When I’m Twenty-Two
When I’m Twenty-Two
After moving out of my college dorm, I can happily call Boston my new safe haven, and I am in love with this city. After graduating, I bolted here without hesitation. It didn’t take much research to see that this was the city that should have been my home from the start.
From birth.
And from the moment I got here? Settled beyond belief.
Every corner I turn has another hidden spot with the best food.
This city is incredible. The people, the feel, the food?
God, I especially love the view at night.
Driving down Storrow Drive with a view of the illuminated Charles River nearly makes me weep every time.
The Zakim Bridge out of Boston? Gorgeous the way it lights up the night.
I spent forever wanting to escape my small Kansas town, and I did. God, I really did. Boston is it. This city called to me.
Who knew that loving and exploring local food could be a career? I try to embrace it without questioning it, just reveling in every fun minute that I’m gifted.
While so much of me hates being part of a food trend, I also tell myself that I was doing this shit before it was all viral. And who cares? It’s not about me—it’s never been about me; it’s only about who I can help.
While my income from of all of the videos of my restaurant love is really nice, I wonder if I’m being financially responsible.
Everyone says throwing away money on rent is dumb, but it’s probably a rite of passage.
And who has money to buy at my age? I’ve got to hope for more online partnerships.
This apartment that I moved into after graduation is not great.
Like, the potential is huge, but it’s definitely got its problems. It has two okay-sized bedrooms, a decent kitchen, and an actual dining room, but it also has serious issues.
I’d kill to be able to afford something with more living space
The text I sent my landlord a few days ago has gone unanswered.
I explained that there was clearly a situation in the bathroom above mine, as I could see the ceiling getting waterlogged and starting to sag.
He assured me that someone would come out in three to four days.
That it would be fine. And then I texted him the next day when it started to sink more.
“Relax. It’s all good,” he replied.
Telling anyone to relax is such a cue that someone is an asshole.
Starting my morning by walking into a bathroom that is destroyed is not fun, but it also sort of makes me happy because who doesn’t love being right?
The ceiling above me has now absolutely caved in.
There is wet plaster everywhere, and I have a full view into my upstairs neighbor’s place.
I pee with a towel over my head and hope the tenants above me aren’t accidentally seeing things.
At least their toilet hasn’t plummeted into my bathroom. Yet.
I text my asshole landlord with pictures.
Me: Are you relaxed now?
At least he finally agrees to get this situation addressed and—belatedly—assures me it’ll all be fixed. Within a week. I now believe nothing he says.
Again, asshole.
I’m moving out ASAP.
I call Patrick. “Argh!” I yell.
“Oh, hello,” he replies calmly.
“Why is everything broken?” I let out my frustration.
“My upstairs neighbor’s toilet is about to fall on my head.
I’m in a nice apartment, but the little stuff now feels like big stuff.
There’s a shattered glass pane on the door to the patio.
The caulk around the tub is so gross and moldy.
The balcony railing also totally might break.
As in I could step out there, check out a view, and it’d crumble and throw me to my death. ”
There’s a long silence.
“You have a balcony?”
“Yeah, I do.”
“That’s kind of a luxury, right?”
“Shut up, but yes.”
“But you’re loving Boston still?”
“Yeah, until my bathroom ceiling collapsed.” I sprawl out on the couch. “But it is and will always be a great fucking city.”
There’s a rumbling sound in the background.
“Something else going on there, Diana?”
“No. Or maybe. Or no,” I say.
“I’ll see you soon.”
Before I can reply, he hangs up, and I suspect that he started his car ten minutes ago and that he’s now on the road from Cleveland to Boston. But surely not. That would be crazy.
I go to sleep.
And he is crazy. Ten hours later, the doorbell in my apartment rings thirty times and wakes me from a miserable sleep. Before I can fully open the door or begin to even hug him, Patrick blows into my apartment, wearing the same leather biker jacket he had on when I first met him.
“Bathroom?” he asks.
I point him to the tragedy, and he marches ahead, assesses, and turns back.
“Nope. Too big for me to handle. Next?”
“Patrick,” I say with a smile as I sort of chase him around my place. “You’re here.”
“Of course I’m here. Let’s fix it all. And give me your landlord’s number.” He winks.
Soon after Patrick’s made a threatening phone call, full of swears and threats of lawsuits, there are people upstairs and in my bathroom, working away.
“Next?”
We make a few trips to home improvement stores to gather supplies, and then I watch and try to help as he fixes up the smaller issues.
