by CtotheB
It was the end of Spring Break, and I was on my way back to campus after an incredible week in Charleston. I found time there to be mind cleansing, which I needed desperately. On top of schoolwork, extra-curriculars and typical adolescent angst, my estranged girlfriend and I were trying to make things work. I had seen my share of “It’s Complicated” statuses on Facebook, but never lived it. We’d broken up the week of Valentine’s Day but still did all the things couples do, both publicly and privately. Hard to tell if we were confused, lonely, or somewhere in between.
Once reaching campus I made my way to her room, bags still in hand. It was a little after eleven and he was there. Sitting on the floor, television on, reading for class as she did the same from her elevated dorm room bed.
I blew up.
Commanded him to leave the room, and immediately began my inquisition. I’d like to think I’d be calmer if it were any other guy but knowing that she was in here, with him, with their history (they’d been together as recently as a few weeks before we started dating) made me a jealous mess. This insulted her.
“Do you think I’m that easy?!”
Yes.
“Considering you have already, have no classes with him, so it’s not like you were studying with him, and he was in here at this time of night?! What should I think? Nevermind the reason we are broken up right now is because you stepped out on me already! You’re right, I shouldn’t be concerned.”
It is here that I learned words have power. And unfortunately, when we’re the most out of control is often when we’re the most honest.
“It’s dangerous. You shouldn’t be in here with him, or any guy, not this time of night and not with you in your bed.”
“I’m not going to do anything!”
“I wouldn’t be surprised if you slept with him before the end of the week.”
We argued more, then fell asleep so we could attend our Monday morning classes.
As the week passed on, we argued less and forgave each other. Smaller arguments arose but none akin to Sunday’s flare-up. I had RA duty on Friday and saw the guy in the student union. We talked about sports, told stories, and cracked jokes. I never considered him a friend, but we’d always been friendly, so I found no reason to stop. I wanted to apologize for blowing up on Sunday but never brought it up. We parted ways and I was almost through with my rounds but took time to stop by a friend’s room and talk. During the conversation I brought up the hope I felt. For the first time, I really believed my relationship was salvageable. He had hope for me and told me I’d be in his prayers as I departed. I was on my way to my dorm, but as hers was on the way, I figured I’d see what she was up to. I stood outside her building and dialed her number.
Her voice had the cadences of a hostage. She asked me how I was, implored me to go to my room, and enticed me with an evening together. I told her okay and continued to talk with her as I entered her building. I heard her pleas to go to my dorm and asked her if she was okay as I made my way up the stairs. With a stealth that surprised me, I made it to her door. Her voice cracked.
“You’re outside aren’t you?”
I told her I was going to open the door and she begged me to leave. I told her to open the door and she asked why I was doing this. I told her to open the door and she said alright.
Then he said, “Hold on, let me put on my clothes.”
I laughed. It would be a few more semesters before a professor told my class that laughing in moments of tragedy was a sign of hysteria. Your body becomes desperate for an avenue of reaction, having never experienced the aforementioned, identifies the absurdity, and laughs. My laughs were interwoven with praise. “Thank You Jesus.” I felt an inner peace and clarity that still doesn’t make sense. There were tears in their eyes as I spent hours yelling at them. I cursed them, called them liars and betrayers. I pitied them, mocked them, and told them they deserved each other.
After a while, his tears turned into anguished wailing and he exited the room. He had tried before but I commanded him to stay. His listening made me feel powerful; I knew I could destroy him with my fists or my words. I chose words. The barbs were relentless and the power grew frightening. I knew, if it were my choosing, these words could do anything. I could have destroyed him. When he left she pleaded with me to go after him. I refused. I saved my worst for her. He had no obligation toward me, she did.
“Yes, we had broken up but I intended to fix things, didn’t you?”
Now I could cry. The power I felt went away and I was empty. She told me every detail. They shared a bed while I was away, even on one night while we were on the phone. They didn’t intend to hurt me. “You deserve better than this.”
I told her to take a shower, she asked me why. I kissed her, and we began but it was too painful. I still don’t know why, but I stayed there that night. Perhaps she was too afraid to ask me to leave and I was too afraid to be alone.
It wasn’t long before we continued to behave as we did prior to that night. On the outside, we were still dating but weren’t together as much. We were guarded, and our conversations were terse. Friends would ask for her and I’d pretend to have the answer. I assume the same for her. It would be another fall until I could no longer maintain the charade. During another argument, she exclaimed, “But, I’m your friend!” I returned, “No! I was always a friend to you but you were never one for me.”
After a few weeks of my internship and a few Friday night drink-ups at the shop, one of the guys said we should head out to one of the ex-pat bars over on the south side to investigate the nightlife and force me out of my apartment to meet some ladies so I could "get lucky." I appreciated his efforts and joined him that night.
