Chapter 24 #2
He’s a typewriter, so he doesn’t say hi back.
He can’t, unlike you. You could call me back.
Will you call me back? It’s early, I know.
You were up late crying. Why doesn’t Joe love me?
Why did I pretend I don’t want to be his girlfriend?
I pop our mixtape into the CD player. Pop Rocks.
Eric Carmen helps. It’s fine. We’re fine.
It’s just a birthday. It’s not like your mom died.
I can make it up to you. And you’re older than I am.
Of course you know more people. Girls hoard friends, and those guys in that Urban Outfitters colosseum…
Oh, come on. That was all for me, wasn’t it?
A Big fat jealousy trap. You were trying to impress me, your new boyfriend who was supposed to waltz into that colosseum and kiss you and show the world that he belongs to you.
Yes, in an ideal world you wouldn’t have fucked with me and tested me.
But I can’t blame you for being Forever 21 at twenty-five. You learned from watching me.
I turn on the library lamp at the big desk.
The green glass always makes me smile, makes me gain control.
I set the hot pink bag on the table. Eric Carmen fades into Prince, and God, I made you a good mix.
Every song on this baby is like a picture.
It tells a story, if you read closely, if you listen.
I pull the envelope out of the hot pink paper bag.
I pull out the photos. Warm and sticky, like my mom used to say about my blanket after I did the bad thing in my bed.
Not now, Joe. Stop it. Deep breath. The top photo is a blur.
Drunk people and cameras…If you paid for all these fucking disposables, my dear, you made a big fucking mistake.
The next one is a blur and the one after that is a blur but…
Number five is a keeper. There’s your cake. Hot pink icing. HAPPY BIRTHDAY VAIL WE LOVE YOU.
We is good. We is not I.
Your friends bought you the cake, whoever they are. I’ll meet them soon enough, and then we’ll find new friends. Better ones.
The next picture is a jolt. It’s you.
A plastic silver crown on your head and wow. You got your hair done and your makeup too and it wasn’t for me but then again…yes, it fucking was. I feel warm and sticky, and Peter Frampton comes alive, bringing shadows and calm into this cage.
Picture number six is not so nice, and I kill the fucking Pop Rocks.
Picture number six is what Carrie never did to Big.
It’s you. You’re inebriated and barefoot.
The dark side of Cinderella. One missing shoe is romantic.
Two missing shoes is danger. Your extra toe exposed in real life, in glossy print.
But that’s not the problem, not really. It’s your birthday, I know.
You did one too many shots and your friends are jerks, which is why you never talk about them. All of that is fine. Good, even.
The bad thing is what lurks beside you. A man in a yellow hat with his arm slung over your shoulder.
You know him. You trust him. Is he the guy from Jake’s Dilemma?
The one who called you Gundylocks the night Angus bulldozed our momentum?
This is not some guy you just met. This is someone you wanted to see, someone you’re happy to see, someone who makes you laugh.
The whole-body, punch-buggy intensity of the laughter.
Your toes are curled up. Your eyes are slits and your cheeks are flushed, and him.
Him.
The dark side of Aidan Fucking Shaw. His sweatshirt screams Dalton and his jeans are filthy. He wears Vans. He didn’t dress up for you. He doesn’t dress up for anyone. He’s not your Mr. Big and did I blow it?
I push Play on Pop Rocks. Can’t be alone, not now.
Is it over? Did you decide that I’m not Big enough for you?
The waves crash, crash into me, and I forgot I added that song.
I feel stupid. I’m the good-on-paper dorky doctor, the one who offered his home to Carrie when Charlotte had crabs in the Hamptons.
You don’t love me. You don’t miss me, and your feet hang there so close to his.
Dangling like dust mites in a one-hour photo.
Do you love him now? The Pop Rocks burn a hole in my chest, Billy Joel turning on me like a bad burrito.
It’s all there, in your smile and your eleven exposed toes.
You love him just the way he is, and where does that leave me, Vail?
Where does that leave us? I tear the picture into a million little pieces.
I stare into the trash bin, but his eyes survived my thrashing.
Beady and blue. I grab that little scrap of photo paper and tear it again because no.
No, that fucker doesn’t get to look at me, and then I see another piece of the picture.
Your bare, beautifully deformed little foot.
Why did I tear up the picture? That’s not what I want.
I want to be in the fucking picture, and I want to put it back together and replace the man in the yellow hat, but I can’t do that, Vail. I broke it. Us.