Documente Academic
Documente Profesional
Documente Cultură
Summer 8-12-2016
It Took Twenty-Six
Chelsea T. Johnson
ctj14a@acu.edu
Recommended Citation
Johnson, Chelsea T., "It Took Twenty-Six" (2016). Digital Commons @ ACU, Electronic Theses and Dissertations. Paper 37.
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ABSTRACT
My experience of dating my way through the alphabet by the time I was twenty-
four-years-old has taught me a lot about boys, men, and especially myself. It gave me the
opportunity to learn about and learn from a variety of people from different backgrounds,
both similar and vastly different from my own. I illustrate my journey of self-discovery
through dating, while exploring the major issues I struggled with throughout this time. I
explore themes of abuse, love, lust, pain, insecurity, commitment, spirituality, and self-
discovery in my thesis.
I aim to answer the following questions within the memoir: How has my dating
life/journey mirrored my spiritual journey? In my quest to find love and “the one,” what
did I really find? What obstacles did I have to overcome throughout this journey, and
how did I do that? How have my experiences affected the manner in which I now form
This thesis is in the form of memoir. It is an exploration of how I looked for love
in all the wrong places before I realized that I had to love myself first. I tell the stories of
twenty-six relationships I had with boys and men over the years in my quest to find love.
I will explore the manner in which I overcame the pain and loss that I encountered in
some relationships and how I used others as a means to mask this pain or prove
something to myself. Aside from telling the stories about the relationships, the arc over
the entire work will be my journey towards finding true love of self. I will also address
how my spiritual journey with God was affected by the experiences I had and the people I
A Thesis
Presented to
In Partial Fulfillment
Master of Arts
In English
By
Chelsea Johnson
August 2016
To all those who have loved or hope to one day.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
First, I would like to thank my family for being supportive throughout this long
process. Thank you for bearing with me as I worked through difficult memories and for
being open to discussing my past. I could not have done any of this without you all.
Second, I would like to thank my friends who sat with me in the middle of the
night when I couldn’t stop crying. Who brought me chocolate and donut holes when the
writing process got tough. Who made sure I was eating and not completely immersing
Lydia. None of this would have been possible without you all.
Third, I would like to thank Dr. Weathers. I have learned so much about the art of
writing and grammar from you in this past year. You have helped me to learn how to be
critical of my own writing, and you have showed me how there is always room for
improvement. I have valued the time spent working with you, and will always be aware
that non-restrictive commas are my blind spot when writing. Thank you so much for
Finally, I would like to thank all of the boys and men that I write about in this
book. Thank you for giving me permission to write about your stories and for providing
me with alternate names. Thank you for being gracious readers of my accounts of our
stories together. Mainly, I thank so many of you for remaining some of my best friends
ALPHABET GLOSSARY.......................................................................................1
I. A...............................................................................................................................7
II. B .............................................................................................................................17
III. C .............................................................................................................................19
IV. D.............................................................................................................................25
V. E .............................................................................................................................29
VI. F .............................................................................................................................34
VII. G.............................................................................................................................38
VIII. H.............................................................................................................................48
IX. I ..............................................................................................................................55
X. J ..............................................................................................................................57
XI. K.............................................................................................................................62
XII. L .............................................................................................................................67
XIII. M ............................................................................................................................71
XIV. N.............................................................................................................................79
XV. O.............................................................................................................................80
XVI. P .............................................................................................................................92
XVII. Q.............................................................................................................................95
XVIII. R .............................................................................................................................99
XIX. S ...........................................................................................................................102
XX. T ...........................................................................................................................141
XXI. U...........................................................................................................................144
XXII. V...........................................................................................................................149
XXIII. W ..........................................................................................................................159
XXIV. X...........................................................................................................................165
XXV. Y...........................................................................................................................181
XXVI. Z ...........................................................................................................................186
REFERENCES ....................................................................................................191
INTRODUCTION
When I began Shelly Sander’s memoir class, we were assigned to write three
pieces throughout the semester that somehow corresponded with one another. As I began
to ponder potential topics, I had a particularly odd experience with someone I was dating
at the time, Matthew. I have used writing as a tool to uncover some truths in my life and
sort out confusion, so with this knowledge, I took to writing when I became confused
about what I saw and felt about uncovering a nasty truth in Matthew’s trash can. I will
admit the story spilled itself on the page without much prompting from me, and the
amount of personal discovery I made was surprising. From there I began to think about
how I could connect other autobiographical events I have experienced with the one I had
just written, and I turned to my journals as a source of inspiration. I have been writing in
journals for years now, so a good portion of my adult life is meticulously documented on
As I opened up one of my first journals and flipped through the pages, I came to
the last page that had a list of names and tally marks. Instantly my mind wandered back
to the time when I kept track of every boy I dated, and as I read through the admittedly
lengthy list, I began to remember all the stories from all the dates and relationships I had
been in at various stages of my life. As I continued thinking about the list of names and
the stories of boys that hadn’t worked out, I realized that I had dated my way through the
alphabet. This shocking discovery made me question my dating habits. At that point, it
occurred to me to write about some of the stories from these relationships that lacked
iii
iv
closure for the two remaining personal essays for the memoir workshop to learn more
When I thought about what I should write for my thesis, the idea came to me rather
quickly to tell the stories from each of the dates and relationships. I knew that I had
universal experiences that would resonate with a large portion of the population. I was
searching for love in my life, like so many others are and have before me. However, I
have often found myself questioning if I am good enough to deserve the kind of love and
partnership that I desire, or if it even exists. Love is the one thing that ties any human to
another, and I had learned a lot about what to do and not to do in order to find it.
It was at this point that I moved to Romania for the summer, working and writing.
I began to truly sort out all this confusion and loneliness through exploring my journals
and for a few months removing myself from any world that I was familiar with. I
discovered that I took my running career and applied it to my personal life. I run when
situations get difficult. I run physically, from relationships to traveling around the globe. I
run emotionally, from burying events like rape so deep inside that it took me years to
begin the process of healing and isolating myself from others. I discovered that I had
been searching for love with all of these boys and men, and yet, I had neglected to find
It was after this realization that the idea for my thesis morphed into what it is now;
it took dating more than twenty-six people for me to figure out that I needed to love
myself first to find the happiness and peace that I desired and deserved. It took twenty-six
human being. It took twenty-six for me to learn the biggest lesson of my life.
v
pen pals for the next few years. I used all of three pages until I moved to London when I
from my time abroad. Soon I began writing bits and pieces of my time abroad in the
journal, but it quickly developed into much more. I began to write down everything that I
saw, experienced, thought, and questioned. Writing became my outlet for frustration and
confusion, and it became a way for me to make sense of life and the world. This outlet
morphed into a passion for the written word and how it can be molded to help others
understand emotions and situations. I began writing poetry and continued journaling
diligently, and then I began this project of writing a full-length memoir about my dating
life.
I encountered numerous problems throughout the writing process, but the main
ones that I struggled with the most were fear of writing the truth and the judgment that
the flower of the imagination. It binds us where we should be free” (103). This statement
alludes to what I was experiencing as a writer throughout the great majority of the
not proud of looking back on them, but they were essential to molding me into who I am
today. Periods during my life when I questioned the existence of God and renounced my
faith are reflected in the actions that I take with creating and maintaining relationships in
vi
my life. It is this aspect of my memoir that I have struggled with. I have a choice as a
writer to “sugar coat” certain stories or leave out details; however, by doing that I am
compromising the essential truth embedded in the story. Throughout writing my memoir,
I struggled with how much to tell the reader and how much to hold back. L’Engle
explains how “art should communicate with as many people as possible, not just a group
of the esoteric elite,” and this illustrates how I began to view writing the messy bits of my
memoir. I am a flawed narrator and my readers are also imperfect, so I would be doing a
disservice to my experiences, the lessons I have learned, and myself by holding back in
my writing, no matter what the consequences are in regards to being morally judged by
Another challenging aspect I encountered was writing the characters that appear
in my story and the stories themselves with compassion. During my first year of graduate
school at Abilene Christian University, I had a professor present a quote about charitable
reading to the class. I wrote it into my spiral notebook and never forgot how important it
was to read charitably, even when it is ideas that contradict your own. I brought this idea
into my writing. I wanted to write charitably and provide compassion towards all the
individuals in my story, no matter how difficult that was. I found it extremely difficult to
remain compassionate and charitable towards the people in my life that have hurt me the
most; however, taking this challenge pushed me to really think about everything that
happened from another viewpoint. I discovered that numerous times some of these
situations where I thought I was only the victim were actually partially perpetuated by
me. This realization was a very large pill to swallow and frankly scared me away from
writing for a while because I was terrified of learning more about the situations I was
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writing about. In the end, this was the greatest challenge and gift I could give myself as a
writer and a person because it allowed closure to occur in most of the chapters.
Pacific Crest Trail, but along that excruciatingly long hike she must face her past and the
mistakes she has made along the way in order to reach, going into her future, a state of
peace. Cheryl Strayed is a solo female, self-supported long-distance hiker, and this
adventure pushes her to her physical limits as she faces lack of food, water, a boot, and
numerous other challenges. Strayed also works through emotional baggage throughout
her three-month-long hike. She processes her father’s abuse towards her mother, her
mother’s decision to leave, and the early death of her mother, whom she was dearly close
to. Her mother remarried, but after her mother’s death, Cheryl’s stepfather remarries and
she loses the only parental figure she has left. Also, she works through the collapse of her
marriage due to her numerous affairs and heroin addiction. Her physical journey mirrors
I took this memoir with me to Romania, and it was one of the few books I had in
English. I read and reread Wild at least half a dozen times. I connected on a deeply
personal level with Strayed and her story; while different, we have both gone through
life-altering pain and loss and we have both grappled with coming back from it. This
memoir and story pushed me to want to be as honest with myself and my reader as
While the structure of this memoir is different than how I structured my memoir, it
is the manner in which she writes about her past that I am trying to emulate in my
viii
writing. Strayed hits on many topics that are typically taboo in the world of female
writing: adultery; the enjoyment of sex; drug addiction; and the loss of family, both
intentional and unintentional. This manner of being so open with the reader allows for an
immense amount of trust and respect to be formed. It is this relationship that she builds
with the reader that allows her to speak her truth, no matter how ugly it is. She doesn’t
glorify her past choices, but she also doesn’t shy away from revealing her darkest
mistakes and lowest moments. I think that by being honest with the audience one
my writing as I explore some of my past decisions that I am not proud of, but that I know
I had to go through in order to get where I am today. I think honesty about how messy
life can be will resonate with readers and create a bond between the audience and the
The manner in which Cheryl Strayed flashes back and forth between the present
and the past is a beautiful craft, and throughout It Took Twenty-Six I am trying to make
the transitions between memories and thoughts as seamless as her transitions are. She
also doesn’t flash back in sequential order throughout her memoir but instead allows
aspects of her journey along the trail to trigger memories. This is a more realistic manner
of working through the pain and loss in life rather than chronologically. In my memoir, I
attempting to ensure that the reader is still able to follow along easily, as I was able to in
as a swimmer and the transition from competing for a spot on the Olympic team to
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discovering how the sport will fit in with her new life as a non-competitive swimmer. She
struggles to find a new identity and passion for life after closing the chapter of
competitive swimming because it is all she has known up until that point. The journey to
mesh her love for swimming and art, such as painting and photography, is a fascinating
one.
and contains aspects other than writing to facilitate her story. She incorporates
photography and art throughout the memoir, which truly conveys the intermingling of
passions that she has. I incorporate these techniques into my own memoir. There are
passages straight from my journals, that are raw and unfiltered, and there is no way to
describe how I was feeling other than how I wrote it in the moment. I think it is beneficial
to incorporate images from my journals and other visual aspects I collected that help to
illustrate different aspects of each relationship in the text. Also, I have enjoyed writing
poetry for years, and there are a few poems that I incorporate in the chapters detailing my
poem that I wrote about rape and my experience. The structure for this chapter is
especially important because I feel that allowing the reader to know what happened to me
is crucial to the understanding of the rest of the memoir, but by constructing it in poetry, I
do not have to go too far into detail about the actual incident.
throughout his life that taught him more about God. He talks about the journeys he has
gone on solo, with his wife, with his children around the world, and his search for finding
some “whimsy” in the everyday adventures as well. After a new story in each chapter, he
x
reflects on what he learned from God, then and now. Throughout his memoir Bob Goff
takes readers with him on his journey and helps them to learn from his mistakes and
triumphs, and in the end of it all, he leaves the audience feeling inspired to live life in
search of the small adventures that make up the everyday. Goff wants his readers to
discover the magic in everything God has touched and to help create more magic in the
world.
I do not follow the organization of Bob Goff’s narrative, mainly because I found it
too simplistic. I don’t appreciate the lack of complexity in the structure or the manner in
which he literally spelled out the lessons he learned from each of these experiences.
However, I did leave the book feeling inspired, which made me reflect on what he was
accomplishing in the text. He is using his life, mistakes and triumphs, as teachable
moments, and by making himself vulnerable about how he didn’t have a plan most of the
time, he connects with the reader. He also wants the reader to learn about God and the
power of love through the telling of his story. The main aspect that interests me in his
memoir is that he has highlighted love as an unstoppable force within the world, and that
is similar to the large arc that I thread throughout my narrative. However, I do not want to
belittle my readers by structuring this in too simplistic a manner for them by spelling out
the lessons I learned. I craft my memoir in a manner that allows the readers to learn with
me through reading my essays. I want my readers to understand that love is complex and
powerful, and yet despite that, it is one thing that drives us all to be better and do better.
concept of a woman going to couples counseling with God. She explores the various
aspects of her life, her spiritual journey, and her dissatisfaction with the Lord and her life.
xi
Throughout the memoir, the reader goes through the journey of comprehending life and
what has happened in the course of it through the lens of a struggling Christian woman.
She illustrates a woman losing and finding her faith numerous times throughout her life
The manner in which she addresses religion, within the text, is honest and real, and
her vulnerability with the readers in sharing with them intimate mistakes and struggles
with God establishes credibility and trust. This is something I try to emulate in my own
memoir. As a Christian woman who has struggled with my faith over the years, I
connected well with her story, and although I would not want to write my memoir in the
same structure, I would like to create a similar relationship with Christian readers. I
discreetly address the struggles of living as a Christian woman within a broken world and
trying to find love. The central arc of my memoir is the personal journey to find love and
how my spiritual journey reflects the people I allowed in my life at the time.
I grew up in a Methodist household. I was born and raised in the church; however,
college, I began to question my faith. I had reached the first rough patch in my
relationship with God, and unfortunately, this was only the beginning. During my second
to last semester of college I was raped and it was after this that I lost my faith entirely for
the next two-and-a-half years before slowly coming back to the church and God.
This living in the faith, leaving it, and coming back to it has influenced my life
decisions and the way I handle relationships. I have found through the writing process
xii
that my love for myself mimicked my love for God in many ways, and that is reflected in
My memoir is far from what some would deem a Christian text, as it includes sex,
excessive drinking of alcohol, and the act of running away from all the problems and love
in my life. However, it was through the act of writing and revising this memoir that my
dwindling and almost diminished faith in God returned slowly as I worked through the
stories. It was my initial upbringing in the church that helped me realize that I had to
forgive myself and let go of what I had blamed God for in my life.
