s an avocado roll,” he says, motioning to the one on the left side. “These are California rolls, which have imitation crab meat but no fish. And this is a sweet potato roll. Just rice and puréed sweet potato. It’s good, I’ve had it before.”

  “You hand-picked this for me?”

  “Each roll,” he says. “While I was waiting for you. It’s the least I can do when I stole your number and asked you to meet for food that you hate. Bon Appetite.”

  I’ve always been the girl who finds little things romantic. I don’t need big gestures from guys. But the little things—the nuances like ordering food you think I’ll like at a place you know I didn’t want to go shows me that he was thinking about me, and it makes him even sexier to me. I dive right in, deciding that I don’t need to be brave or force myself to eat anything now, thanks to him, and I pop one of the California rolls into my mouth. “That’s really good.”