Beautiful Graves(18)
She is only half joking as she stands up and makes her way to our kitchen, soon returning with our healthy, nutritious dinner, a.k.a. Snyder’s pretzels and two cans of Diet Coke. She passes me a can and slops beside me. I don’t know many things about life, but I do know that nothing tastes better than extra-salty pretzels and an ice-cold can of Diet Coke.
“It’s not that simple.” I break a pretzel in two, sucking on the salt until it becomes soft. “You can’t just forget.”
“Sure you can, if you try.”
But I have. For six years.
The more I tried to forget, the deeper the Seed of Joe had been planted into my heart, hitting roots. Growing, flourishing, conquering more and more space. It spread out to my limbs, to my lungs, to my brain.
The more days, and months, and years that passed, the more Joe grew into a mammoth, mythological figure in my head. Powerful and immortal. He had no beginning, middle, or end. He was nothing, and yet everything. He was the reason for the biggest tragedy in my life, the one that led me here, and yet I knew, deep down, I couldn’t really blame him for what happened.
And the sad part is that I still haven’t given up on finding him. To this day, I wander into bookstores, flipping through softcovers, looking for his name. But Joe is such a generic name. I curse myself every day for not asking for his last name.
“Till when, Ever? How long do you intend on pining for a guy you will never see again?” Nora asks seriously. She isn’t touching the pretzels anymore. Instead, she leans forward, desperate to catch my gaze. I know she isn’t just talking about my love life. She is talking about hers too. She wants me to find someone so she won’t feel so bad about moving out when she does. Her departure looms over our heads like a green, slobbery monster that wants to tear me limb from limb.
I put the soft pretzel on the coffee table after sucking the salt off it, then pop another one into my mouth. Then I take a sip of my Coke. “Sorry, I reject the narrative that you need a knight in shining armor to save you from yourself. You act like I have to jump on every guy who looks my way. Maybe if I found someone who is more my style—”
“Why is Loki’s sugar daddy not your style?” Nora asks, cutting into my speech. She is not letting it go.
I sit back. “Well, for one thing, he is too gorgeous.”
“Always a terrible thing in a sexual partner.” Nora folds her arms over her chest. “What else?”
“We don’t have the same taste in movies, music, and art.”
“Good thing you are not starting a band, then. Hit me with your next one.” She rolls her eyes.
I give it some genuine thought. I may be difficult about dating, but I genuinely don’t think Dom and I would make a good couple.
“He is an extrovert. He likes doing stuff. I’m a homebody. I’m pretty sure I’m allergic to fun.”
“You mean he’ll pull you out of your comfort zone? How dare he!” She clutches the fabric of her shirt next to her heart. I have a feeling even if I told her that Dom murders puppies in his spare time, she’d tell me it’s probably to make warm fur coats for orphans. There is no point continuing this debate. Nora wanted to make her point, and she did. I’m wasting my life away, shying away from a chance at happiness, and I will probably die alone in this apartment and have my face eaten by Loki until someone finds me.
“It’s done now, Nora. Let it go. I’m not going to go out with Dom.” I stand up and make my way to the kitchen, where I tidy up just to do something with my hands.
“Yeah. I gathered. All I’m saying is that next time—and there will be a next time, because you’re beautiful, funny, smart, and giving—make sure your heart is open. It’s a terrible existence. To feel like you’re not worthy of good things happening in your life.”
That might be the case, but that’s exactly how I feel.
A week later, I think about the death of Virginia Woolf.
More specifically, how she filled her overcoat pockets with rocks and marched into the river behind her house. I remember how hard I fought the tide on the night Joe saved me in Gran Canaria . . . and wonder if I’d do the same today. So much has changed since then. I can relate more to Virginia than to the Ever of six years ago. And that scares me.
I’m giving a bunch of teenagers and history buffs the Salem tour again. It’s a tough crowd this time. There are a few families with children under twelve. Three of them nag their parents about wanting to go potty, and when is the tour over, and why am I so boring, and who even cares about what Thomas Jefferson thought about the witch hunt trials.
I manage to push through, just barely. At the First Church in Salem, while telling the group about the legend of the Lady in Blue, I snap at a teenager who’s not-so-discreetly stepped on another kid’s foot to make her cry. Practically yelling at the teenager, I tell him that there won’t be a second strike and he will be banned from all tours for good. Which I have absolutely no authority to do.
When the tour is over and the last of the tourists trickle away, I lock myself inside my rusty Chevrolet Malibu, which is the same age as me. I close my eyes and draw a few deep breaths. I wish I had some water with me, or maybe something sweet to wake me up. For all my love for junk food, I forget to eat pretty often. Nora always tells me she hates people who say they forget to eat. That unlike doing the laundry or paying a bill, eating is the one thing she never forgets to do. But I don’t think it’s a good thing, the fact that I forget to fuel my own body. It shows my complete lack of self-care.