Scrappy Little Nobody(31)
As the weeks went on, I alternately gained and lost ground. He had some setbacks professionally and he opened up to me about some of his fears and insecurities. This is awesome, I thought gleefully as I held him.
A couple of weeks later he was still feeling down. I offered to come over early one morning and cook him breakfast. This was partially a gesture, something to make him feel cared for, and partially because he was so strapped for cash I knew he’d appreciate a free batch of groceries. He’d taught me how to make his favorite breakfast burrito and I went to the Gelson’s Market by my apartment to pick up everything we needed. Normally, I walked to Gelson’s every morning to buy a lone Power Bar. But today the checkout girl saw my basket: the tortillas, the eggs, the spices. She noted the change in my purchase and commented, “Trying something new?”
“Oh! Yeah . . .” I paused. “I’m making breakfast for my boyfriend.” What was the harm in saying it, right? It felt like Connor and I were probably heading there anyway, and as far as she knew I was perfectly deserving of having the guy I’d been seeing for months accept the title of “boyfriend.” Unlike, say, all my friends, this girl had no reason to believe I was kidding myself. She smiled back at me and nodded conspiratorially. Yes, I thought, it is adorable. How quaint am I, clumsily attempting to cook breakfast for my boyfriend? Like something out of a movie, I’d burn the first batch, he’d laugh, and I’d smack his arm. Yes, Gelson’s lady, that’s exactly what’s going on here.
I made the breakfast and he was grateful, but it wasn’t quite how I’d pictured it. We fooled around and he made another helpful suggestion for how my post–blow job behavior could be more affectionate or make him more comfortable or some shit. He had somewhere to be that afternoon, so we both headed out. I was in the car, waiting to make a left-hand turn, when my phone rang. It was him! He never called me first! Especially not so soon after saying good-bye. I snatched the phone out of the cup holder and answered. “Hi, stalker, just can’t leave me alone, can you?” Nice one, Anna, perfect play.
“I was just behind you. You’re doing my most hated thing. When people turn left onto Sweetzer but don’t signal, so no one knows why you’ve stopped. I just had to go around you.”
I thought he was calling to say thank you for breakfast, or tell me something funny he’d just seen that made him think of me, or maybe just to say that it was nice to see me and could we hang out again tonight. He was calling to critique my driving.
Why was I trying to spend more time with this person?! I didn’t even enjoy his company! What is wrong with twenty-year-old girls?!
I debated even telling this part of the story because I hate admitting that I forgot to signal. But on the upside, it shows what a spineless doormat I was shaping up to be, so it stays!
When I finally turned twenty-one it didn’t change our dynamic as much as I had hoped it would. He started showing interest in a new girl in the group named Erika, and I could feel him pulling away even more. The next time we had a vague talk about “what we were doing,” he seemed to debate himself Sméagol/Gollum style in front of me. “Well, we get along . . . I mean, we don’t ever fight . . . and I’m not saying that I want to be with anyone else right now . . . but I guess I don’t want to miss out on any opportunities.” I should have screamed, “I’M the opportunity, you asshat!” But I clenched my teeth and convinced myself once again that I didn’t need a “label.” Before I left, I at least managed to ask the question.
“Okay, so you don’t want to be with someone else, but I have to ask. . . . Erika . . . is there anything there I should be worried about?”
He furrowed his eyebrows, more in comic surprise than anger.
“Erika the brunette? Barrett’s friend? No, no, I’m not even attracted to that girl—I think that girl has a boyfriend.” It was enough for me. I figured a guy who secretly liked a girl might protest that she had a boyfriend as a cover-up, but if he hoped they might get together at some point he wouldn’t bother saying he wasn’t attracted to her or call her “that girl.” Twice.
(Yes, reader, I know you know where this is going. You are far better at everything than I am.)
A few weeks later he came over and broke up with me. I cried. So much. It was hideously embarrassing. What had happened to me? I had handled my first breakup like a champ. This guy so obviously wasn’t into me, we weren’t ever really together in the first place, and I was behaving like a messy trophy wife who’d just been told the prenup was ironclad.
He was very sensitive about it and put up with a lot of waterworks from a girl who’d claimed over and over she was fine with just “having fun.” During the following days, the finality of being dumped started to feel like a relief. It could have gone on like that for god knows how long—being ignored, making myself available, swearing I was fine with how things were, too nervous to push for the “boyfriend” status. Or worse, I could have actually transitioned it into a real relationship—I’ve seen it happen. It looks miserable. I always want to scream at the guy, “You let her get her hooks in so far that you married her? Did you even notice it happening??” And I want to scream at the girl, “This is what you put in all that work for? A husband who’s utterly disinterested in you and cheats constantly while you turn a blind eye??”