Leo Tolstoy’s book, What Is Art? deals with the difficult task of attempting to
define “good” and “bad” art. Tolstoy discusses numerous theories and manners in which
art can be classified into the two categories, but it is his emphasis on art as
communication that struck me. “In order to define art precisely, one must first of all cease
looking at it as a means of pleasure and consider it as one of the conditions of human life.
Considering art in this way, we cannot fail to see that art is a means of communion
among people” (Tolstoy 37). This way of looking at art has been reassuring to me as a
writer. It is one of my missions to reach people with the accounts of my life and
hopefully help them in their own lives in some manner. With this goal in mind Tolstoy’s
truthful, even when it is difficult, in order to communicate that with potential readers.
Tolstoy continues to explain that “as the word which conveys men’s thoughts and
experiences serves to unite people, so art serves in exactly the same way … that through
the word a man conveys his thoughts to another, while through art people convey their
feelings to each other” (Tolstoy 38). This unification of people through words and art is
xiii
what connects us all. Life experiences and the feelings that accompany these experiences
are commonalities that all people will have. While some of the readers of my memoir will
not share in all the experiences and feelings, most people will identify with at least one of
the themes in the memoir. Most notably, the discovery and perpetual working towards
` In Madeleine L’Engle’s book Walking on Water, she discusses how one can be a
Christian artist and how art produced by non-Christians isn’t necessarily good art. This
book initially infuriated me. The fact that she was able to so quickly write off artists who
do not know the Lord or have a personal relationship with him rubbed me the wrong way.
I have been the artist that she is denouncing in certain periods of my life and reading
Walking on Water made me feel less accepted as a new Christian artist and made my
previous work feel less worthy. However, after looking at the text more closely, I came to
understand L’Engle a little more. She is not degrading nonbelievers and their art, but
instead believes that God is working through them even if the artist isn’t consciously
aware:
It has often struck me with awe that some of the most deeply religious
people I know have been, on the surface, atheists … . Many atheists deny
God because they care so passionately about a caring and personal God
and the world around them is inconsistent with a God of love, they feel,
and so the say, “There is no God.” But even when one denies God, to
the conscious mind is willing to accept that fact. Basically there can be no
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categories such as “religious” art and “secular” art, because all true art is
This sentiment of L’Engle’s that God is working through all of us regardless of if we are
believers or not, and that he manifests himself in our creations is something I agree with.
As someone who has struggled to consistently believe in God’s love and role in my life
and as a writer, I have found grains of truth in this thought. In the beginning of the
writing and creation process of this memoir, I spent a lot of time planning and thinking
about what to write. However, once I began the process of getting the first draft of each
chapter, I felt the memoir take on a life of its own. The memoir took control, and I was
merely a medium that the art was using to create itself. This feeling of losing control of
the final project was terrifying at first, but at it progressed I felt more secure in what I
was writing, the messages and themes I was producing, and the love that was being
poured into every page. I will say that the writing process brought me closer to God, and
while this may not be deemed a traditional Christian text, it was produced with love and
honesty, which are two of the foundations in my belief in a higher power. It was grasping
these two components of life, dissecting them, and putting it all back together that taught
me so much about why my life has been filled with the experiences it has. This taught me
Flannery O’Connor’s article “The Nature and Aim of Fiction” provides insight as
to how essential the truth is in writing. “The person who aims after art in his work aims
after truth” (O’Connor, “Nature and Aim of Fiction,” 65). I found this to be especially
true when writing memoir. I felt that it was in the best interest of myself and readers to be
xv
completely truthful in my writing, even when that was painful, because it allowed me to
grow as a writer and a human who has been hurt, and I also believe that this will help
readers the most. In a world where everything is filtered and posed in a way that hides
O’Connor also goes on to talk about what happens during the writing process and
the creation of art. “The writer has to judge himself with a stranger’s eye and a stranger’s
severity. The prophet in him has to see the freak. No art is sunk in the self, but rather, in
art the self becomes self-forgetful in order to meet the demands of the thing seen and the
thing being made” (O’Connor, “The Nature and Aim of Fiction,” 82). I found this to be
true during the revision process; the memoir took on its own life, and I was merely the
facilitator for bringing it further into life. I had to forget about my personal ego and
wants, and instead I had to cater to the needs of the work being produced.
In George Steiner’s article, “Real Presences,” he states that “the difficulties which
the artist faces when he seeks for an idiom truthful to his creative experience in a society,
(Steiner 223). This knowledge that we are in the midst of living during a time when God
and theology are under constant attack makes writing as a Christian especially important.
I have spent considerable time debating if this text is worthy and will be deemed
beneficial to society. Will it help others see faith and its impact in my life? Will it
inspire? Or will it further harm society? Wayne Booth in his introduction to The
reads. Does it “morally, politically, or philosophically” benefit us (Booth 5)? The honesty
xvi
Brian
Noun | Bri·an | \`brī·ǝn, `brēn\
1. Heart of gold.
Colby
Noun | Col·by | \ˈkōl-bē\
1. Appearance then: swimmer who didn’t care.
2. Happily married.
3. Appearance now: preppy posh; the female of the relationship.
Dan
Noun | \ˈdan\
1. Slobbery, drunk kisser.
2. Midwestern actor lost in Britain.
Ethan
Noun | Eth·an | \ˈeth-ən\
1. Buff.
2. Blond
3. Bold
1
2
Frank
Noun | \ˈfraŋk\
1. Swimmer and water polo player at all-male Catholic school.
a. Somehow straight
2. Pressured to date high school friend.
3. Has never dated since …
Gus
Noun | \-ˈgəs\
1. Hercules.
2. Boomerang fuck buddy.
3. Fallback.
Hugh
Noun | \ˈhyü\
1. Childhood best friend.
2. Decade long crush.
3. Disastrous social experiment.
Isaac
Noun | Is·aac | \ˈī-zik, -zək\
1. A good one.
2. Breaker of jock stereotypes.
Jonathan
Noun | Jon·a·than | \ˈjä-nə-thən\
1. The first.
a. Boyfriend
b. Kiss
c. Cheater
3
K
Noun | \ˈkā\
1. K follows I.
2. The other man for the other woman.
3. Gamophobic.
Lyman
Noun | Ly·man | \`lī-man\
1. Early riser—coffee required.
2. Celebrator of archaic holidays.
Matthew
Noun | Mat·thew | \ˈma-(ˌ)thyü\
1. Unskilled in household cleaning, not Mary Poppins.
2. Playboy
Nate
Noun | \`nāt\
1. Childbearing hips.
2. In constant state of denial.
3. Current occupation: youth minister.
Ovidiu
Noun | O·vid·iu | \`o-vd-įu\
1. International creep
2. Wears poorly grown goatee, mainly moustache.
3. Kisses cause crying.
4
P
Verb | \ˈpē\
1. To close the door on naivety.
2. To disrupt.
3. To open eyes.
Quon
Noun | \ˈkwän\
1. Not James Bond’s Q.
2. Waits in queue.
3. Understands social cue.
Roberto
Noun | Ro·ber·to | \`ro-`bēr-tō\
1. R follows X.
2. Like leftovers.
3. Breaks bro-code.
Sailor Boy
Noun | Sail·or Boy | \ˈsā-lər(ˌ)bȯi\
1. Out lost at sea.
Tyler
Noun | Ty·ler | \ˈtī-lər\
1. Best two-stepper in the world.
2. Code name: Bumblebee
3. Operation second dance.
4. Mission incomplete.
5
Umberto
Noun | Um·ber·to | \(ˌ)əm-ˈber-(ˌ)tō\
1. Hasn’t read C.S. Lewis
2. Existential small talk.
3. Sender of the dick pic.
Vincente
Noun | Vin·cen·te | \ˈvin(t)-sən-te\
1. Traveler*
a. Viajero, viajante, voyageur, utazó, ﻣﺴﺎﻓﺮ
Westyn
Noun | Wes·tyn | \ˈwes-tən\
1. Sweetheart
2. Misinterprets signals.
a. Worst first kiss.
X
Noun | \ `eks\
1. 1. A highly heterosexual male practiced in the art of on-and-off-again relationship
… for four years.
2. 2. He thinks inside the box and likes wings while watching sporting events but
won’t drink a beer.
3. 3. The quintessential tall, blond, blued-eyed basketball player; Thor.
Yenne
Noun | Yen·ne | \`yǝn-nē\
1. Dropout
2. Drunk
3. Delinquent
6
Zach
Noun | \`za-kə\
1. Yellow
a. Lemon
b. Corn
c. Tuscan sun
d. Flax
A
A Poem for Anthony
I hand you my tattered red spiral notebook of handwritten poems, turned to the
page where I scribbled your poem in blue ink during my lunch break a few days ago.
Giggling as I retreat under the olive-green sheets, I try to escape from your hands
reaching to hold me as you read words that expose me. Words that undress me slowly,
leaving me naked and under scrutiny. This is the first time I have ever let anyone read my
poetry outside of an academic setting. I tremble, as I curl myself into a ball at the bottom
I feel you crawl over the comforter and sheets down to my corner of the bed.
Slowly I am pulled into your embrace, wrapped in all my bedding, and I notice your pale
7
8
“Thank you for letting me read your poem,” Anthony whispers in my ear before
kissing my cheek.
even more terrified? That he wants to stay? Terrified isn’t the right word… . I don’t know
what I am.
***
I roll over and swing my bare legs over the edge of my bed. They hang above the
ground. The dry air greets my hot body and cools the sweat between my toes and under
my knees. My body is still tingling as I catch my breath. Anthony begins to run his
I stare out my window and watch the train, across the empty grass lot, move
quickly. The graffiti blurs into a mass of colors that my eyes can no longer differentiate. I
listen to the tack-tack of the wheels racing along the track; the sound comforts me.
“Chelsea?”
“Yes?”
“Yes.”
“And?”
9
***
I am locked into the fetal position on the floor. Pain emanates from my lower
abdomen and spreads throughout my body. The agony paralyzes me for minutes at a
time. I cannot breathe. I need to get to my phone. I need help. I crawl across the beige
carpet—the carpet is so soft and I can make my fingers disappear in the shaggy fibers; I
wish I could subdue the daggers trying to scratch their way out of my intestines—I need
to get to my bedroom door, which leads to the kitchen where my purse is, where my
phone is.
My shins cut into the carpet in the doorway of my bedroom, while my forehead
rests on the cool wood. I notice the graining in the kitchen for the first time; I feel with
my right hand the minor water damage from Tuxedo’s bowl next to the column that
marks the entryway to the open kitchen. Seven feet and I will reach the barstools where
my obnoxiously teal purse is. Thirty minutes or maybe forty minutes later—what is time
when you think you might be dying—I reach the barstools and slowly pull myself upright
using its legs and the overhanging counter. With my phone finally in hand, I sink down
against the wall, disintegrating into a pile on the floor, calling Anthony.
“Hey, what’s up?” he answers in his monotone voice that has rough edges from
years of smoking.
A sob frees itself, and a barely audible whisper enters the iPhone, “Come … I …
need you.”
10
Thirty-seven minutes later there is a knock at the front door downstairs; unable to
yell downstairs that it is unlocked, I find my phone lying next to me and text Anthony:
It’s open.
The door opens, screeching against the tile floor. It really needs to be adjusted.
The dogs begin barking, and relief cools me momentarily before the stakes of hot iron jab
at my abdomen again.
He sees me at the top of the stairs, leaned up against the wall with my legs tucked
up to my chest and my weak arms struggling to wrap the pain into a smaller area, he asks
unable to speak as the stabbing pain develops into a searing sensation; a look of concern
comes over his face, and his sleepy eyes look suddenly alert as he asks, “Do I need to
I shake my head no. I hate going to the doctor. I hate being weak. What is wrong
with me?
He picks me up gently and moves me to the couch. He watches the strain cross
An hour passes and none of the water, medicine, or crackers has done anything to
alleviate the now near unbearable fire growing in my abdomen and taking over my entire
body.
I can hear in his tone that this isn’t a question anymore; this is a statement of what
is about to happen. I nod my head, letting the realization hit me that mind really isn’t over
He helps me into his banged up white truck, and I remember the first time I
noticed him.
I remember when he ran into the yellow pole that left a dent two feet wide on the
right rear wheel well. The yellow paint scratched into the white paint served as evidence.
He was rushing to meet us so that we could all car-pool for the big conference in New
Orleans. He was only my boss then, the assistant manager in charge of all the account
Once I am at the hospital, I fill out paperwork to admit myself. My hands are
shaking, and I feel my head floating around the waiting room, eavesdropping on others’
conversations, hoping to find out what their ailments are and if I have a chance of beating
“Chelsea Taylor Johnson,” a voice in the corner reads off like a recording.
Anthony helps me unfold out of the hard chair that only serves to exacerbate any illness
one is suffering from, and assists my slow walk to the back corner towards help.
“Is he family or a spouse?” the nurse asks in the same monotone manner.
“Umm, no he is … .”
boyfriend?
12
“Alright, I will take her from here, sir. You can wait out here.”
A urine sample, ultrasound, and CT scan later and I am in a room, watching late-
night cartoons, giggling as the drugs begin to kick in and the pain slowly subsides. I
detest the stupid humor in adult cartoons. I can’t believe I am laughing at this. Where is
the clicker? This is embarrassing. I am too smart for this. The nurse walks in to check my
“Who is Anthony, sweetie?” the new nurse asks, as she continues to move around
the room checking various machines. “How is your pain on a scale of one to ten? Are you
cold? Hot?”
answer first. “Five, maybe closer to a four now … and it’s cold in here. Are there any
extra blankets I could have?” I say, careful to pronounce the words properly. I feel like I
am drunk. “When will the doctor come back and tell me what’s wrong?”
“Your test should be ready soon, and then she will come talk to you.” Warm.
Concerned. This nurse is much kinder than the nurse in the waiting room. Or is it the
drugs talking?
“Oh, ma’am, when can Anthony come in? He is the one who brought me here.”
With a sympathetic look she responds, “I’ll go find him, sweetie.” When she
leaves the room, a woman who looks like she should be the doctor walks in. She has
13
scans of my stomach and begins talking to me. I don’t understand any of the medical
jargon. Do they provide a translator? That should be a job. Oh wait, kidney stones. I am
trying to pass multiple, large kidney stones. They weren’t kidding when they said those
“They showed me who brought you in, and he is asleep in the waiting room. I
“Could you try again, please, I really want him back here.”
She scurries out of the room. Four minutes later she returns alone.
***
Anthony is standing over the stove, sautéing mushrooms and onions in one pan
while braising chicken in another. He grabs the bottle of Pinot Noir on the granite counter
top, splashes some in with the mushrooms and onions, and then proceeds to pour us
glasses. I hop up onto the counter and sit there, Indian style, sipping on my wine while
Anthony talks about work and tickles my sides with the back of the spoon.
