16 Ways to Break a Heart Page 8
“Hey.”
It’d been nearly a week since Joshua Tree, and you and I had barely spoken save for a few nonsense texts about Ms. Lefèvre and her surgery. So when we finally met up at the trailhead I was feeling completely unhinged—shaky and weepy and—
“Hi,” I said back, ignoring your sour expression, trying to hide my nerves with a bright, fake grin. “Which way?” I waved at the fork in the path. “To the stables or the sign?”
“This way,” you said, leading me left toward Sunset Ranch.
“Everything cool?” I asked, because things felt irrefutably UNcool. You were two steps ahead of me at all times, pummeling the ground with your black, cleated sneakers.
“I’ve just spent all week trying to get a bunch of parents to sign consents so I can shoot Ryan’s commencement.”
“Oh.” I was both relieved and disappointed that your mood had nothing to do with me. “Any holdouts?”
“Three. And if they don’t sign, I’m screwed. Like, seriously up shit’s creek. Without graduation, the movie has no arc.”
“That’s not true.”
You made a face then looked down. “What’s all over your shirt?”
“Oh.” Embarrassed, I brushed some crap off my tank. “Cornmeal. I was helping Mari make tortillas for my mother’s thing tonight.”
“Thing?”
“Yeah, she’s got an event. Are you breaking up with me?”
Your eyes went all round and wide. “No?”
“No?” I mimicked. Your no swung upward—a question, not a statement. “Because, like, last week was weird, right? And then this week was weird too?”
“I mean, weird’s kind of an understatement.”
My stomach flipped.
“It was bad, Nat. Ms. Lefèvre was legitimately sick and you wouldn’t let me leave.”
“I know, but—” It was shitty, true, but feeling the urge to justify my tantrum, I said, “You can live without a thyroid.”
“Natalie.”
“I’m sorry!”
“We fight nonstop.”
We did, we absolutely did, but, “Doesn’t everyone?”
“Fight like that? No. And I think—” You stuttered a bit before delivering the kicker, “I think maybe we need to spend some time apart.”
My heart seized. My stomach hit the ground. “You just swore we weren’t breaking up.”
“We’re not.”
“I can do better,” I said quickly, frantic to fix the mess. “I’ll stop being jealous and crazy, and I’ll trust you more and—”
“It’s not a big deal,” you insisted. “I’m not talking about TONS of time. I just think we need to miss each other a little.” You weren’t looking at me. You were watching the skyline—smoggy and dotted with tall buildings and jagged mountaintops. “Get some perspective, you know?”
I was desperate not to cry. To keep everything in check. To show you that I could be reasonable and levelheaded even though I didn’t feel reasonable or levelheaded at all. “But I miss you all the time,” I said. “I miss you right now, and we’re only inches apart.”
“Nat.”
I couldn’t do it; I didn’t have the strength of will not to cry.
“Nat, it’s okay.” You were petting me while I wept into your ratty flannel. “We’re not breaking up.”
“Then why does it feel like we are?”
“Look at me.”
I tried. You were laughing a little but eyeing me soberly.
“We just need to set some boundaries.”
“That sounds horrible. Have you been reading a ton of self-help lately?”
“I’m trying to make things better for us.”
“So we’re not breaking up?”
“We’re not breaking up,” you said, taking my face and kissing it gently. “We’re just doing a little experiment.”
“What, like, research and development?”
“Exactly.”
I kissed you back and hugged you hard. I had trouble letting go.
Three days later, after not texting or talking much, I tried calling you. It was a Friday, and usually you were home Fridays but not that night—your phone was switched off. Normally I would’ve panicked straightaway, but I reminded myself—we were testing out a new normal, trying to create boundaries, trying to fight less and trust more. So I went downstairs and made a toaster waffle before trying you again. Straight to voice mail. I played two rounds of Crazy Eights with Mariella then tried again. Voice mail. I showered. Voice mail. I texted Lex. Voice mail. I drank half a pint of vanilla vodka then fell asleep in my parents’ empty whirlpool tub. Élégant, non?