After an hour of struggling to call a taxi to pick me up and a $20 cab ride for 2 miles (still bitter 4 years later), I arrived at Aqua a bit too early. An MMA fight was on the bar TV and roided out guys were screaming at the screens with the passion of Rocky. I ordered my Carib and waited for my buddy. Two Caribs and a rum and coke later, my coworker arrived drink in hand and smile on his face.
He buys me another rum and coke and we find a place on the wood paneled bar to watch the MMA fight for a second time. Shop-talk follows, with discussion of the GPS work we've done and diving on the island. Nothing social lubrication would facilitate. After finishing another round, we head to the tiki patio outside and he notices a lady in his periphery. He looks at me and said, "I'll be right back." He slid his hands into his khaki pockets and moseyed over to the women.
After striking up a conversation and getting her number he came back. Hands now out of his pockets he looked at me and said, "Sometimes I like to push the limits." I stared at him blankly and waited for a follow up. I could tell there had been an internal dialogue raging in his head and I was catching the tail end. "Would you think less of me if I took off my ring?"
All I could think about was his wife who had just fixed the perfect gnocchi two nights before, how she had just decided to take a ladies trip over to Cuba, and how she seemed like the most loving person I had ever met. To my dismay I found myself shrugging my shoulders and showing no disapproval. He wrestled and twisted the ring off and slipped it into his cargo pant pocket. He led the charge to the next bar.
We arrived at Boca de something, a more urban dance club that further illuminated his subtle Hawaiian shirt. He handed me two more beers and agreed we would head out in an hour. I danced; lazily. We met some people from an accounting firm and I struck up a conversation about the world cup and became engrossed in the island's obsession with its mother, Britain. After 30 minutes of intense dialogue, I see my friend on the couch talking with this same jet black haired lady from Aqua. It appears harmless and its not my responsibility to babysit this 30 year old man. Right? I reenter the conversation with my disappointment in the fall of Real Madrid despite a Yankee scale payroll.
The hour or so flies bye and closing time nears. I take a lap around the bar looking for my ringless friend and decide to take one last pass at the bathroom. After relieving my self, I found my accountant acquaintances. I tell them that my ride is nowhere to be found and I think he may have slipped out with his lady friend. They offer me a ride back to their place for an after party. Not seeing a better alternative, I agreed and hopped in the back seat. Inevitably, my friend was the topic of discussion but their disappointment was not in how he may have left with someone else but how I got shafted with finding a way home. Everyone has a beer or two more and then someone says their heading by my place and would drop me off on their way.
I wake up the next morning and put many of the pieces together from the previous night while watching the morning matches of the World Cup and look forward to the US actually making a decent showing later in the afternoon. Around noon I get a call from my M.I.A friend and he wants me to come over to watch the game and have some steaks. After 3 weeks of living off of hot dogs and ham sandwiches, I jumped at the opportunity. I hopped on my bike and rode the 5 miles to the other side of the island just in time for kickoff. Potatoes, steak and even a salad were waiting for me on the coffee table with Landon and crew on the TV.
We chat about the US's chances. I didn't bring up the night before and it didn't come up during the match. Both of us devoured the steak and set back in the glory of gluttony. We moved to the back porch; he handed me a Miller Lite. The back patio looked onto the waterway and we just sat for a few minutes. Amidst the silence, my mind was replaying the two sitting there on the couch and how they were lost in the blur of the night.
"Crazy night," he sputtered. I nodded. While still seated, he began shuffling his feet on the concrete, like a self conscious child in the spot light. He hinted that he wanted to tell me something. "I haven't even told my brother this." I knew it was coming. Transitioned mumbling followed until, "I cheated on [my wife] for the first time last night."
I continued my steady, rhythmic nodding and silence. He pulled out his pack of cigarettes; the ones that he had sad were his last for the past 2 days. He lit and took a long draw, leaning back in his chair and looking over the waterway. He didn't look stressed. But for that matter, I'd never seen him stressed even when we were in a tropical storm aboard a tiny john boat, he was perfectly in control. Silence fell and he asked me what he should do. At the time, only 19, was perplexed at what insight I could offer. More silence. He vowed to give up alcohol, and the remainder 2 months on the island, he did not drink. All I could get out was jumbled advice about honesty, love, forgiveness; all things I think I had learned from wasted days watching Lifetime.
We shook hands, he thanked me for listening and I departed.
It was the slowest bike ride of my life. Reflecting, taking in the fact that only my buddy, the jet black haired girl, and I knew that he violated what I felt was the most sacred vow was tearing me up. That son of a bitch. He could not blame this on alcohol. He took his ring off after 1 beer. He followed the girl to the club. He had one intention. With the sea on my right, the disappointment in humanity fell over me. I had utmost faith in good men. Maybe he was hoping that I had stepped in the previous night. Gave him a nudge from the angel on the left shoulder or not stared blankly at him when he took the ring off.
After making the journey home, I finished a bottle of Appleton’s and passed out to replays of the US losing. I had high hopes.