Anthony went to culinary school and used to own his own Italian restaurant. I
love it when he offers to cook dinner for us. I watch what he is doing, discreetly hoping
to learn a few tricks since he doesn’t like to explain what he is doing when cooking. I
equate it with watching a fish swim: so natural that it doesn’t need explanation, just
simply observation.
14
not pay attention to how much he is drinking, but I realize that I am only just now starting
on my second glass. We sit down for dinner, and I focus on the kitchen table, while
Anthony murmurs about how poor the food is under his breath.
“The chicken is overcooked and where did you get the produce? It lacks the flavor
I helped refurbish this kitchen table; it was hideous when it first arrived in my
home. A high, hinged table that expanded for more guests, the wood stained a pale gold
that took me back to the early nineties, decorated with deep scratches etched down the
center. Downstairs in the garage I stripped the table with a borrowed electric sander and
proceeded to stain it a deep mahogany; however, the scratches were still visible and
bothered my sense of perfectionism. Onto plan B. With a stack of TIME Magazines that
had notable covers, I carefully cut them away and arranged them on top of the table. I
sealed the top of the table with varnish, effectively hiding the deep abrasions in the wood
Suddenly plates are being cleared, and I realize I wasn’t fully present for dinner.
He looks annoyed.
“No. Everything is fine.” Anthony retorts, “I’m going to wash the dishes.”
Anthony is very particular about the manner in which he washes the dishes, so I
don’t argue with him about this, and I decide to go take a shower.
15
Dressed in my vintage, navy dress with little red flowers that buttons down the
front and my wet curls thrown up into a messy bun on the top of my head, I come out of
the bathroom and find Anthony lying on my bed. I jump onto the bed and give him a kiss.
He slaps me hard across the right side of my face. Stunned. I crawl to the back edge of
my bed and stare into his dead eyes. What the hell is happening? What did I do? I sit
there in a daze, running over a thousand questions in my mind, replaying the day’s events
and conversations, I neglect to notice Anthony making his way towards me until he has
his hand wrapped around my throat. He flips me over and pins me down on the bed while
One wall in my room is painted a dark maroon. It was sloppily done by the
previous owners. I notice the red drops of paint on the windowsill. I have never thought
that they looked like blood, but now I am beginning to think maybe mine will join them.
I try to make eye contact with Anthony. I can smell the alcohol on his breath. I
Breathe.
deeply, and I stumble downstairs to unlock the front door. I don’t know where he is, but I
am getting him out of my house. I make my way back up the stairs cautiously and see
him at the kitchen sink taking a shot of vodka. He turns around and asks, “Want a shot?”
“No …” I softly say. I need to get him out. I need to get out. I walk back down
the stairs, gathering my thoughts and he follows me, meeting me at the front door. He
16
tries to hug me. I shrug him off. I get another blow across the right cheek. I turn around
and swing open the front door and stumble down the steps, open the front gate, and walk
“Get out!” I scream hoarsely. I can feel wet hatred forming behind my eyelids. He
I dash back inside, pushing him out of the doorway. I slam the door shut. Bolt it.
Scuttle on all fours back upstairs to my bedroom, lock the door, and sit inside my closet,
rests between my skinny legs that butterfly around the creamy goodness. I am on a
mission to finish off all the Blue Bell from my early birthday/going away party. All
around me, obscure men are moving with quick determination, moving filled boxes out
on a dolly or wrapping furniture in protective coverings before grunting as they haul them
My family is moving from Harlingen, Texas, to Katy, Texas, tomorrow. This will
be the second big uprooting in my life, and I don’t want to leave my home and friends
here. I didn’t want to say goodbye last night to all my girlfriends from school and church,
Brian has been my buddy since I moved to this cul-de-sac five years ago. We built
bike ramps together out of plywood and lawn chairs; we played Pokémon on our
Gameboys, where he always let me pick all the water types because they were prettier;
we attempted to make concrete out of dirt and grapefruit juice, in order to construct our
palm tree fort; and we pretended to be Hermione and Ron from Harry Potter while
***
I do not remember the words of our goodbye. I do not remember crying. I do not
remember muttering anything profound or saying I would see him again because I had no
power to determine that. I do not remember his leaving, but I do remember the gift he left
17
18
me. A weighty gold-heart necklace. I thought it was an odd going away present. I thought
It was not until years later when I returned and Brian’s mom told me what it
meant. I had been his first crush, his childhood sweetheart, and he had been the first
person outside of my family to show me how important true friendship is and how much
I still wear that thick, gold-heart necklace whenever it goes with my outfit, and I
remember how beautiful and necessary the presence of unconditional love is in my life.
In all of life.
C
The beach ball with alternating white, yellow, blue, red, and green stripes is
spinning agonizingly slowly in the middle of the high school natatorium. On each white
stripe, I had handwritten in bad block letters one word of the phrase, “Colby, will you go
who sits behind me in geometry class. His bleached hair from the chlorine, icy blue eyes,
and lanky and tall frame is perfect in my fifteen-year-old mind. I hope he agrees to go
with me.
Second period rolls around and I linger outside of the natatorium, waiting for the
answer. My hair is still wet from my shower after cross-country practice. Please, God, let
him say yes. Then maybe he will kiss me and I will have my first kiss. Maybe he will
become my boyfriend. I stand there begging, praying to the powers above to let
***
I wait eagerly on the stairs, ready to go to the mall with Colby. I see his parents
pull in front of my house, and I rush to the kitchen or living room so that it is not so
obvious that I have been waiting for too long for him to arrive.
He is on time.
I get into the backseat of his parent’s suburban, and they both make small talk,
asking me about school and running. I am sick of answering how track season is going by
19
20
the end of January and outdoor season hasn’t even officially started yet. We pull up
outside of the mall at an entrance my mother and I never go through. I study the cheesy
sculptures outside of this entrance of giant, stretched, stick-figure children playing some
“So do you have any idea what kind of shirt you want to get for the dance?” I ask.
“I don’t really care,” Colby responds, “but maybe we can do something with a
“Let’s do that then. I think there is a store that has a bunch of t-shirts around here
somewhere, but honestly I have no idea where that would be because I don’t come to the
He begins to walk further into the mall. We find our shirts and the mall mission is
complete, but I do not want to go home yet. I don’t want this almost-a-date to end yet.
Maybe he has read my body language and can tell that I didn’t want things to end, or he
“Do you want to go look around Bass Pro Shop?” Colby asks.
“Yeah … I really like looking at the boats they have. I would love to have a boat
one day.”
21
We explore all the boats that Bass Pro Shop has open to the public and settle on a
I think it was around an hour, but I don’t have a cell phone yet and I hate wearing
watches so I don’t know for sure. I do know that I talked to him about all sorts of silly
things, and I found myself laughing at his quirks. For being so new at trying to date, I am
completely myself. The goofy girl who laughs at her own jokes, the girl who loves her
family and friends more than anything, the girl who doesn’t care about how she looks,
I look back on that innocent, beautiful soul and aspire to retain her traits, but with
more wisdom this time. She was filled with so much love to give to anyone that wanted,
Before I know it, it is time for Colby’s parents to be picking us up to go home, but
he has another idea. He pulls out his small cell phone and pleads with his parents, asking
if we can go to the movies and see We Are Marshall or Freedom Writers. His parents
agree to the extra time, so he hands me the phone to check with my parents. They agree
Nothing happened in the movie. We sat there and watched it intently. We didn’t
hold hands or kiss. I remember watching the movie with fierce attention, pushing all my
extraneous thoughts into the background, hoping with all the power in my tiny body that
I don’t even remember which movie we saw, and I wouldn’t have been able to tell
you the plot of the movie if I hadn’t watched both of them after the fact. That wasn’t
22
important. What was important was that I had finally thrust myself into the game: I was
participating in my life and my feelings, which I had been too nervous and shy to do until
then.
***
The Sadie Hawkins dance was over, and Colby, despite having a horrible cold,
had accompanied me. He had spent the majority of the night blowing his nose and
covering his cough, but he had danced with me, and I felt on top of the world for the first
time in high school. I had a dance date that I actually liked, and I thought he was one of
the cutest boys in school. My mom picked us up and was driving us home, we stopped in
front of Colby’s parents’ house in Cinco Ranch, and I thought I would walk him to the
door since that is what would be done in a reverse situation. Little did I know that this
was the beginning of my feminist tendencies. I wanted him to kiss me, but I also didn’t
want to get sick. I desperately wanted to have my first kiss and know what all the hype
was about, but I settled for a hug and a kiss on the cheek and Colby walked inside.
***
It’s five years later, the hot, Houston summer is in full swing, when Colby texts
me, asking if I want to come over and hangout while we are both in town.
I knock on the front door of the house that has an American flag in the front
window, and I hear a pack of dogs begin barking. I wait patiently three steps back from
the front door. Someone, many years previously, taught me that was polite. Colby opens
the door a crack, preventing the escape of numerous mutts, and I slip in quickly and find
23
myself in the giant embrace of one of my oldest friends. He picks me up while hugging
me.
“It’s been too long. How have you been? We need to catch up. Want to go sit out
on the porch?” Colby asks slowly. He has never been one to speak quickly.
I am so excited to see him, but I can see something beneath his eyes. A secret or
news that is scaring him. We sit outside on the dated patio furniture and make small talk.
I know something is coming, but I can’t guess what it is. Did he get a girlfriend finally?
Did he get someone pregnant? Is it good news like finding a job after college? No, his
eyes don’t show extreme excitement. There is dread and anxiety present in his pale eyes.
I try to stop contributing to the conversation as much to allow the opening for whatever
“So I wanted to talk to you about something, Chelsea, and I hope you understand
… .” I hope it isn’t really bad news. “I don’t really know how to tell you this, but I have
I can’t say I saw this coming—I had no idea this was going to be the news he
dropped on me—but now I am puzzled as to why it was so hard for him to tell me this.
He has grown into one of my closest friends throughout high school and college, and I
“Oh, okay then. Why were you so worried about telling me that?”
“Well, you are a Christian and I didn’t know if you would be okay with it.”
24
His words cut into my chest. Have I acted like someone who isn’t accepting of
others? Do I judge my friends too harshly? Do they not know that I love them and only
want the best for them? I want them to find the happiness that I desire to find myself in
this life. Has my label of Christian pushed me away from helping him through problems
he has had in his life? I resent that being Christian has labeled me in a way that I don’t
agree with. I believe in love and that I should try my best to love everyone. How could I
“Colby, I don’t care if you are gay. I just want you to be happy and I’ll love you
no matter what,” I say, trying to reassure him. I hate that he thought I wouldn’t be his
I watch the relief flood out of his eyes, and it wells up in mine too.
“Would you like to meet my boyfriend Miguel? He’s waiting upstairs,” Colby
asks.
“Oh good, and my parents should be home soon so we can talk to them about it
too.”
D
London, England
sweaters and walk out of my room. I turn around and manage to run back and catch the
heavy, door covered in peeling cream paint before it latches shut and locks me out, as it
has done numerous times over the past few months. Rummaging through my messy,
white bedspread, my fingers search for the iron key that provides me my safe haven in
this large city of strangers. I miss my family, friends, and most importantly, I miss my
boyfriend X.
X
Noun | \ `eks\
1. A highly heterosexual male practiced in the art of on-and-off-again relationship … for
four years.
2. He thinks inside the box and likes wings while watching sporting events but won’t
drink a beer.
3. The quintessential tall, blond, blued-eyed basketball player; Thor.
I knock loudly on Dan’s door and listen to laughter permeate the dense wood
covered in caked-on layers of glossy, white paint, from my handful of friends in London.
Alyssa greets me with a water glass full of Riesling in her left hand.
“Chelsea! Come in and join the game,” everyone in the room squeals with delight
25
26
“What are y’all playing?” I ask, as I walk in and find a place to sit on the floor.
“Kings,” Fish answers enthusiastically. There are four people in the room:
Margaret, Fish, Dan, and Alyssa. Everyone is sitting in a circle, each with a glass filled
with cheap alcohol, and off to the side of the small bedroom there is a line of partially
drunk bottles of wine. All that fills the long, skinny single room in Vandon House is a
twin bed, a small wardrobe, and a sink by the window at the far end. The window is open,
and I can hear the screams of the rich, drunk people at the Zander Bar across the street. I
walk over to the window and stick my head out to catch a glimpse of the men trying to
pick up women as they attempt to leave the bar, and one man manages to coax a woman
“How do you play?” I ask, as I twist open my bottle of wine, pour myself a large
***
It’s nearing three in the morning, and there are four empty bottles of wine, lying
on the floor. Fish is the first to leave, followed closely by Alyssa. I begin tidying up the
mess we have made in the room by picking up the deck of cards scattered across the
floor. I am drunk, and it is hard to stand up without the room dancing around me, twisting
and turning in an unpredictably fluid routine. I sit down and lean against the end of Dan’s
Dan sits next to me. His legs stretch out over halfway across the room. He is
extremely pale, his legs are what I deem “chicken legs,” and he is at least six-foot-three-
I should leave.
“Give me a minute,” I slur, “and I’ll let you have your room back.”
“You can stay,” Dan responds, making eye contact. He is harmless, but I know he
wants something. He moves in quickly towards my face, his shaggy, blond hair falling
over his eyes as his fat lips touch mine. They beg for me to kiss him back. I can’t. I lurch
backwards and tip over onto the floor, as tears begin to drip down my cheeks. Crawling
on all fours at first, then making my way to a standing position, I stumble towards the
window and take a deep breath of frozen air while I grab my room key off the wide
window sill. I stagger rapidly across what is now an obstacle course stretching all of
“Goodnight,” I murmur as I open the door and leave. I want to break open and
sob, but I can’t in this hallway with strangers behind almost every door. I jog down the
stairs and land at my door, forcing the key into the lock and falling inside, landing on my
bed. I split open, my gut, my heart, my skull. How could I be stupid enough to allow
myself to be in a position where I was drunk and alone with a guy I knew likes me? Did I
just cheat on X? I didn’t want Dan to kiss me, though, and I didn’t kiss him back, but
that’s not a good enough excuse. I crossed the line. I am that girl that cannot be trusted or
even trust herself. I have ruined everything. Do I tell X what happened or try to forget it?
I open up my journal and begin to write about my feelings, about what happened.
Three pages of sloppy cursive later and I sit on my windowsill feeling the sheer
curtains blow against my tear-stained face, holding my journal. I decide that what
28
happened with Dan is nothing and will remain nothing forever, so I rip the pages out of
my journal and begin to tear them further and further until I can no longer make them any
I let them flutter down Vandon Street before shutting my window and going to
bed.
E
It is Christmas Eve, and I am sitting in the pew with almost the entire side of my
mother’s family. Four cousins came this year, my two brothers, one aunt and one uncle,
and my parents. It is the last song of the service. The lights go out, and candle light grows
among the congregation. The walls glow a soft gold, flickering as a hundred voices sing
“Silent Night.” This has always been my favorite part of the Christmas Eve service. I am
one of the people who tries to get as much wax to drip down the edges of the candle as I
can during the single song that it is lit. It has been my favorite game to play during
church since I was a little girl. “Christ the Savior is born, Christ the Savior is born” and
Extinguish.