Turns out, you were with Ruby again. Which of course you lied about.
Asshole.
N
DAN, 1:01 P.M.
I was with Ruby that night, but I wasn’t with Ruby. We were at the silent movie theater on Fairfax for a rerelease of Seven Up!, the first in a series of English docs about kids in the sixties. My phone was switched off. It wasn’t until afterward—after the movie, after the Lebanese food, after the ice cream and the night hike and the drive home—that I realized I’d been disconnected from Planet Earth. I switched on my cell and saw all eleven of Nat’s messages. Four hours’ worth of voice mails that started off relatively sane and devolved into psychotic, drunk babble:
“Hey, it’s me. Miss you.”
“Hi again, call me back.”
“Just freaking out a little. Call when you can?”
“So wait, what, your phone died?”
“Please explain to me how you can go three days without calling your girlfriend? No text, no email, no fucking FaceTime? Your space experiment is bullshit.”
“Lemme guess: Arielle Schulman?”
“Maybe your phone’s drowning in a pool of Ms. Lefèvre’s thyroid replacement pills?”
“If you’re fucking fucking someone, I swear to God I’ll kill myself.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Sorry again. I’m just freaked out about that hike. Please call me? Please?”
“Fuck. You.”
I called back immediately, but she didn’t pick up. I tried again the next morning, but my call went straight to voice mail. By midday I was worried—her hysteria over the relationship plus her Ruby paranoia plus her Ari paranoia plus her love of drama—what if she’d done something stupid?
Jessa had the car that afternoon, so I took the bus to Nat’s place.
“You’re alive,” I said, standing breathless and sweaty at her doorstep, having just jogged the half mile uphill to her house from the bus stop. “I’ve been calling you all day.”
She was in pajamas still (boxers, see-through tank, no bra) leaning against the doorframe, picking her fingernails. “Yeah, I called you all night.”
“I know, I got your messages.” I was annoyed now that I could see that she was perfectly fine. “All eleven of them.”
Nat winced and walked inside, leaving the door wide open.
“Hey!” I said, following her up the steps, chasing her bare feet as they slapped the wood floorboards all the way to her room. “Are you gonna say something?” I asked, bumping the bedroom door shut with my back.
She locked eyes with me. “Just tell me you were shooting last night.”
I hadn’t been. So I didn’t.
“What then? Was it that girl?” Her brows and shoulders moved upward in short, sharp jerks. “Arielle?”
“No,” I said, anger coming to a roiling boil in my gut. Did I really owe her an explanation? A breakdown of yesterday’s schedule? I’d asked for a little time and distance, and she’d agreed. So why were we having this talk? “Eleven messages.”
Nat flushed red and then shifted from leg to leg. “And?”
“And is that what you call giving me space?”
I saw a quick flash of shame cross her face before her mouth hardened into something more stiff. “You’re seriously not gonna tell me where you were last night?”
“We had a deal.
”
“A deal?” She said it slowly as if trying to understand the word. “Is that what we are now, some sort of business arrangement? Do I only get to have feelings for you on Wednesdays and alternate weekends?”
“You’re twisting my words.”
“What about screwing, Dan? Do we have to set up some sort of system for fucking? I only get laid if I let you screw someone else first?”
I was so filled with rage I could’ve kickboxed through a plate glass window. “Stop it.”
“Why didn’t you just dump me on that hike last week, huh? You wanted to, right?”
I had wanted to but I hadn’t been able to pull the trigger. Why?
“You act like I’m the only one behaving badly in this relationship, but you’ve been checked out from the very beginning,” she said. “Where were you when my mom had her Hammer event, huh? Or when I got my wisdom teeth out last spring? Or how about this summer when Lex worked so hard to get us those Bowl tickets and you completely bailed last minute? Where were you then?”
“You know where I was,” I said, my voice an angry, low grumble. “I was filming.”
