Chapter Thirty-Three #2
“Wanna go to the mall later?” Madison asks.
I do, actually. I’m in dire need of some new purchases, but I check my watch. Sean’s game will be over soon. He’ll call as soon as he’s free, and I’ll fly into his arms. I’m not placing him before her; it’s only because he’s busier and I want to be available whenever he has time.
Makes total sense, right?
* * *
But Sean sure doesn’t act grateful for being chosen. When he agrees to go shopping with me, he says okay like he’s authorizing a missile strike. His idea of the perfect date is one that includes me but doesn’t involve dressing up or even leaving the apartment. One that is comfortable.
Translation: stay home, study, and have sex (optional).
Most of the time I go along with whatever he suggests doing (which, to reiterate, is nothing) to be supportive. But today I feel like boosting the economy.
“Do you really need five clones of that dress?” he asks, taking the bags from my hands as we walk through the mall.
Madison would get it. She’d understand why the cut matters, why one drapes better than the other, and why salmon pink and coral are worlds apart. She’d hype me up and we’d probably grab bubble tea after. Instead, I’m here with Sean, who calls it five clones of the same dress.
“Do you really need to lecture me on how I spend my own money?”
He clears his throat. “Your parents’ money.”
I pretend not to hear him. Lately, I find myself fighting with him over the most irrelevant things, caught in this endless loop where his opinion always wins. It’s part of being the perfect girlfriend, even when I resent it.
Life has become a grinding wheel of “doing the right thing.”
But today the plan is to blow off some steam. I did so well on my SAT, a break is duly deserved.
“Hey,” I say. “There’s a party tonight. Want to go?”
He squints at me, and as usual it’s mind-numbingly cute. “Is this a trick question, or do I really get to decide?”
“We’ll go only if you want to go.”
“Okay, then, no.” Surprise, surprise. “Why would I go to a party when I can hang out with you? Besides, I want to finish my essay tonight. You should do the same.”
There. The real reason.
I sigh. “Sure.”
On the way home, I drive the only way a Mercedes owner should, which is cutting in front of slower cars and rushing forward the second the light changes. If a driver hesitates too long at a turn, I’m not too hesitant to blast my horn.
“Why did you do that?” Sean asks. I hear his frown. “We’re not in a hurry.”
“I don’t like it when other cars stall me. What has the world come to? Imagine owning a Mercedes and still having to breathe in the exhaust fumes of a Honda.”
Kidding, obviously. I have nothing against Hondas (Sean drives a Civic himself), but as soon as the words leave my mouth, I remember how he feels about making (harmless) fun of people.
“How inconsiderate of the government. They should build an expressway specifically for Mercedes. No cheap cars allowed.”
My lips tighten, a clear sign that his sarcasm isn’t appreciated, but that doesn’t stop him from excessive side-seat driving. “You didn’t signal when you switched lanes.”
“I forgot,” I lie.
Didn’t he used to find my recklessness cute? He’d smile when I gunned it and braked at the last second. But today, he’s treating me like a liability. He doesn’t shut up until I pull over.
“Why don’t you drive, my sweet darling angel?” I ask, getting out. “Since you’re obviously the superior driver.”
“Can’t object to that. I am a better driver than you are.”
“You’re not just a better driver”—my temper flares out of nowhere—“you’re a better person altogether. Sometimes I want to do what makes me happy, and it isn’t necessarily the right thing, and you—look, I don’t need another parent.”
He nods. “Right. Another parent? You barely have one.”
I blink, and he reaches for my arm.
“I’m sorry, that came out wrong. I didn’t mean—”
“You don’t get to insult my parents. They’re nice to you! Don’t you dare imply they aren’t doing their job.”
“I’m not.” He rubs the back of his neck. “I’m sorry. I swear, I like your parents. I think they should spend more time with you, that’s all. You miss them, right?”
“Yeah, but now I have you. That’s enough.”
But is it?
I blow a strand of hair off my face. “Sometimes I feel like we’re eighty, living in a retirement home. I miss when we were carefree and actually had fun.”
“I can’t be just about fun. There’s a lot at stake, and I have to be responsible for both of us.” He exhales, pressing his fingers to his temples. “If you want to go to a party, we’ll go, but don’t pretend you’re fine with it and then pick a fight later.”
Deep down, it’s not even about the party. Maybe this is a phase, a rough patch after the honeymoon period. I test him now, push his limits, but I’ll settle back into normal. We’ll be solid. Permanent.
Even something as dull as water has three states. Surely we’re more complex than that?
We stand there, neither of us moving, and something snaps in me.
“You said you love the way I am. Well, this is me.” I gesture to myself, my hands shaking as well as my voice.
“I love hanging out with my guy friends, partying at night, spending money, and driving fast. I hate studying. I make fun of people, but I don’t mean any harm. Why are you trying to change me?”
“I’m not—”
“Have I ever complained about anything you do? No. I love you for you. I even went to the science museum with you. I learned all those facts so we could speak the same language. But you”—my voice cracks—“you can’t stop finding things wrong with me.”
He sighs, then he’s silent as his eyes darken, no doubt thinking up something to render me speechless. “I love the way you are, too, but—”
“You don’t love me for who I am. You love me for who you can turn me into.”
“That’s ridiculous. I’m not changing you for my benefit.
I ask you to drive slower because I need you to be safe.
I push you about studying so you won’t regret not living up to your full potential.
And partying late? Getting drunk with other guys?
You act like I’m trying to control you, but I’m just worried about you.
Lastly, when you criticize people less fortunate than you, even if you don’t mean anything by it, you have to realize not everyone’s had the advantages you’ve had. ”
I take several deep breaths. “That’s profound,” I say, blown away. Why is Sean so good at persuasion? Why is he always right?
“That’s from The Great Gatsby. First page.” He tugs on my arm, eyes soft. “Hey . . . what’s wrong with changing? Isn’t love about adapting for each other?”
He’s right.
“Of course.” I nod, but a tiny voice nags at me from the back of my mind.
Why am I the only one adapting?
As usual, I don’t say it out loud, because I love Sean more than chai lattes, Hermès, and Aman Resorts combined. He’s already perfect, and if anyone has to change, it’s me. Duh.
Sean makes me better.
So after the short argument on the side of the road, he gets behind the wheel, pleased to get his hands on my car. I let him drive us back to his place, where we have leftover mac and cheese his mom made (shhh—it doesn’t have any flavor).
He’s a wonderful guy and we love each other. How can that not be enough?
* * *
When I leave that night, everything is good again. I say good night to Sean with affection.
He’s a simple guy who loves comfort food, playing basketball with his buddies, studying for his dream school, and me. I’m the luckiest girl on the continent.
“Text me when you get home?” He plants a kiss on my lips.
“Sure.”
Striding into the night, I fight the urge to slam my foot on the gas.
My phone lights up with a dozen texts and party invites.
The breeze is welcoming, charged with possibility.
It whispers of bizarre adventures, unfathomable wonders, and fascinating strangers, which I’ll now steer away from.
I’ll drive straight home, otherwise Sean will worry.
And yet, as I cruise through the dark, I feel lost.