Everyone crowds into the aisles, eager to return to celebrating Christmas with
their families, disregarding the fact that the real celebration just occurred. No one can
move, as old middle-aged acquaintances from high school and college block the exits to
say hello and introduce their families for the third year in a row. Women show off their
husbands and growing children, gushing about the accomplishments of both, while men
stand there awkwardly waiting to go home and have a glass of wine or a beer.
My family is no exception to this ritual. My mother spots an old friend and hustles
her way to her to begin the conversation. Both women begin to wave at their pride to
come and be a part of the flaunting-fest. I slowly make my way to my mother with my
younger brothers in tow. I am careful to not trip on a young child in my suede heals.
29
30
Abilene Christian University, now studying English. That is Colton, my second, and he is
a freshman working on his pilot’s license while attending Texas Lutheran University.
And this is Reese, my youngest, who is in sixth grade now and he is in the band playing
“So what are you planning to do with a Master’s in English?” the short, stout
woman asks me with blonde hair teased within an inch of its life.
it takes to pay the bills,” I say, watching confused disappointment spread across Mrs.
“I should introduce you to my son, Ethan. He is at Texas A&M right now, and he
is graduating in May with a degree in Engineering. He has a job already lined up after
graduation, you know? You just must meet him. Wait here,” Mrs. Westbrook states,
before disappearing into the crowd to find her son. Before I can protest she is off amongst
the crowd.
I can’t believe this is happening to me. Women at church are now trying to set me
up, and on Christmas Eve no less. This is madness that I can’t be single for a few months
without it being cause for concern at my age. X dumped me only a few months ago while
I was in the weight room working out. I remember the feeling of listening to him dump
me as I sat there on the bench with two fifteen pound weights in both my hands, trying to
hold it together until I could make it to my closet to cry. I am still recovering from that
shock to my system, I am just not interested in a serious relationship, only casual at this
31
point, and I have enough of those going right now. I have Matthew and Vincente, but
Matthew
Noun | Mat·thew | \`ma-(.)thyü\
3. Reconnects with girls after college, and years after a drunken make out,
wanting more.
4. Unskilled in household cleaning, not Mary Poppins.
5. Playboy.
I see the blonde hair bouncing towards my waiting family. Would it be too much
“I found him, but he is talking to some of the children from the church. He
worked at some of the summer camps recently and they just love him, but he will be over
in a minute or two. So are you dating anyone right now?” Mrs. Westbrook asks me. She
“No ma’am, not really I don’t think,” I say through clenched teeth that might
actually be mistaken as a smile to the desperate mothers in South Texas, trying to marry
off their children before they expire at age twenty-five, but preferably at twenty-two or
“Oh well, my Ethan is single too. Maybe y’all can get together while you are both
in town. I think I see him coming now,” she says excitedly and disregarding my
uncertainly about how single I am. I glance through the crowds of families, trying to
catch a glance of who is about to be forced upon me. I see a short, big guy making his
way in my direction. Blond hair, blue eyes, and he looks like a dump truck and like his
32
mother. He is not my type. “Ethan, this is Chelsea, Monica’s daughter. She is in graduate
school at Abilene Christian. Chelsea, this is my son I was telling you about.”
I make eye contact with him, hoping I will see the same look of embarrassment
and disinterest in his eye, but I do not. He is smiling, and I actually think I see a real
“Did you know that Ethan is an internationally ranked weightlifter? And I told
you he has a job lined up after May, right?” Mrs. Westbrook interjects.
out her son. I zone out of the conversation that is occurring between our mothers, who are
spouting off our best characteristics to each other. I just want to go home and eat dinner. I
tune back into the conversation just in time to hear the pleasantries of “good evenings”
“Hey, Chelsea, I enjoyed meeting you tonight. How long are you in town for?”
from Ethan.
“Well, if you’re still around after the Christmas festivities have died down a bit,
I’d love to get lunch with you or something. So you’re interested in creative writing?
I never respond.
My mother gets upset with me for being rude, but she just doesn’t understand that
I just want to be alone for a little while, and if I want anything, it is not serious.
F
It is another typical Friday night. I am a senior in high school, and I have the hot
swimmer/water-polo player sitting to my right with his arm wrapped around me. We
always sit like this. He: in a swimming t-shirt, damp hair faintly smelling of chlorine, and
faded ripped jeans. Me: in clean running clothes and a wet, messy bun. I rest my head on
“Frank, have you ever seen the movie Dune?” my dad asks.
“Oh well, it’s about to come on. We should all watch it together.” My dad sits
down on the loveseat across from us. This is why after eight months I have yet to make
ignored, and we sit through another lame sci-fi film with one of my parents. This is the
***
“So Frank, you know I have a dance coming up, the Sadie Hawkins dance, and I
was wondering if you would like to go with me,” I ask. I am so glad that I don’t have to
think of some fancy way to ask him to the dance, since he is my boyfriend.
34
35
“Ohh, okay. Well, if you can’t go, would it be okay if I asked one of my friends to
go with me, like Hugh possibly? I know he has no one to go with yet.”
Hugh
Noun | \ˈhyü\
1. Childhood best friend.
2. Decade-long crush.
3. Disastrous social experiment.
***
Five years later, and whenever both Frank and I are back visiting our parents, we
both go out and get a drink. Who am I kidding? We have numerous drinks and have to
This is just like any of the previous nights, except that we drink more than normal
and are borderline belligerently drunk. I can’t remember who said what.
“Come on.”
I don’t remember who instigated the ideas of climbing trees and swimming at a
closed pool in the middle of December, but what is an idea quickly becomes a night of
hopping fences, running to the car, and laughing nervously at breaking the rules our
We get back to my house, grab a few beers from the fridge outside, and go
upstairs to the game room. In hushed whispers, we admit to each other some of our
deepest secrets. I am afraid of commitment and have become a player because of it. He
hasn’t dated anyone since me and still doesn’t really know how to make out with anyone.
I begin to feel his fingers creeping slowly across the centimeter of skin showing
The next thing I know Frank is trying to really kiss me for the first time, six years
after we actually dated. I don’t know if he feels a spark, but it is non-existent for me, so I
decide to use this as a teaching opportunity. Between kisses I begin muttering, “Less
tongue, maybe bite the lower lip, or make sure you hold the face occasionally.”
To this day I am not sure why I did it. Was I lonely? No, I was dating a few other
guys at the time. Was I horny? Maybe, or it could have been just the alcohol. Was I
37
trying to answer another question that I didn’t know I had? Probably. I knew with those
kisses that Frank was never meant to be more than one of my best friends.
G
I walk into the restaurant in downtown Abilene, Texas. There are no patrons there
Fourteen inches taller than I am. For some reason the fact that he is three inches taller
than the average guy I date seems monumental to me. I sculpt him as a statue in my mind.
Dressed in clean, tan, leather working boots, jeans, and a green-plaid fleece shirt, he is by
far the most attractive man that I have encountered. Smooth pale skin, green eyes, and
course, I cannot talk; there is an attractive guy standing one and a half feet away. He pulls
me into a side hug before the host, who looks less than pleased that we interrupted his
This is a blind date, and so far so good. At least I’m interested, even if it is solely
because of his physical appearance. We sit down at a table and I realize how preposterous
I look in comparison to him. I just finished working out merely thirty minutes ago,
hopped in the shower to rinse off, pulled on jeans and a shirt, and did not bother to take
the time to dry or style my hair. Round water stains accompany my stylish look right
above my boobs, drawing attention to the fact that they are clearly two different sizes. I
should have at least put makeup on or taken the time to do something with my hair. I’ll
just throw it up into a messy bun real quick; it’s my go-to hairdo anyway. I order a beer
38
39
and begin to ask him questions, taking a sip every time he answers, allowing my tongue
to feel the hops glide across it. I am aware that with every gulp the tension in my mind
dissolves and my laughter turns into a constant stream of breathless chuckles bouncing
out of my esophagus. Two pints later and I am exquisitely creating a colorful banter filled
with the stories of my travels and embarrassing moments that has a grown man giggling
uncontrollably. I impress myself with my ability to hook a man of his caliber with my
The night suddenly comes to an end when we realize that the restaurant closed
thirty-nine minutes ago. In a hurry, he pays and leads me outside, walking me across the
vacant streets of downtown Abilene, which possess an eerie quality past ten o’clock in
the evening.
“So I had a really nice time, and we should definitely do this again, soon,” Gus
says. Uncertainty hangs in the air, palpable. I think for a moment. Did I have fun, or is it
the booze? I had four beers in one evening, way more than I should have. Am I even okay
to drive? I will be fine; it’s only five minutes away. What about Matthew? I only agreed
to this date because he has been distancing himself over the past few weeks and I am
bored. It’s not like we are official or anything so why can’t I go out with other guys?
Suddenly aware that I have left Gus hanging for a few seconds too long as I’ve debated
I entangle myself into his firm torso and long arms. He smells good, like soap
***
I pull up to The Mill, a warehouse turned into a fashionable bar with gazebos,
complete with fire pits, nestled among a quaint vineyard, which looks as if all the snow
and ice have taken the life out of the shriveled vine-like trees. I glance around the various
groups surrounding the glowing fires and do not see Gus, so I walk inside and see him
standing at the bar, getting a beer and flirting with the barista. This doesn’t surprise me at
all. I have expected him to be a player. I want him to be one. I tap him gently on the
shoulder so that I don’t appear over eager to see him, but for some reason I am actually
ecstatic that he would want to hang out with me again. I have put some effort into getting
ready this time around because I am now fully aware of how gorgeous he is. I am dressed
in my sexy black-leather boots, dark skinny jeans that make my runners ass look
muscular and perky, and a sweater that hugs my tight torso in an artistic shade of
magenta, complete with my black-leather jacket full of attitude. I know I look good. I
In a smooth transition from hitting on the barista to greeting me, Gus locks me
into his embrace, buys me a beer, and generously tips the girl behind the counter, while
flashing that perfect grin of his. I lead the way towards an empty gazebo and take a seat
in the middle next to the fire, similar to the one that is burning inside of me, aching for
We chat and drink beer after beer of Alaskan White Ale, and before I know it I
am once again quite tipsy, which is contributing to my active storytelling about the
41
ridiculous adventures I had while travelling in Panama only two months ago and about
how I am thinking about taking a job in Romania this summer. I want to make sure he
knows that this isn’t going to go anywhere. That I don’t want a relationship. That I am
only looking to have fun. I want to laugh. I want to get drunk and dance. I want to do
dirty things to him that I refuse to regret in the morning. I want to live in a way that only I
be in control of my emotions.
Realizing that we are once again the only ones left at the establishment as it is
closing down, we make our way out into the muddy parking lot. I skip around, trying to
avoid puddles and Gus follows closely behind. I stand next to the bed of my truck and
casually, or drunkenly, hang onto it, allowing myself to swing left and right, as I listen to
Gus talk about getting together again soon, and possibly having me come out to his new
lake house. I listen as he continues to make small talk about things we can do in the near
future. Finally, I stop swinging and walk towards the driver’s side door. Open it. Place
my purse inside. Turn around and find myself once again enfolded into Gus’s large
frame. He is warm. He holds me for a moment, swaying from side to side, and as I try to
pull away his hand lifts my chin up and he bends down to kiss me. It isn’t the best first
kiss I have had, but it is good. Very neat considering it is the first time our lips are
becoming acquainted with one another. They stumble around for a minute before figuring
out the proper rhythm that works for both of them. A few minutes later, I pull away and
hop into my truck and head home, leaving him standing there wanting more, or at least
***
42
I have vague directions to head towards Breckenridge, Texas, to Gus’s new lake
house. I have previously agreed with Danielle, my roommate, that I will send her the
address or GPS coordinates of the house when and if I find it. I am really nervous to be
heading to a relative stranger’s house, but I do want to see him again, and I need to get
out of God forsaken Abilene. As I get closer, I can feel myself starting to sweat. Why am
I so nervous? I have seen this guy before. I have even kissed him. Plus, I have my truck
My phone starts to ring; it’s Gus asking where I am. I explain that I am driving on
a bridge over what I assume used to be a lake, but it’s dried up now, leaving behind
“You’re almost here. Just turn left right after the Walmart, then take the first left
after driving for about seven minutes, then a right at the sign for the trailer park. Keep
driving until you spot the brown house with my truck in front. See you soon,” he says
Fifteen minutes later, I whiz past a brown house with a navy-almost-purple truck.
Dang it. I missed it. I throw my gear in reverse and back into the dirt driveway. I am an
excellent backwards driver. I sit in my truck a few minutes, letting the air conditioning
blow under my arm pits, making the moisture feel cool and clammy. A few last-minute
adjustments and it’s time to show up with the vibe of effortlessness in every manner of
my being, when on the inside a tumultuous waterfall of emotions is breaking through the
dam I have been maintaining for years. Gus greets me at the front door and ushers me
into the backyard, offering me a beer that he knows I am not keen on. We had talked
about our favorites drinks, and Coors certainly isn’t in my top drinks. We sit down on the
43
back porch at a dirty table with chairs that are on their last leg, and I stare at the blue
mountains on the beer can, debating in my mind what my plan is. I am drinking and am
an hour away from home. Should I stop after two beers so I can drive home? Or risk
staying the night and everything that will entail? I finish my first beer and go inside for
That night he took me to the “Barn and Grill,” which is really just a restaurant that
sells alcohol, but in the belt buckle of the Bible belt you can’t come right out and name
something a bar. Heaven forbid. It is a private restaurant where you have to be a member,
and to be a guest you have to be signed in; at last on the third date, we learn each other’s
last names. After too many beers and the band playing, I want to two-step. I love to
dance, especially when I am drunk. However, Gus is from Minnesota and doesn’t dance
in public, so we head back to his house and I convince him to dance with me in our socks
on the tile floor, swinging and swaying in a drunken state to the boom box blasting
country music. I notice my loud laughter filling the cool air, as he picks me up and
throws me over his shoulder so he can haul me outside to look at the stars. For a guy that
exponentially more difficult by pulling out these cards. Dancing, stars, and a hammock,
Gazing at the constellations in the winter air, I nestle myself further into Gus,
wanting his warmth and to be held. I begin to give myself a pep talk about what I will and
will not allow to occur tonight. I will allow myself to finally make out with him; I will
not allow myself to have sex with him. That is my rule. Now that I am comfortable with
my drunken decision to not partake in the tasteless art of drunken sex, I feel a sense of
44
ease pass over me, and I allow the small talk to turn into a conversation containing, for
Once I am sufficiently frozen, we make our way inside and sit down on his denim
sectional. It is almost too comical to sit on. A massive couch that looks like everyone in
the family threw their jeans on it until it became this new monstrous piece of furniture.
As we sit there talking, I continually remind myself that even though I am allowing there
to be a real conversation I cannot allow there to be real feelings, and to prevent those
from developing, I begin kissing him and we don’t stop for hours.