“But when are you not filming, Dan?” She blew back her bangs in frustration. “I’m equally committed to my work, and yet somehow, magically, I’ve managed to make the time and space for our relationship. In fact, forget me, what about your family? Or school even? Jessa says you’re flunking calc.”
“She’s being hyperbolic; I’m not flunking calc, Natalie.” I was livid. “Do you know how hard I have to work just to feel adequate around you and your goddamn mother? Do you know what it’s like, dating a girl with a platinum charge card who’s never had to work a day in her life?”
She laughed. “Jesus Christ, Dan, you’re not a pauper! Your dad’s a goddamn tax attorney!”
“Fuck you!”
“No, fuck you! What is up with the permanent chip on your shoulder, huh? God, your sense of entitlement is astounding.”
“You do realize that if I don’t finish my movie I may not get into school? I certainly won’t qualify for any scholarship money or grants.”
“You have a 3.9 GPA, shithead. You’ll get in somewhere.”
“And then how will I pay for it? You’ve fucked off for four years, and you’ll probably still get into some top-tier art school because your mom’s a star and your dad’s loaded.”
She slapped me.
And I let her because I deserved it.
“I work my ass off in that studio.”
“Yeah, you do,” I said back, panting, my left cheek throbbing with heat. “And I have to work twice as hard because I’m not half as good. You have everything, Natalie. Status and money and the fucking talent to back it up.”
Her face fell. She took a step toward me then stopped. “Is that a joke?”
“My raging jealousy?” I rubbed my sore cheek and looked down, horrified by the bomb I’d just dropped. “Nope, not a joke. You’re just better than me and I hate you for it.”
“You hate me?”
I didn’t. “I don’t, no, I just . . .”
“Dan . . .” Her eyes were wide and blazing with pity. “I’m not better than you.”
She reached for me and reflexively I backed up. “Please don’t.”
“Don’t what?” she said, ignoring me, caressing the side of my head with cold fingers. “I’m sorry I slapped you.”
Something inside me broke and I suddenly wanted to bawl. “I can’t keep doing this.”
She didn’t say anything for a second or two. Then her hands slid from my head to my neck. “Dan.” I couldn’t even look at her. I kept my chin down, but she nudged it upward and said, “Hey. I’m still your girl, right?”
Was she? Did I even want her to be? We locked eyes finally. There she was, my Nat—she looked anxious and vulnerable and near tears. I did a quick scan of her body: the small scar on her chest from where she’d broken her collarbone as a kid; the wave of dark, shiny hair that hid half her face; her skinny legs; her perfect breasts; the tiny constellation of zits on her pale chin. This was how I liked her—a little desperate with a tinge of fragility. I felt a surge of something familiar—lust? love?—and did the only thing I could think to do: I backed away.
But she quickly closed the space between us.
“Dan . . .” was what she said when our foreheads touched, her hip bones poking me like small, dull daggers. “Just tell me where you were last night. Please?”
“I already told you,” I said, even though I hadn’t told her anything yet. “I was with the Espinosas, shooting. My phone died.”
“So you’re back together then?” Ruby was standing in my kitchen licking chocolate batter off a spatula.
“I mean, I guess?” I filled a glass with water from the mounted spigot and handed it to Jessa. “Though we were never really broken up.”
“They were working out the kinks in their relationship,” Jessa offered, sipping the water with her pinkie extended, sounding laughably diplomatic.
“What the hell do you know about relationships?” I asked.
“I think she’s in one,” Ruby said, inspecting a spot on Jessa’s neck. “I swear to God this is a hickey.”
“It’s a birthmark!” she screamed, laughing and swatting at Ruby wildly.
“What time does the movie start?” Ruby asked me, arching backward, smiling placidly while Jessa continued to swing.
“I told you I couldn’t go, remember?” I was halfway out the door already, frantically searching for my keys. “I’m having dinner with the Fierros.”
“You didn’t tell me that.”
“I did.”
“No, Dan, you didn’t.” She was sober suddenly. “Why do you think I’m here right now?”
“I thought you were helping Jess with her brownie video.”
