XI

“Can I buy you a drink?”
Just what I had been afraid of. Two days before the New Year: 1997 and my best friend said I needed a new outlook, a new lease on life. So she dressed me up like a doll and dragged me to the skuzzy bar on the corner that we usually complained about, calling to the drunkards from our porch. Now she’d abandoned me to a club full of rabies-ridden college boys for the one halfway decent catch in the whole place. So much for fake Ids. On top of that, now I had to fend off the advances of one of these frothing-mouth assholes.
“Why? So I can feel obligated to let you walk me home? No thanks.” Before I could stop the words from slipping past my lips, Adam met my eye. He was supposed to be in London for the semester. He was supposed to be out of my life. I was supposed to be over him.
“How have you been Janie?”
“Sorry. I’m fine. How are you?”
“Well I’m a bit taken aback by your allegation, but other than that not bad.”
“I thought you were going to London.”
“I’m leaving in a couple of weeks. You know, I wouldn’t expect you to be here.”
“It was Carrie’s idea. Anyway, I’m glad you’re doing well. I should be getting home.”
“Let me walk you.” He grinned mischievously.
“I think I can manage the one block. Besides, you didn’t buy me that drink.”
“Well then why don’t you let me?”
I winced, knowing that I would let him. His bright blue eyes pierced right through me still, and there was always something about the way his glasses sat on his larger than average nose, just slightly lower on the right that I couldn’t help but find endearing. A friend of mine once told me that there is a fine line between endearing and repulsive. I don’t know what it is about Adam that kept him on the endearing side, but a mere half an hour later we were back in our familiar routine: laughing, talking, flirting, touching. I pleaded internally with myself to stop, but the message was intercepted somewhere in between my mind and my fingertips, which were inching their way toward Adam’s carefully worn in jeans. I used his knew to steady myself as I leaned closer to him.
“I’d like you to walk me home now,” I whispered, slightly slurred, and regretted it before I’d even finished.
I woke up the next morning (to use the term loosely, it was nearly one in the afternoon) with a massive headache and an empty bed. When I went into the kitchen to scrounge up some nourishment, Carrie was sitting at the table with a mug of hot chocolate and a disapproving look on her face.
“Oh, don’t give me that.”
“What? I didn’t say anything.”
“You didn’t have to. It’s all over your face.”
“Hey, if you want to fuck yourself over again, that’s fine. Just don’t come crying to me next time he sneaks out in the middle of the night, non-committal bastard.”
“Hey, I’m the one that broke up with him.”
“Rightfully so. He wanted the best of both worlds. You to cuddle up with, and any other girl he could get-- and he’s a charmer-- to fuck on the side.”
I sighed. She was right, and I was in no mood to argue a losing point.
“Do we have any ibuprofen?”
“Top shelf.”
“Thanks.”
I didn’t know what was wrong with me. I knew he was leaving in two weeks, and he’d made it very clear that nothing I had was enough to make him a one-woman man. I wanted to think that maybe he’d changed, but that was impossible, we’d only broken up a month and a half ago, and his psychosis was too far embedded to solve in six weeks. Mine as well is apparently going to take years of therapy. I still can’t even look at another guy without instantly comparing him to Adam.
So I let my charade go on for two weeks, each night hoping that he’d stay until the morning. Maybe we could go for a jog or make breakfast. Every morning I’d wake up to find that he’d carefully untangled himself from my sleeping death grip and made a safe and speedy escape. Three days before he left for London, I caught him in the act.
“Where are you going?”
“Babe, I have to finish packing. I’ve got tons left to do before Sunday.”
“You’re going to pack at…” I glanced at the clock. “Four thirty in the morning?”
“I have to get some sleep.”
“Why can’t you get some sleep here?”
“Because it’s not familiar. It’s not my bed, okay?”
“You’ve spent nine out of the last twelve nights here.”
“But not to sleep.”
“Yeah…”
“Oh come on, Janie, don’t pull this.”
“Don’t pull what?”
“You knew what this was, you knew I was leaving.”
“Yeah, but…” He was right, but there had to be something. Didn’t he feel anything at all? “Don’t you feel anything at all?”
“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”
“For me.”
“Janie, you know I care about you.”
“But not enough.”
“What’s enough?”
“Enough to spend the night. Enough to stop sleeping with other girls. Enough to miss me when you’re gone for a whole semester in fucking London.”
“Do you think I won’t miss you? Do you think I haven’t missed you? The month that we spent apart was hell, but now I remember why I didn’t stop you the last time you told me to fuck off. Why I didn’t come after you when you got on that train.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means I care about you, but I can’t deal with this co-dependent shit.”
“Co-de-fucking-pendent? You think I’m co-dependent? Fuck you Adam. Get out of my house.”
“I was on my way, if you’ll recall.”
“Good. Have fun in London.”
“I will…” He turned on his heel, then paused a moment. “You know, I haven’t slept with anyone else since that night in the bar.”
“Do you want a cookie or a medal?”
“I just wanted you to know. Goodbye.” And he left, without ever turning around or meeting my eye.