***
that Gus should come over. First, to gain approval by my roomie, and, second, so I can do
what I like to do for anyone I am dating: cook. It seems to be a rite of passage of sorts
that I don’t regard myself as dating someone even casually until I bake him something or
make him dinner. The feminist in me thinks I am old-fashioned, but I really enjoy sharing
food with everyone in my life, especially men. As the saying goes, the way to a man’s
heart is through his stomach, but what if I don’t know if I want his heart and instead only
want his body? After dinner, we all sit down and watch Gone Girl for the first time. And
if I can give anyone any dating advice it would be this: never, and I repeat never, have a
guy you are just barely starting to date watch this movie with you. It reinforces the false
I convince Gus to stay the night after the movie ends, and he agrees to spend
another night with me knowing he doesn’t have a chance of having sex with me. For a
45
girl who just wants a physical relationship, why am I having such a hard time with the
***
I started seeing him because I wanted to get over my fear of physical intimacy,
and yet this is the largest struggle for me. I knew it would be, but I didn’t imagine that it
would be so hard for me to get physical with a guy whom I am so attracted to. I invite
him to hangout before I head to Dallas to work the Rhythm and Blues races this weekend;
Three loud pounds on the door, Tuxedo stands on the edge of my bed, barking
towards the front of the apartment, and I feel my heart bounce within my chest as I slide
off my antique bed and begin to walk to let Gus in. I want to do this. I need to do this for
myself.
“Hey there, I’m glad to see you,” I say, as I open the door and Gus picks me up
kiss and push him against the edge of my bed. I haven’t felt this sexy and empowered
since before the night that changed everything with P. I take the plunge and do what I set
out to do.
46
I found my sexuality that afternoon. I reclaimed a part of myself that I had hidden
***
The sunlight glistens through the leaves in the mesquite trees, and the wind
breathes warmth into the air that washes up my legs as I jump onto Gus’s back while he
parades about the backyard listening to me squeal with delight when he spins us around.
His hands grasp where my hamstrings connect to my glutes. His touch delights my body.
I begin to envision a future with him, filled with laughter, grilling, dancing, and sitting
“Come, my lady, come come, my lady, you’re my butterfly, sugar, baby … come,
my lady, come come, my lady, you’re my butterfly, sugar, baby,” Gus sings Crazy
“You’re ridiculous,” I tell him, but my mind drifts towards Sailor Boy.
I am going to go see him in two weeks and I am still seeing Gus. I debate with
myself about the realities of pursuing anything further with either of them. Gus is here
and is incredibly cute and funny, but I have told myself I don’t want to have anything
serious; however, I can see it working maybe. Stop it. You’re moving to Romania in less
than two months. You cannot start anything. But what about Sailor Boy? I have never
even kissed him, but he is the guy I have always dreamed of ending up with.
willing to go off the beaten path to find his version of happiness. Why did I meet him at
47
I look at Gus and lean in to kiss him. I feel awful that I have used him when he
actually turned out to be a good guy. This is goodbye and I know it, but he doesn’t.
H
My parent’s kitchen counter is speckled with evergreen, charcoal, and forest-
green flecks in the granite-like counters. I stare into the depth of the mixture of colors, as
I sit with my legs crossed on the island in the middle of the kitchen. Hugh is sitting at the
antique, dry, round wooden table on one of the chairs that goes with the old kitchen table
that now sits upstairs. The contrast between antique and nineties furniture is stark; the
tension between the four and a half feet that separate us is blatant.
I struggle to find words. I have so many racing through my head, but none of
them fit together. What do I say to Hugh after last night? How do I approach the hardest
I look back at the counter and stare into it as the unbreakable silence drags on.
***
It is my first day at Beck Jr. High, and I walk into the music hallway. I am trying
to remember the layout of the school without pulling out the map they have given all the
sixth graders. Straight past the choir room, a left at the band hall, the next right and
another right, and there it is, the orchestra room. I came a few weeks ago and decided that
I wanted to learn how to play the cello, and today is the day that I get to begin. I open the
door and see eight or nine other small and slightly lost looking sixth graders, like myself,
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49
standing at various spots within the room littered with chairs and music stands in a
I sit down in a chair on the left side of the room and wait for the bell to ring so
class can begin. I shouldn’t be nervous, but I am. What if I am awful at playing the cello?
A young boy, short, tan, with spiked, brown hair and a huge grin, seats himself
next to me. He looks over at me and smiles. He is the cutest boy I have ever seen.
“Hi, I’m Hugh,” he says. I am taken aback. The cute boy just spoke to me.
“No, never.”
“Cool, me too. I think the bows would make good swords. We can even have bow
fights.”
At that moment I wanted to have bow fights, and do anything I could, with my
***
July 4, 2008
Someone hands me glow sticks. Maybe it was my mother, maybe it was one of
the numerous friends I invited, or maybe it was someone who crashed my party.
Nevertheless, I wrap them around my ankles, wrists, and neck and venture out onto the
50
golf course with a few friends to throw tricks along the fairway. It is all fun and games
until I feel a pop in my wrist. I’m sure it is nothing, so I continue to finish the tumbling
pass without hands. I stick the landing and as I walk off the golf course I cradle my left
wrist in my right hand, so convincing myself that I have only sprained it and that nothing
serious is wrong. I walk into my backyard and am greeted by the sight of dozens of
teenagers jumping in the pool, playing basketball on the driveway, rinsing sand off with
the hose, and congregating near the patio furniture consuming the holiday’s potluck.
This is the first time that I feel popular. It is also one of the last times.
I make my way onto the driveway. I want to talk to Jessica. I want to tell her
something, but I can’t remember what. I look down at my arm, as I enter the brightness of
the flood lights and see angles that shouldn’t exist. Where there should only be one
“Jessica,” I call out softly. I sink onto the concrete. I am told I look gray as I sit
“Chelsea? Are you okay? You don’t look good,” Jessica says. “Hugh, can you
“I don’t know but she’s pale and … oh God, look at her arm.”
He picks me up and carries me into the house. I can smell him. The sporty musk
that only reminds me of Hugh. I don’t think I have ever been this close to him before. He
sets me on the couch and sits next to me with his arm around me, giving me pain
medication while my parents get ready to take me to the E.R. Don’t make me go.
My mom tells me that Frank walked out with me, shaking so hard that he almost
dropped his mother’s crockpot filled with queso. Hugh helped me get in the car. Sydney
came with us to the E.R.. Jonathan followed us there with his violin so he could serenade
***
June 2011
It is a typical day in the summer. I am home from college, working a part-time job
at the YMCA, and Hugh comes over regularly. We go to church on Wednesday nights,
make small bonfires out of leaves and twigs on the weekend, and spend countless hours
binge watching White Collar on Netflix. He is my best friend, and also, my biggest crush
that I have been pining over for nine years now. No matter who I date or break up with,
Hugh is always there and has always been there. I wish I could move myself out of the
***
52
We are on a road trip in the middle of the night. Hugh thought it would be a good
idea to get out of town, away from the wrath of my parents pissed about my recent trip to
Las Vegas where I lost my phone, wallet, and real ID. Hugh turns his pearly Cadillac off
the main road and begins to follow the truck in front of us down a dirt and gravel road.
I broke up with X in March and have been leaning on Hugh to help me move
through this transition in my life. He has helped me get through the most difficult period
of my life without even realizing it. I was raped a few months ago, and I have been
refusing to admit it to myself or others. Hugh doesn’t know about any of this
We pull into the driveway of a massive farmhouse where our mutual friend Kyle
lives.
“Hey guys, you ready to go out?” Kyle asks excitedly in a thick hick accent. “We
can take out the golf carts and shoot at coyotes and stuff.”
I have been invited to a guys’ weekend. I have never even shot a gun before.
We go riding around shooting at spiders and imaginary coyotes for a few hours
before heading to bed. Hugh and I are both in the bunk room with two sets of bunk beds,
53
but he lies down on the bed with me, his torso on my legs, trapping me there with his
body weight. I wish he would kiss me. He sits there and rambles on about something or
another, but all I can focus on is how he is touching me, how he is close enough for me to
smell him, and how I want him to hold me. It is like he knew and maybe thirty to thirty-
five minutes later he was fast asleep on my bed cuddled up next to me. I don’t think I
slept at all that night because I was so nervous and excited. I didn’t want the moment to
end, ever.
The sun begins to invade the darkness and draws my dream to a close. Hugh
“Good morning, you want to stay here and hang out today?” Hugh asks.
“Yeah, that sounds good. Let me just take care of my shift at work today,” I reply.
We spend the rest of the day four wheeling in the mud, having races that combine
our prowess for running and gymnastics into one obstacle course, and he finishes the day
by squeezing my butt. I think he wants to be more than friends, finally. Now if only he
***
“Hugh, I am confused about what is going on between us. You kissed me, but
now I hear from your friends that you never see anything happening between us. Please
“Not that it matters, but Kyle told me last night. I wish you had told me that if
that’s how you felt because then I would have tried not to fall in love with you.”
The words fall out of my mouth and can’t be taken back. I just admitted to my
friend that I am in love with him. This is something that I have found to be true for years,
but now that I said it out loud I question its veracity. Am I in love with Hugh, or am I in
love with the idea of Hugh? I try to hold back the tears. They do not need to spill like my
feelings just did all over the kitchen, making a mess of everything. I want to cry over the
decade-long crush that has just come to fruition and the lack of satisfaction I have
received. I want to cry because I haven’t felt what real love is yet.
I
It is my freshman year in college, and Kjersten, Bonnie, Sarah, and I are on
Wendyhill, the street where all the college students party at Texas Lutheran. This is one
of my first times actually drinking at a college party because I have been in cross-country
or track season. Typically, the party and people move from house to house and meet in
the street. We start at one of the baseball houses and progress through the soccer house,
to another baseball house, a football house, and back to the second baseball house.
I don’t know why, but we are all on a mission to make-out with someone tonight.
We didn’t make a pact or anything, but we all think we have something to prove. Maybe
some of us want to shed our “good girl”, Christian image. Maybe some of us need to feel
wanted, pretty, or sexy. Maybe some of us just desire to do something new. I think I want
all of those things. Looking back on it now, those were the least important things I
needed to be focused on. I wish I could say that that night didn’t start a chain reaction in
my life, where I used boys as Band-Aids. I wish I had known what I do now, but I didn’t
and I got drunk, very drunk. I was irresponsible and didn’t count how many drinks I had
had. I allowed myself to abandon who I was at my core and I didn’t find the girl from
My memory fades as to how Isaac, the tall third baseman that had eyes of
mahogany and hair like tar plastered thick on top of his head, convinced me to go around
the back of the house, but he did. I do remember sitting down on his lap in a lawn chair
near a cold, ash-filled fire pit and shivering. I remember how he cupped my face with his
55
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large calloused hands, leading me into a gentle kiss. I remember Issac not pushing me too
far and only wanting to kiss me and talk, while I sat on his lap, absorbing his warmth. He
was nothing but pleasant to me. Nothing but a gentleman, even though I had heard
rumors of worse and would later learn about my friends having very different encounters
Isaac was nothing more to me than my first of many drunken make outs, but for
being the first, he was certainly one of the kindest and most respectful. He gave me hope,
Jonathan leads me out on to the golf course behind my parents’ house. He grabs
my hand and holds it for the first time. We pass through the black metal gate. The bushes
that border the fence scratch at my wrists and ankles. I look at the distant streetlights
reflecting on the lake and hope that something good is about to happen.
Earlier that day I sent a Singing Valentine to Jonathan and stood outside of Mrs.
Sullivan’s classroom, nervous about how he would react. I had never made the first big
move in dating before. I sweated through my pink cupid t-shirt in the two and half
Now he is sitting me down on the hill that overlooks the lake and sits adjacent to
the sand pit. He sits in front of me nervously; he cradles a ukulele in his arms.
I think he is about to serenade me. He has done this a few times before. When I
was sick over Christmas he dropped by my parents’ house where he sang and played
“Somewhere over the Rainbow” on the ukulele. He is so different than the other boys I
know at Cinco Ranch High School. He doesn’t care what anyone thinks about him. He
plays violin and the ukulele because he can. He longboards around town, and he has
taught me how to ride on the front of the board with him. He kite-boards and has sent me
flying over the practice football fields on windy days because I weigh too little to not be
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picked up ten to twelve feet off the ground. He will play with my little brothers, and he
will play board games with me for hours to make me more comfortable in his presence.
He wants to move to Hawaii for college and live on the island. He wants to open up his
own hotel and talks about having me be a baker at this hypothetical resort in Costa Rica.
“Yes, the singing valentine that you sent me inspired me, and I just wanted to ask
Oh my God. I mean gosh. I can’t believe he is asking me this. I have never had a
boyfriend before. What is this feeling in my stomach? Is this what butterflies feel like?
People talk about experiencing that, but I never have. I think I have butterflies. Will he
kiss me? I lick my lips, hoping they aren’t chapped. I don’t know how to kiss someone.
Jonathan places the ukulele to his left and moves to sit next to me. I lean into the
left side of him. Boy’s deodorant smells different. He wraps his pale arm around me. I
think he is going to kiss me. I am so nervous. Please, please let me be good at this.
He lingers a centimeter away from my lips. I can smell his breath. It doesn’t smell
I lunge forward. My lips touch his. They are warm and moist. This is not what I
expected.
I lazily allow my lips to stay attached to his. He begins to move his lips. What is
I leave the kiss awkwardly. I don’t think that went very well, but I want to do it
again. I am too nervous to initiate another kiss until I learn what I am supposed to do. I
will ask Jessica and her mom later. Regardless of the flop of a kiss I just had, I am now a
woman. I have had my first kiss, and I have a boyfriend. This has been the best
Valentine’s Day.
***
I hear a knock on the front door, I peek around the corner of the upstairs wall to
see who is there. I am home alone, and I am not expecting anyone to come over. I see
Jonathan standing under the light on the front porch. The textured glass on the front door
casts him into a shape Picasso would have painted. I skip down the stairs to see why he is
here so late.
“Hey, do you want to come outside and look at the stars?” he asks.
“Okay.” If anyone else asked me this I would think it is strange, but it is Jonathan
We walk out to the curb, and I sit down. It is chilly outside so I curl my knees into
my chest, fall back onto my back, and turn my gaze up to the sky sprinkled with
60
constellations. I lose myself in the stars, trying to pick out patterns that might exist or I
at first. My mind wanders around before settling with us in the grass of my front yard.
up in the moment, but I think I like someone else more. I shouldn’t have made a choice
until I was sure, and I need to explore this option, but maybe we will work out after.”
I am being dumped right now. Do not cry. Not in front of him. He doesn’t deserve
that satisfaction. I continue to lie there zoning in and out of his long explanation. I want
to go for a run. No, I need to go for a run. I wish he would wrap this up so I can go inside
and change to go run. I feel all the excitement and hope that I had felt with this
relationship bleed out into the almost dead crab grass. I am done. This is why I have
avoided dating.