“It’s a lifestyle vlog.”
“I’m here,” Ruby said, “because you and I have plans.”
We’d had plans, but I’d canceled them. Hadn’t I? “Rubes, I’m sorry, but Nat and I had this whole big talk yesterday about me being more present and I just feel like I owe her this, you know?”
She was staring at me, fuming. I stared back. “Don’t look at me like that.”
“She’s manipulating you.”
“No,” I said, feeling a sudden surge of anger and defensiveness. “We’re working things out. Sometimes when you love someone you make sacrifices.”
Ruby looked horrified. “Am I your sacrifice?”
“I didn’t mean you.”
“No, it’s fine,” she said, shrugging. “It’s totally fine. You should ditch me to spend time with her. Even though you and I have known each other since we were thirteen and I’ve been stupidly loyal while she’s been toxic and crazy.”
“Oh boy,” Jessa said, pushing the brownies aside and swiftly leaving the room.
“She’s my girlfriend, Ruby.”
“So? Does that mean I’m not allowed to say something when you blow me off to be with her?”
“You can say whatever you want.”
“Great.”
“Awesome.”
She was staring at me still, jaw clenched, eyebrows raised. I was over it. So sick of bending over backward trying to please, placate, validate every single person in my life. I couldn’t make Natalie happy without pissing off Ruby. I couldn’t make Ruby happy without alienating Nat. I was screwed either way. “What do you want from me, Ruby?”
“Nothing,” she said, deflating finally, grabbing her bag off the counter then heading for the door.
JANUARY 26, 2017, THURSDAY, 4:52 P.M., EMAIL
From: Joshua G. Velick
To: Jessa Jacobson
Can I please take you on a real date? I don’t think the other night counts.
JANUARY 26, 2017, THURSDAY, 9:15 P.M., EMAIL
From: Jessa Jacobson
To: Joshua G. Velick
Okay, here’s the thing.
My brother has two girlfriends but thinks he has one. He has
the girl he’s been stringing along for four years and then the girl he’s been officially dating for thirteen months. They hate each other. Both are smart, reasonable girls who get stupid and crazy when they’re around him. I’m 85% certain this is his fault. He’s a flirt. And he’s selfish. Which is fine, and I don’t think he’s actually screwing multiple people at once, but he can be oblivious and insensitive. And before you start thinking that I hate him, let me just clarify: I LOVE him. He’s funny and fun and super supportive, and he bought me a used DSLR for my birthday. Because of him my videos look legit. He’s the best. But I would never, EVER want to date him. Watching him throw all that awesome, charming, dramatic bullshit at TWO girls makes me want to barf. It makes me not trust men. Maybe you’re nothing like him. Maybe you’re a one-woman kind of guy. Maybe you only have eyes for me. Maybe you think I’m an angry man-hater. I’m not. I love dudes. But I’m a delicate flower and most of you scare the living shit out of me.
So I don’t know. About the date, I mean.
JANUARY 26, 2017, THURSDAY, 9:22 P.M., EMAIL
From: Joshua G. Velick
To: Jessa Jacobson
Please. I’m nothing like your brother.
12
DAN, 1:18 P.M.
On our third date I took Nat to a screening of Sage Rock, this tiny doc about a commune run by cowboy/rock star/utopian visionary Keith Kelly. Kelly had built an “intentional community” out of an old summer camp in central California, and he had legions of fans and supporters, most of which were rich, influential, famous types. He was a huge deal on the internet, and Vanity Fair had profiled him twice. His twenty-year-old daughter, California Kelly, had published a moderately successful tell-all book titled Growing Up Guru. The guy was a living legend and I was obsessed with him. Obsessed and pissed that someone—someone older than me with more credentials/money/experience—had gotten to make a film about him first.
“So I’ve been begging my dad for the last year and a half to let me take a trip up north to see the place,” I told Nat as we sat side by side waiting for the movie to start. “It’s, like, incredible supposedly: avocado groves, cabins covered in ivy; everything’s sustainable and pastured and—”