I pick up Pino’s Pizza—the best around—and after midnight and more than a few beers, we collapse on the couch.
“Thank you. You’re entirely crazy,” I tell him.
“I may be,” he admits. And then he grins like I’ve never seen. “I’m also married.”
While words feel impossible to find, I somehow summon them. “You’re … what?”
“Married.” He’s glowing like mad. “Last week. Just did a courthouse thing. Katrina and I are hitched as hell!”
Of course, I’m happy, as he seems so happy. But this also feel so weird. We’re sort of still babies, barely out of college. Not full adults. But he looks so damn confident and settled.
“Katrina is everything.” He sighs. “My person.”
He’s right, and I smile and agree, “You knew it when you first saw her.”
“I did.”
It’s impossible to doubt his decision, as they’ve been so crazily in love for years now. But he’s my first married friend and my best friend, so it’s going to take me a second. But not a long second.
After I fling myself at him for a hug, I show him to my guest room.
While I fall asleep, so joyous, it does occur to me that I’ll likely never have what he has.
Never have that magic person. I didn’t grow up watching people in healthy, happy relationships.
Certainly not my parents. So, I’ve never had a healthy dating relationship.
Every attempt somehow left me feeling like shit about myself.
It’s always been easier to just cut things short.
Mostly stop them after one night. I don’t have much faith that I know how to be one half of some sort of special match.
The next night, to repay him for all his work, I do the only thing I know how to do well, which is to cook him dinner, and he raves over the chicken pasta with sage cream.
Patrick rests an elbow on the table. “Want to tell me what’s going on with you?” he asks.
“What do you mean?”
“I don’t think you’re having apartment panic.”
He might be right.
“I’m just feeling strange, being on my own. Finally on my own,” I allow. “I waited for so long, and now I don’t know how to do this. All the things. Life things. I’ve never understood happy mediums of any kind.”
“Why not?”
“Because I grew up in such a bizarre environment,” I confess. “I don’t think I know how to balance the good and bad. My bad have been extremes. Wild highs and wild lows. How to balance life? No damn idea. It’s all too embarrassing.”
As close as we are, I’ve never given him my entire backstory. It’s always just been easier to gloss over.
Patrick clears our plates, crashes them into the sink—somehow not breaking anything—and hollers, “Okay, time to fess up, kiddo! You’ve been holding on to some shit for years. Give it to me.”
He guides me to the living room and sits me down in front of the very pretty but nonworking fireplace.
I smile and laugh half-heartedly. “You ready?”
“I am.”
I don’t even know where to start, so I just start where I can.
He makes it feel okay to pour out how I truly grew up in an insane household in small-town Kansas. How my parents left me to parent myself. Well, also while parenting them.
“My father ran a seemingly legitimate construction business, but years later, I realized he was also likely a career criminal with lots of side dealings that pulled in cash. He traveled all the time, so I’d be the one who made calls to figure out things, like fixing the faulty alarm system that wouldn’t stop beeping or the furnace that was acting up.
How to get cars fixed. The lawn mowed. Trees trimmed.
City taxes taken care of. And I’d pay for these things from the bundles of cash that he had stored around the house—in the freezer, cabinets, or jars in the guest room closet. Because that was normal, right?
“And my mom? She wandered around like she was dazed and confused. Always capable of shopping and going to the country club, but not much else. Not ever being a mom in any way.”
Patrick never flinches as I unload each bit of these gross truths. “So, Dad was a creepy criminal?”
“I assume so,” I agree.
“Well, that’s all fucking beyond not normal.” He starts belly laughing.
For a second, I’m taken aback, and then I realize he’s having the most appropriate reaction, probably one I should have had years ago.
We both wander into my room and melt rather drunkenly into bed.
I fluff up the comforter and settle, but then Patrick randomly screams out, “Ronis! Fettuccine Alfredo! Shitty meatballs!”
It takes me a minute to figure out what he’s talking about, but then I playfully punch him.
Patrick rolls over and scoops me up with a giggle. “Boston has a famed North End, yes? To rival our less-famous but beloved college Italian restaurant? Shit, I hope Boston shows up.”
“Boston will always show up. There’s no competition.”
I love how he sighs so contentedly against me. So calmly.
He snugs me in tightly.
Our brother-sister vibes are eternal.
And so we dress the fuck up the next night, and he takes me out.
Boston’s Italian scene kills it, of course. And we drown in pillows of gnocchi.