I think I say “I’m fine” or something along those lines, as I stand up and give him
I close the front door and peep through the closed blinds, watching Jonathan’s
white Volkswagen Jetta turn around in the street, heading back to his side of town.
I walk upstairs and change into sweatpants and a sweatshirt and decide I should
I don’t remember what I said, but within twenty minutes my parents are back
home, Jessica and her mom are also there. I sit in the fetal position on the cold kitchen
floor and everything I held in around Jonathan spills out onto the green and blue tiles. I
61
let my heart experience its first heartbreak. I feel every beat let me down and close me off
“Sweetie, it’s the middle of the night and cold outside. Why don’t you wait until
I double knot my running shoes and walk out into the now-freezing air. I can feel
the tears harden on my face into a thin layer of salty ice. I stretch my calves against the
curb and focus on steadying my breathing. I pull my foot behind me and hold it against
my butt, stretching one quad at a time. The engine turns over on my mom’s 2000 Yukon
The cold air infiltrates my esophagus. It tightens. I feel the shock waves travel up
my shins with every step. My arms pump desperately, and my elbows occasionally attack
my obliques. I don’t want to feel disappointed. I don’t want to feel like I am not good
I began to run away from my emotions that night. I ran away from trusting
people. I ran away from letting love into my life. I kept running.
K
Kjersten is cradling the dirty toilet. I am not in the least bit envious of her position
right now.
“I need to throw up, but I can’t make myself,” Kjersten says into the porcelain
bowl.
“I’ll go get you some water,” I say. I let go of her hair and look to Tom to take
I walk out of the bathroom and into the kitchen, still reminiscing about my make
out with Isaac thirty minutes earlier. I wonder if anything will come from those kisses. I
had never thought of dating him, but I could be open to the idea, potentially. Wait. I am
“I will make us sandwiches while you fix her water. The glasses are up to the
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This is a typical bachelor pad. Three or maybe four baseball players live in this
small house on Windyhill. The floor is made out of polished concrete, so that it is easy to
clean from the messes that are inevitably created from drinking games and beer-pong
tournaments. The walls are painted white and accented with scuffs and scratches. The
furniture is cheap, hand-me-down couches and chairs. I see Bonnie and Chris sitting on
one of the couches, cuddled up in one another’s arms. Looks like both Bonnie and I
achieved our mission for the night: to make out with someone.
I fill the water glass and mischievously begin to add extra condiments. A dash or
two, maybe three, of tabasco sauce, a few shakes of pepper, and perhaps a pinch of salt.
Surely, this will instigate her gag reflex. I take the water to her and suppress the impulse
to laugh; she takes her first gulp. K walks in with my sandwich, and he sees her drinking
the water. He turns to leave before erupting with laughter in the living room. I fall out of
the bathroom and can no longer hold in my amusement. K wraps an arm around my
I don’t know him well. I know he is on the baseball team, but he doesn’t play very
much. He is tall-ish and a little thick, with blue eyes and dirty-blond hair. Of course, I
“So are y’all staying the night?” K asks amused. “It looks like your friends are
pretty comfortable.”
“I don’t know yet. Have you seen Sarah Black? I can’t leave without her.”
“Nope, I haven’t seen her in a while now. You can stay here tonight if you want.”
“We’ll see.”
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I walk back into the bathroom, after consuming my sandwich and composing
myself, to find that Kjersten has finally vomited, and Tom is helping her get up.
She shakes her head no. Shit, it looks like I am staying in this filthy mess of a
***
“Chels, you can have my bed, and I’ll sleep on the floor,” K says.
“Yeah, of course.”
I lie down on the bed and cautiously slip under the covers. I have never slept in a
boy’s bed before or spent the night in the same room with a guy whom I am not related
Time crawls by. I can’t see a clock to watch it stop moving, but I can feel the
seconds elongate in to minutes, minutes in to hours, and eventually pause. I can hear K
“I’ll be fine.”
“Okay, thanks.”
He lies down on the left side of the bed. The chasm of four inches between us
I tell myself that I am fine. He isn’t touching me. Why is there something deep
inside my gut that wants him to? I already made out with one guy tonight. Do not kiss
anyone else. I shift to shake off the thoughts that are preparing to jump off the cliff
He moves and touches me. It tickles. I try not to laugh. I roll over and meet his
dark gaze in the almost black room. His lips move towards mine. Should I kiss him?
Would that make me a slut? I really want to kiss him. He adjusts himself again, brushing
against my back and triggering my laughing reflex, but this time I can’t suppress it. It
softly breaks out of me, and K continues to instigate it by actually using his fingers to
find the marks on my body where the reaction is the strongest. He slowly begins to
massage my torso, instead of poking it with his thick fingers. He leans in and begins to
kiss me. Softly, then desperately. Like he is searching for some answer in my kisses. It
“What?”
“I have a girlfriend.”
I pull myself further away. I am the other woman. I didn’t even know I was. I am
disgusting. What do I do now? I can’t believe I am the girl I have always detested.
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Out of instinct or some other uncontrollable force, I give him one last kiss and
agree, before rolling over and facing the window with my back to him.
“Goodnight,” I mumble.
L
The music shifts from country music to current hip-hop. I jump off the elevated
wooden oval dance floor, and skip over to the table where all my friends are congregating
between songs. I see all the girls from high school, who I was never really friends with,
jog past, hand in hand, towards the dance floor. We obviously have opposite styles of
dancing: two-stepping, yes; booty dancing, no. My hips can’t handle that kind of
movement after having competitively run for a decade. I pull myself up onto a stool at
our table and notice that there is a man sitting across from me. He must be someone’s
“Hey, I don’t think I have met you,” I yell across the small table, trying to start a
I look him over. He has broad shoulders. I think he might be a swimmer. He has a
bushy brown beard that consumes his face and blue eyes that squint small when he
smiles. He is different than anyone I have ever thought was cute. I have always been set
on the blond-haired, tall, and blue-eyed boys and adamant about never deviating.
***
I sit down at a corner table with my cup of scalding hot tea, and I try not to stare
at the door. Lyman is coming to meet me for coffee. I think this is a first date. A casual
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coffee date. This will be my first attempt putting myself out there after the fallout with
“Yep, what are you going to get?” I ask. Why is that my first line? I am not good
at dating.
He comes back with a red Starbucks cup, filled with steaming medium-roast
coffee, and he begins to discuss books, life, athletics, food, and what he hopes for the
future, for the next two hours and fourteen minutes. We glance around and notice that the
“Yeah, it didn’t feel like we were here long. Like we just started talking,” Lyman
adds.
“I know, right.”
“I am right there.” I point out the window. “The silver truck that’s all alone.”
“Well, let me walk you to your truck … . We should do this again sometime.”
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wrap my leopard-print scarf around my neck and brace myself for the cold air that awaits
outside of this warm coffee shop, filled with memories of laughter and deep
conversations from over the years. I stand up and lead the way. Lyman follows me to my
truck. He proceeds to attempt to break the touch boundary. This is my least favorite part.
He goes in for a hug, but as he wraps his broad arms around me, he lifts me off the
ground. This is not normal for a first hug, but I love it. I pick my head up off the crease
between his chest and shoulder, and he catches my lips in a passionate kiss. I was not
expecting this. This is invigorating. I think I may like dating older men, who are more
secure in themselves.
***
The lukewarm water runs down my back, and I am replaying today’s events. We
went to the chili cook-off in Galveston. It should have been fun, and it was mainly, but
now I am unsure. I came into this knowing that Lyman is older than I am, and I am okay
with that aspect of our relationship, but I am not okay with the fact that he is eight years
older and I have accomplished more. He won’t finish college, and I graduated early. He is
working a dead-end job, and I am actively seeking a better opportunity. I fear he will
make me complacent. I fear that I miss X more than I am enjoying spending time with
Lyman. My tears begin to mix with the water. Maybe they are cooling off the shower
because the water is gradually losing its heat. Maybe I have been in here too long,
reflecting on what my life has become and where it is going. Maybe I will reach out to X.
Maybe I will turn off this now cold water and dry off so I can face the day. Maybe.
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***
Lyman walks into the YMCA with a cup of Starbucks in his hand and a large
I reluctantly take the cup of hot caffeine. He doesn’t realize he just placed the kiss
of death on this relationship. I do not want to do this anymore. I do not want to go to his
friend’s wedding. I want him to grow up, move out of his parents’ house, finish his
degree, and get a better job, but none of that matters. He has to want all of that for
himself. He walks out the door, and I know I have to break up with him, tonight.
M
Ten minutes away and I start to feel the unruly shifting from my stomach to
bowels again. I ran my first marathon the previous morning, the Houston Chevron
Marathon, and was experiencing extreme bowel distress, to put it politely. As I pull into
the empty lot next to his trailer, I text him to make sure he is home. A shooting pain
spreads across my abdomen, and I clutch the steering wheel, digging my fingernails into
the peeling black pleather. The pain subsides. I have only a few minutes to make it to a
bathroom. My eyes peer over the dash, and I see him make his way towards my truck.
I don’t call him Matt or Matty because I’ve never had a good encounter with
Matthew is six-foot-one and is built like a brick wall. I like that he is muscular. It
makes me feel even smaller, like I can disappear inside him. He has dark-blue eyes that
you only notice the color of when you are close enough to kiss him, and I have spent
many hours kissing him. His dirty-blond comb-over is a mess, as he pulls on an A&M
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I have casually dated Matthew for three months now. Him and four other guys. I
I left my brownie pan here on accident last weekend. I can’t stay long. I have four
hours to drive and 611 pages to read for two of my classes tomorrow.
As I get out of my truck slowly and hobble towards him he gives me a hug, but no
kiss. Something feels off, but then the pain in my gut strikes again, so I ask if I can use
his restroom and he obliges. I waddle as quickly as my stiff knee and sore muscles will
allow me, up the five stairs and down the hallway to the bathroom.
Sitting on the toilet with my head resting in my hands, my body is purging itself
of who knows what else at this point. I look to the right and notice that there is a good
two inch clearance under the door to the bathroom. Fantastic! He can probably hear
everything. As I turn to rest my head back in my hands, a glint in the trashcan grabs my
attention. My mom always told me that curiosity kills the cat, yet I still decide to take a
It is a Durex wrapper, all shiny and purple, but for some reason my eyes read
Duracell, which reminds me of Energizer Batteries and that stupid bunny continually
beating away at that drum. It is the thought of the battery and the fluffy bunny in all the
commercials that starts to infuriate me. That he has fucked another girl while he is dating
me. I can’t be mad, though, because I am dating or talking to Chris, Vincente, Roberto,
and I’ve been making out with Frank, so why do I feel this rush of heat through my
body?
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I keep imagining him beating himself against another girl just like that damn
I have been in the bathroom an unusual amount of time at this point, so I flush the
toilet, try to forget about what I just saw in the trash, and turn on the faucet to wash my
hands because washing hands is always relaxing. No water. I look frantically at the toilet.
I walk out to the living room and tell Matthew that the sink isn’t working.
“It does that sometimes, give it a few minutes and it should be working again,” he
casually states.
I sink down to the floor mortified, as shivers take over my body and my head
Crap, am I going to puke? God I hope not … not in that toilet, but where else?
When was the last time I talked to Chris? Wow, I think it has been two weeks now.
A series of burps begins making their way up my esophagus. I look up and watch
Matthew typing away on his computer, then quickly switching to scribbling notes down
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on a paper, and picking up his book again. He catches me watching him and smiles; he
“No thanks, I just need to sit for a moment,” I say, as a small burp escapes.
Desperately searching for distraction, I sit on the floor and start stretching, hoping that
He won’t have sex with me—he says he wants to take it slow and do things right
Hmm … when was the last time I saw Frank? Has it really been a month? Have I
attempt to jog to the bathroom again; I feel it burning the fibers of my vocal cords. Damn
marathon. I sit there shaking as my body continues to reprimand me from punishing it for
four hours and eight minutes yesterday. I am so hungry, but nothing seems to agree with
my body. I avoid looking at the trashcan and focus on the real problem at hand: the lack
of water. The toilet still hasn’t refilled with water, the sink isn’t working, and I am
destroying his bathroom. Silently lowering the lid to hide my sickness, I begin to search
in vain for air freshener. Opening cabinets cautiously, not wanting to find any more
75
disturbing evidence of his sexual escapades, I peer around deodorant and cleaning
supplies, timidly moving things aside and putting them immediately back in place. I don’t
My next plan of action is to take a look in the tank; I quietly remove the lid, set it
down gently, and peer inside. Desperately, I begin jiggling various levers, trying to revive
the toilet. I use my fingers as shock pads, hoping to restart the internal plumbing of this
dehydration fail. After fiddling with the levers in the tank for a few minutes, the
realization hits that my attempts are futile without any water. I pray for water.
Shivers spread across my epidermis, and my muscles grow tense as I limp back
into the living room to collapse onto the couch in the fetal position.
After ten minutes, I uncurl myself slowly like a sloth and decide that if I am going
to be sick and emotional I might as well escape into some reading for class. I stiffly move
across the room, a long journey of six feet, grab a book out of my purse, and quickly curl
myself back up into the couch, allowing the pillows to contour around my body. We both
sit there on the couch, reading books for class; the awkward tension is too much to
handle, so my solution is to drift to sleep for a quick cat nap. Bad idea. I wake up even
more nauseous, time has flown by, and it is now after five with four hours to drive.
Stuffing my book in my purse, I let Matthew know that it’s time for me to get back on the
road.
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“Let me finish this chapter, then I’ll walk you out,” he says without breaking eye
When was the last time I chatted with Vincente? A week and a half ago, yes.
I think my abs are actually more sore than my legs. Is that from breathing?
Why did I cancel on Roberto two nights ago? Oh my, have I cut off all my flings
and flirtations? When did I decide to do that? I definitely didn’t decide on that.
“Alright, I’m finished. Let me grab your stuff for you. Are you sure there isn’t
anything I can get you? Medicine, water, a snack?” Matthew asks attentively. I finally
seem to have his attention now, and he looks concerned. “Chelsea, you look really pale.
“No, I don’t want anything, but let me check if the water is on real quick.”
I make my way to the bathroom and a pungent odor greets me. Well, this is just
swell. I try the faucet and there is no such luck. Still no water. I am going to have to leave
the toilet unflushed and the bathroom smelling rancid. As this sinks in, I realize this
might be the last time I talk to or see Matthew after he makes this horrid discovery in his
bathroom. I walk out grieving over my unintentional rejection of Frank, Chris, Vincente,
and Roberto, and the impending end of the last semi-relationship I still have in my life.
I cringe, as I teeter down the stairs and make my way to my truck. Matthew is
already there, loading up my forgotten items in the passenger seat. He comes to give me a
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hug and just holds me. Well crap, I really like this guy. I stand there for a minute, hidden
in his embrace, allowing him to hold my tired body up, and my left knee gives out as I
push away, causing me to tumble towards the ground. Embarrassed, I try to brush it off
and make my way to the driver’s side and ungracefully climb into my worn leather seat.
Matthew stands there in the door and begins talking to me. Finally.
“I need to start applying for internships for this summer, but I want one that pays
well and is with a company I support. You know what I mean? I also need to find a place
that will do a six-month lease, but I cannot find anything, or roommates. I am not ready
for the semester to start. I need another week to prepare. I have so many emails I need to
He continues on for fourteen minutes. I sit there listening to him explain all the
things he needs to finish today, and about his anxieties with starting a new semester.
Gosh, I wish he would just kiss me. Would it be bad if I asked for a kiss?
I love listening to him talk, but I wish he wouldn’t worry so much. Doesn’t he
realize that everything is going to work out the way it is supposed to?
“Can I get a kiss goodbye?” The words escape from my mouth; I immediately feel
heat in my cheeks.
Without saying a word, Matthew smiles and leans close to my face, allowing one
arm to wrap me up into half a hug and the other hand to hold my quivering face securely,
summer night air blows gently across my bare legs while Nate massages the knots in my
back. I can feel the thin, worn, cotton fibers of my John Deere shirt rubbing against my
sore skin.
I began team training at the collegiate level three weeks ago, and it still feels like
my muscles are going to burst out of my skin. My back is a mosaic of knots and new
muscles from the different workouts and increased intensity compared to my lazy
summer training. I started dating Nate a week-and-a-half-ago. I knew him for less than a
Sharp circles are being dug deep below my shoulder blades. The pain radiates
through my body, growing stronger and stronger until it vanishes as the knots unravel. Is
it crazy that this is the most romantic thing that has happened to me up until this point in
***
Nate mentioned marriage today. To me. I have only been dating him for a month-
and-a-half or two months. I am not sure. I am bad with calendars. I am not sure that I
want to get married, now, in the future, or even ever, but definitely not now. How do you
break up with someone? It should be done in person, I assume from TV and what has
happened to me. I will do it tomorrow. I should ask Hugh for advice. Plus, it will let him
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O
June 18, 2015
I need to get out of Viscri. This village and the seclusion are driving me crazy. I
want to relax, away from all of the struggles that exist here; I need to feel like a normal
twenty-three-year-old girl for one day. Ovidiu offered to be my adventure guide through
Transylvania on one of my days off, so maybe I should text him. After a month and a half
of working non-stop from sun up to the middle of the night, today is my first day off. I
am waking up early to help visitors navigate the town and its tours amidst a major
language barrier. Then I work with the children in the village, trying to teach English and
math. Finally, I end my day in the wee hours of the morning making sure all the
overnight visitors are taken care of and find their way to their beds at the end of the night.
What if I text him that I want to go somewhere, anywhere, away from this village
of maybe four-hundred Romanians and at least triple that in cows, goats, sheep, chickens,
ducks, pigs, horses, and dogs? Would he think that I am desperate? Would he take that as
coming onto him? Because his divoted face, crooked teeth, and his hair that looks like it
was rinsed in coffee grounds are far from appealing. But, I want to see a paved road and
buy chocolate and tampons at a store. I need to see something familiar and new.
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“So guess who is taking a day off??!! What are your plans for today??”
A few minutes later, the phone dings, and Ovidiu floats onto the screen.
“Really? Actually taking a day off? I suppose I will be heading towards Viscri
then ;) ”
“When do you think you will be here? And what are we going to do?”
“Pack a bathing suit and you will see. I’ll be there at 12:30.”
I put down the phone and look around. The bare, white-plaster walls and pale
wooden boards that create the floor and ceiling have been my home, since I arrived in the
middle of a crisp, black night in May. This place has been my safety net during the
hardest transition in my life. I am a tight ropewalker alone, wanting only to survive the
long journey ahead while desperately looking for a way back. Shake it off. Don’t get
emotional today. Today an adventure awaits and that will make all of this sadness and
This is my first opportunity to get out and go somewhere farther than my two feet
can carry me. Grabbing my dirty, faded, powder-blue Jansport backpack off the hook on
the wall, I begin to stuff inside my water bottle, books, journal, towel, warm clothes, and
a bathing suit. I shuffle into my tiny bathroom, stand on tippy-toes, and look into the
square mirror with a frame painted in a bright, Eastern-European floral design. Now to
braid my hair, so it looks cute no matter how much my frizzy curls want to resist my anti-
frizzing hair products. I walk out of the bathroom and take six steps to the wardrobe, on
the other side of my living quarters, where I flip through my small pile of clothes, pulling
out my short cut-offs, tank top, and sweater. I slide the silky, mint-green Victoria’s Secret
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tank over my alabaster skin. I have never been this pale in the summer. Maybe it will be
sunny enough for me to get a little tan today. That is in my top ten things I miss most: the
sun. I dance into my shorts, button them up, and look down, satisfied with my
appearance. I look cute, but not like I am trying too hard. I walk over to my bed and sit
down on the cool, white linens. This is one of the most comfortable and safest places in
this village, on this bed. It is where I hide from the world outside, but can’t seem to hide
from myself.
I sit there thinking. Why is going with this guy, who is a mountain-biker nearing
forty, a good idea? I only met Ovidiu a few weeks ago when I was helping with the
Transylvanian Bear Ultra-Marathon and Marathon and have only briefly encountered him
since. He has a girlfriend, and they have been together for a long time, but I also know
know I shouldn’t be hanging out with him, but I am desperate. I need to get out of this
village for a day before I go stir crazy. I need to prove to myself that I do not need Sailor
Sailor Boy
I get off the bed, slinging my backpack over my shoulder, and walk out. I take the
heavy metal key and lock the thin door. Sometimes I can’t believe that this is all that
separates me from the wilderness, a piece of wood an inch thick. Only a few weeks ago,
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the ducks that live in the garden were brutally attacked by some animal from the forest.
Murder occurred right outside my door, and I hadn’t even closed my window that night.
Everything about this place sets my nerves a light. I jog next door, I am running behind
schedule, to see the kitchen ladies and grab a few thick slices of bread along with some
I look at my American phone anxiously, hoping to get a text from Sailor Boy, all
the while knowing all too well that it is the middle of the night for him. Tossing it in my
backpack, I attempt to bury my longing for Sailor Boy. I place my Romanian phone on
the counter and watch it anxiously while I bite into the delicious spread that Vio makes
every day. The women chatter in Romanian, and chitter as they prank Christina by giving
***
We pull up in Ruganesti near the fishpond and park on the side of the road. This is
the first time I have seen a body of water since arriving in Viscri. Desperate to feel cool
water on my dry skin, I rush out of the car and walk over to the water’s edge. It has been
too long, now I’m nervous about the one thing in the world that is most comforting to me.
The one thing that helps everything make sense, even if only for a few minutes. This
rippled surface should be easing my mind and fostering clarity, but instead everything
remains opaque.
I set my stuff down in a clearing in the grass and take pictures of this pristine and
lonely pond situated perfectly in a nest of wildly green, rolling hills. There is no one
swimming or even around. The overcast sky breathes a chill into the air, which enhances
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my uneasiness. Goose bumps rise up along my shins. I pull my overused copy of The
Lizard’s Tale out of my backpack when Ovidiu walks over after paying for us.
I nod towards my book and settle into reading the captivating and poetic language
of Luisa Valenzuela.
Finally, the sun peeks out through the line of depressing clouds and reflects across
“We should hurry and go swimming now,” I tell him, as I begin digging through
my heavy backpack for my bathing suit. I put my shoes back on, jog over to the rotting
wood that is the changing room and outhouse, strip down, and tie on my mismatching
bikini red bottoms and black, jeweled top. I can’t help but feel self-conscious about how I
look in a bathing suit. I haven’t seen myself in a full-length mirror since I was in
America, I haven’t weighed myself in months, and for the first time my body feels dense.
I can’t wait to immerse myself in water, to feel weightless, suspended in cool liquid.
I walk out onto the weathered deck and wait to jump off the wooden plank, which
I suppose is a diving board. Walking back and forth along the edge of the pond, I wait
and take pictures of the lake. I am falling through the deck. Ovidiu runs up and wraps me
in his arms while pulling me off the breaking part of the deck. I am relieved that he was
there to help me, but I cringe at being in his arms. I know I came here with him to find
distraction, to speak in English, and to try to forget about Sailor Boy, but the first thought
that pops into my head is how I don’t want him touching my barely clothed body.
“Thank you for saving me,” I say, wincing at the way the words fall out of my
mouth and perpetuate the societal belief that a woman needs a man.
“You’re welcome. You look really nice with less clothes on,” Ovidiu replies. His
eyes work their way up and down my body. I wriggle my way out of his arms and throw
expecting to happen? I briskly walk back over to our spot in the grass, put my camera in
my bag, walk to the end of the plank, and stare into the reflection of myself in the water
below. What do I want? Right now, in this moment, and for the rest of my life? I look
into the lost eyes of the woman looking back at me; I do not like what I see. I cannonball
into the water below. Hold breath. Squeeze eyes shut. Don’t scream.
***
The sun is beginning to set, and we pull over on our way back to Viscri in
Saschiz. I have seen the fortress from the road a few times previously and have felt the
urge to go explore it, like every other set of ruins I have ever laid eyes on in my life. As
we begin our ascent up the steep, muddy slope with deep trenches from carts travelling
I pull away.
“So tell me about what it was like growing up during Communism,” I say,
diverting the conversation into an area that I know he will talk about. Ovidiu begins
recounting anecdotes about his parents’ waiting in line for food, his family’s business,
and what he wants to do with his life. I listen to his stories and dreams fade, as we climb
higher in the dimming light. We turn a corner on the path, bordered by the forest, and
suddenly we are upon the Cetatea Taraneasca. It is magnificently decaying. The massive
stone structure has been battling the wiles of the wilderness for centuries. I wander ahead
in awe of how small I feel in this enchanting and magical place. I am walking where
fairytales occur. A partially collapsed spiral staircase leads up to the second level, and I
crawl up hesitantly. Peeking my head through what I imagine was a window, I gaze down
at the valley and village below. What did this look like three hundred years ago? The
buildings grow older and the few paved streets turn to mud. The modern mismatched
clothes evaporate and leave traditional white tunics with the village’s embroidered
emblem on the collar. The handful of cars would be replaced with horses and wagons.
The world wouldn’t look very different three hundred years ago from how it does now.
The juxtaposition of life back home and here startles me even now, the poverty
“You are like a goat!” Ovidiu calls up to me from at least fifteen feet below.
I am jolted back into reality briefly, from the dream I am living in. “There are
“Oh, just taking a look around. It’s stunning, but we should get going soon. It’s
beginning to get pretty dark, and we still have hike back down.”
“You knew that when you asked to hang out. What did you expect would happen
I stand there looking up at his weathered face and question myself. I did know he
had a girlfriend, and I still chose to come. Why am I trying to prove something today? I
“I don’t know about that … . I still am unsure about Sailor Boy and what is
Ovidiu pulls me into him and kisses me. I squirm free from his strong grasp and
start walking quickly down the staircase and out of the fortress. Ovidiu follows closely
behind, asking me to slow down, as I begin to almost break into a jog down the steep
path.
I want to get away. I do not want to feel what I am feeling now, a sense of almost
certainty that I have crossed a moral line that cannot be undone, and that I do like Sailor
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Boy more than I had anticipated. Overanalyzing the last minute, I slip and slide down the
muddy hill, only catching myself on a root sticking up from the ground. Pause. Ovidiu
catches up to me and reaches out his hand. I push my way up on my own, steadying
myself while examining my dirty pants and hands to check if I have cut myself. He tries
to take my hand again. I cross my arms into my body. I do not want to be touched. I slip
again in the darkness, but this time Ovidiu seizes my wrist and holds it tightly while he
***
Back in Ovidiu’s car, I plug in my phone and begin playing The National’s song
“England” over the stereo. Windows unrolled and sunroof open, I feel closer to the sky.
Billions of stars and streaks of the Milky Way watch, as I lean my head out of the car
while he slowly drives along the bumpy, dirt road leading from Bunesti to Viscri.
“No good, I will keep you warm.” He opens my car door. I get out reluctantly; I
could see fine from where I was, and the temperature is dropping quickly. I stand there on
the side of the road; he stands behind me and encases me in his arms. My stomach twists
into a knot as he kisses the back of my neck, and I feel the warmth of tears rolling down
my cheeks. I cannot do this. This is not who I am. My heart is somewhere else. I turn
“No.”
P
The truth?
The truth?
The lie?
The lie that verdicts protect individuals from further violations caused by society’s
biases.
That time sutures infected wounds.
That incurred molestation is provoked by material neglect and improper coverage.
That it is asked for.
The lie?
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The reality?
The reality?
The reality?
It took me 905 days to talk to someone about what happened to me. I sat there on
the couch that had geometric patterns in soft soothing colors, staring into it, not wanting
to make eye contact with the woman sitting across from me. I didn’t know how this
experience was supposed to go, so I talked about all the things I shouldn’t. All the things
that were supposed to be hidden. I couldn’t help but gaze at the three plastic jewels, pink,
green, and blue, that dangled from the knobs on the cabinets when I was asked to
remember memories hazed by sleep, alcohol, and fear. Society said it was my fault, but I
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didn’t want to believe it. I had punished myself in silence, and, day by day, I felt farther
from myself with no trail leading back to the girl who I once was. Silence didn’t work.
It took me 936 days to write this poem. It lived and breathed inside me all that
time, and once I wrote it, my life began to change. I realized I had a voice, even if it was
a dark bar. Music pounds through the walls. Some band is playing at the restaurant next
door, and the sound is bleeding through into the new hip bar in town, Public-Haus. We
are huddled closely, venting about everything from graduate school that is frustrating us.
***
I decided earlier that week to experiment with the online dating site, Tinder. I hear
such hilarious stories about the encounters and people on the site that I decided to see for
myself what it was all about, so I joined and began swiping mainly to the left, rejecting
many men, but I occasionally swiped right to see what would come of it. I swiped right to
Henry is a dentist for the Dyess Airforce Base, who seems fairly cute and presents
meeting up, and using my better judgement, I decide to agree to meet him only if others
are around.
***
I look down at the slightly sticky table and see that my phone has received a new
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“Where are you all? My friend and I can come meet you,” the message says. It
sounds like he might be a little drunk and desperate, but I am with my friends, so I might
“We are at Public-Haus. Come meet us,” I reply. I turn back to the conversation at
hand.
“Umm, I think I will stay inside, but it looks like people may be leaving soon.” I
hang up. He is definitely drunk. Maybe this isn’t such a good idea.
“Yeah, he wants me to go outside since they can’t get in,” I explain. “That is not
“That’s kind of strange that he would ask you to leave,” Parker adds.
Nine minutes later, Henry walks in with his muscular Asian friend. They find our
table, and everyone shakes hands at the introductions. Henry’s hand is like a limp fish in
my mine. What kind of handshake is that? I find out his friend’s name is Quon, and he
“Did anyone else notice how he shook our hands?” Parker asks.
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“Ha ha, y’all are funny. Anyways, it’s just a meeting and an experiment,” I
explain. They are right. I have a knack for picking douche bags, and I already know
They come back to the table, and Henry stands on my left side while Quon stands
to my right. I am sandwiched between them. I try to make conversation with Henry, but
he is socially awkward, even more than I am, and he is becoming increasingly agitated, as
he drinks more and more. I turn to Quon. “So what do you do?”
“I am a lawyer for the Airforce,” Quon begins. The conversation quickly becomes
an engaging dialogue that moves between economics, law, and graduate school. I forget
“Well, are you going to take him with you?” Henry asks.
I might have unintentionally ignored Henry, but I do not like being spoken to in
such an aggressive manner. I am ready to get out of here and away from him.
“No … .”
“You matched with him too. You matched with both of us, you whore.”
“Henry, I think you’ve had enough to drink,” Quon inserts. “I think it is time for
us to go.”
I walk out of the bar and take the long way to my car, so they will not be as
inclined to follow me. Did I just get played? Am I a player? I haven’t been able to fully
commit to a relationship or even dating a single person in a long time. I need to change
this. Whore. I know I am not a whore, but I have come to love the attention that I get
from dating numerous guys at once, and maybe that is not what I should be doing right
now.
R
It is 6:43 PM and I am counting down the minutes until I am off work. I am back
in Houston for Christmas break and have decided to help my boss Raymond at his shop,
Finish Strong, in order to make a little extra cash because I am a broke graduate student.
Seventeen minutes.
The front door opens and a young runner walks through. I can tell he is sore from
training, based on the way he is trying to cover up his hobble towards the back. He
immediately goes to the nutrition wall packed with all sorts of food and electrolytes that
long-distance runners use during races. There is GU, the jellybeans, the gummies, the
waffles, Nuun, and many other brands, which can seem daunting to the newbie.
“Good evening, can I help you find anything in particular?” I ask him.
“Nope, I think I found what I need. Just a few packets of GU for my training run
in the morning, but do y’all have any more of the salted caramel? Those are the best,” he
responds.
“I might have some in the back. I’ll go take a look real quick.” I begin to walk
through what should be the swinging doors, but one is missing. I have always wondered
what happened to it. I see the box I am looking for piled up high next to the ceiling in the
back room, which is stacked high with shoes boxes. It is right above the men’s Saucony
Rider. I can’t reach it on my own, so I turn around searching for where the ladder has
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As I climb up the steps, I can’t help but think that the man standing out by the
cash register is pretty cute for a runner, but I have always avoided runners because I don’t
want to feel the need to compete against them. I don’t want to date anyone that could beat
me in a race. I have two guys on my plate as it is anyway. I grab the box with my dry,
cracked hand, scramble back down the ladder to safety, and walk back out into the store.
“Actually, yes. I’ll take three of those and these here. Now I won’t have to stop
“What are you training for?” I begin to ignore my own advice and fall into the
easy pattern of flirting, while I pick myself up and balance on the counter with my arms,
“Cool. I am running that too. How is your training going? Are you training with a
group? What time are you shooting for?” I ask excitedly. He answers all my questions,
and somehow the conversation goes from running to coffee to movies and back to coffee
in fifteen minutes. “Oh my, look at the time. It is time for me to close up,” I say as I
begin to scamper around, doing closing duties. He walks towards the door and I call out
“good luck!”
I am working on closing out the register, counting the cash, when I hear the front
door open again. I am about to say we are closed as I look up, but I see the cute runner
“I’m Roberto, it was really nice meeting you. Goodnight,” He says, as he walks
back out the front door. I stand there with a wad of ones in my hand, perplexed at what
just transpired.
***
I sit on my bed and pull my banged-up laptop out of my backpack. I should put it
in a case. I should buy a case for it to protect it before I break this one too. Login …
email, check … blog, check …. bills, check … Facebook, wait, message? Investigate.
“Hey! What’s up? So I should have asked you if you’d like to get coffee while I
was there … but would you like to grab a cup sometime?” this is from Roberto.
other Chelsea Johnsons on social media. I am intrigued, so I click on his profile and begin
to do a little stalking. I look at his profile picture and immediately notice that I know
some of the people in the picture, and most notably X. How does he know X? He dumped
me only a few months ago and I had never heard about a friend named Roberto. I cannot
go on a date with him. He is friends with X. Or should I go on a date with him because he
is friends with X? Maybe then I can hurt him as much as he has hurt me.
“How do you know X?” I respond, knowing that I could never hurt X like that. I
love him and always will, even if he doesn’t love me back anymore.
S
Yalapa, Mexico
Last night as I lay in a hammock on the roof of my hostel, drinking a beer while
enjoying the sea breeze in Puerto Vallarta, I met a fellow traveler named Rory, who told
me he had heard of a beautiful beach to the south of here. I asked if he knew the name or
how to get there, but in his inebriated state, he couldn’t remember. I decided this morning
to ask the lady that cooks and cleans at the hostel for advice on where to find this
Spanish, and I ended up leaving the hostel with a piece of scratch paper with the bus
number I needed to catch, the name of the town to get off in, and the real price of the water
I stepped off the water taxi six hours ago accompanied by a local artist, whom I
met during the hour-long boat ride. He gave me a tour of the small fishing village, his
house and artwork, and walked me to the cascada, where he and a friend had had an
unfortunate trip while high off homegrown hallucinogens. My day had already been filled
with ridiculous adventures even before I reached the picturesque beach. I spent the rest of
the day doing what I came here to do: reading, writing, and playing with an adorable beach
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The sun begins to make its journey back into the sea, so I decide it is time to
embark on my voyage back to Puerto Vallarta. I walk over to the populated section of the
beach and arrange for a water taxi back to Boca de Tomatlan. I notice two men sitting on
beach chairs having a drink. Have I just heard them speaking English?
“Umm, cuando … es el siguiente barco?” I say to the man standing next to a boat,
I walk over to a clump of lawn chairs in the thick, granular sand and a small,
Mexican man walks out and gets my order, a passion-fruit margarita. Sitting there fiddling
with my drink between sips and taking photos of a red flower washing up in the waves, I
try to sneak glances at the men to my left. One is a brunette, and he is pale, while the other
is deeply tanned with messy, blond, curly hair. The blond rouses something inside me, so I
try to focus harder on photographing the flower from the perfect angle.
I slurp up the last bit of my drink, and I feel the alcohol begin to hit me. I need to
eat when I get back to Puerto Vallarta. The water taxi ride from Yalapa to Boca de
Tomatlan takes you along the coastline, where mountains densely covered in vivid, green,
foliage plunge straight into the cool, blue waters of the Pacific. The tide swells, the waves
build in size. They crash violently against our boat, soaking the women in front of me,
before finally breaking upon the cliffs. I sit there focusing on the beauty surrounding me,
predominantly on the cliffs. I try to ignore the fact that the two men I’ve seen on the beach
are on the same boat as I, one row behind me and on the left side. I can feel their presence,
and I can't help occasionally calculating times to glance back at the younger, dirty-blond
Once the boat docks in Boca de Tomatlan, I quickly scamper off and trip as I try to
hurry away. I don't know why the cute one makes me so excited and nervous.
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I march up the steep, dirt hill to the bus stop at the beginning and end of the tiny
village. I have come to Mexico alone, seeking time to read, write, and just be by myself. I
get on the bus and take a seat next to the window. A few minutes later, the older, brunette
man boards the bus, followed by the blond. They come and sit directly across from me and
introduce themselves. They are brothers; the younger blond is Sailor Boy, and the older
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brunette is Graham. After a few minutes of small talk, Sailor Boy invites me to join them
for dinner.
The bus grows increasingly crowded, as it makes its way through numerous small
towns. I can no longer hold a conversation with Sailor Boy and Graham through the wall
of bodies chattering in Spanish. Instead, I look out the window and watch the Los Archos
islands whirl past. Twenty minutes later, the bus stops in Puerto Vallarta, everyone pours
out onto the cobblestone street, and I join Graham and Sailor Boy again. We begin to stroll
towards El Malecon Boardwalk, making small talk. I learn that Graham is in graduate
school and working, and that Sailor Boy is working up in Nuevo Vallarta, teaching sailing.
Muertos to watch the sunset. As we reach the cliffs at the end, I show Graham and Sailor
Boy a path through the cliffs to a hidden beach, Amapas. I discovered it while running this
morning.
I put my bag down on the rocks, strip down to my bathing suit, and wade into the
surf. We swim in the rough waters off the deserted beach and watch the sun dip into the
We make our way to the restaurant that Sailor Boy has recommended, and once we
get there, the aroma of meat and margaritas greets me. I am ravenous. This probably is
because all I have eaten today is cookies. I sit there, shoveling spoonfuls of rice, beans,
and stewed beef into my mouth, as I listen to Graham and Sailor Boy tease one another
“Oh my God, Graham, she is going to out eat you,” Sailor Boy comments,
comparing my nearly clean plate to Graham’s. “Do you always eat that much?”
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“Yes, I do work out a lot, so I am normally really hungry,” I say shyly. This has
backpack in high school, taking out one item at a time in order to avoid being taunted for
The waiter places the check on the table, and Sailor Boy reaches for it.
“Let me know,” I say instinctively, “how much I owe for my dinner and drink,”
“No, really I can pay for my own portion.” I am getting frustrated because I hate
when people pay for me when societal rules do not warrant it. Sailor Boy and Graham
begin working out the details of the check amongst themselves, deliberately excluding me
“So now what do you all want to do?” Sailor Boy asks Graham and me.
“Well, we could buy a case of beer and just drink and chill by the ocean. It is
beautiful outside, and it’s my last night on the beach, so that’s what I would do,” I
respond. They both agree wholeheartedly, and we wind our way back down the Malecon
and into the plaza with the Catedral de Guadalajara. Sailor Boy leaps into the air to grab
the ends of low-hanging palm fronds, showing off his moderately adequate “ups,” but
what really grabs my attention is when he grabs one and lands disgusted with a sticky resin
covering his hand. I begin to laugh and try to suppress it. He grows frustrated that it won’t
come off when he begins wiping his hand on the benches and other concrete structures
within the plaza. Soon I can’t hold in my amusement any longer, and it bursts forth into
the salty air and spreads among our trio of sun-crisped misfits. I catch Sailor Boy’s eye
while I am trying to catch my breath. In the darkness, I can tell that they are a soft blue-
green that I instantly adore. Why do I feel so comfortable around this guy that I just
something when it clearly cannot because I am moving across the world in two months?
This is just a night I will remember forever, I remind myself, and nothing more.
They let me pick out the case of beer, and this time Graham will not let me pay. I
can’t tell if I am flattered or resentful for the small acts of chivalry being thrust upon me.
Maybe I have been reading too much feminist literature recently and should just cooperate
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with their sincere efforts to befriend a stranger they encountered on a beach. I lead the way
back through the plaza and further down the Malecon to find the perfect place to sit and
watch the ocean while drinking my favorite Dos Equis. I walk over to a large concrete
open area right before the bridge that crawls over where the river meets the ocean. There
are benches and a low wall I can sit on, hanging my feet over, getting them as close to the
Pacific as I can.
Anytime I am near the sea, my thoughts untangle, and it is like the mixture of
saltwater and sand has the power to slip into the cracks in my mind and rearrange
everything until it makes sense. Something about Sailor Boy makes sense—it lines up in a
mysterious way that frightens me—so I grab a bottled beer and open it against the wall. I
They begin talking more and more while I listen to them tell half stories and
interrupt one another, when suddenly there is commotion on the bridge. A fight between
teenagers is breaking out: one is on the ground being kicked repeatedly and another is
having his skull hammered into the pavement. Adrenaline builds in my body, and I want to
stop the fight. I want to help the one that is bleeding from the crown of his head, but I
know I can’t. I am frightened. What if Mexico really is dangerous? I have never felt even
slightly threatened in my years of travelling here. Sailor Boy and Graham stand in front of
me. I have a personal six-foot wall shielding me from seeing any more of the fight and
protecting me from whatever else is about to come. The fight ends, the gangs break apart
running in opposite directions, and Sailor Boy and Graham sandwich me between them as
they escort me to a safer area. How are they so calm after seeing a fight like that?
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“I really hope everyone is going to be okay,” I remark. I can feel my eyes on the
“Yeah … ,” they mutter, solemnly agreeing and taking swigs of their beers.
“So tell us more about yourself, Chelsea,” Graham says, breaking the tension and
regard for strangers’ lives. I begin telling them all about the work I do, the subjects I study
in school, the ideas I have for writing, where I have lived, my running career, and my
upcoming summer job in Romania. I see that I am beginning to intimidate them. Sailor
“How old are you,” he inquires, “if you don’t mind me asking?”
“Twenty-four,” I lie.
accomplishments up until this point in my life. I have worked hard for everything I have
done and had. Why do I feel the need to belittle myself to make these men I will probably
“Wow, it is really late. I should head back, and we are out of beer anyways,” I
“We were wondering if you would like to go sailing with us tomorrow. If you don’t
“Umm, well, my flight back to Mexico City is tomorrow, and I was thinking of
trying to catch an earlier flight so I can hang out with my friend Arturo for another day
before heading back to the US … but I really do love the ocean and boats, so why not?”
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And can I come up real quick, just to … you know … use the restroom?” Sailor Boy asks.
“Okay, that sounds good since it will give me time to run in the morning. But
unfortunately you can’t come up. House rules you know … goodnight.”
6:45 AM
My alarm goes off, urging me to get up and go for my daily run on the beach
during the sunrise. Suffering from sleep deprivation, I stumble out of my bunk and debate
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if I really should go sailing. I have already agreed, but I can always back out. It sounds like
a lot of fun and is a great opportunity, but I barely know these strangers. It is crazy to go
do this. Plus, I am flying back to Mexico City tonight, and I was going to try to hop on an
I lace up my sneakers. Running helps me think. The ocean makes everything clear.
Certainly, running where the waves meet the sand will help me make the right decision.
I get back to the Oasis Hostel and devour a plate of pancakes smeared with
strawberry preserves; I decide to meet Graham and Sailor Boy for a day of sailing. If worst
comes to worst, I will just swim to shore if they act fishy, but I have a good feeling about
***
Banderas Bay
I step off the bus at Paradise Plaza in Nueva Vallarta and see Graham getting off
the back of Sailor Boy's red motorcycle. The sight of two big men on the back of a petite
bike makes deciding to stay and spend the day with them worth it.
As we make our way into the marina, I witness Sailor Boy's instantaneous change
in demeanor. He is exactly where he belongs. On the J80 sailboat, he moves and works
with ease; I can see how passionate he is about sailing and being on the water. I love to
watch people become completely engrossed in their passions and who pursue their
“Yes,” I reply enthusiastically. “I only got to grind two days ago when I helped
out with a regatta team’s practice.” I guess I am trying to sound impressive or like I know
what I am talking about. I went sailing a few days ago, but I know practically nothing
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about it, except that it is complicated. I just want him to know I am interested and
Sailor Boy sits down next to me, at a distance that is respectable yet more intimate
The day is exquisite, with warm, cerulean skies filled with puffy, white clouds
that I would have made into shapes as a child. I love feeling the rhythm of the boat
against the waves. This is my version of heaven. Graham and Sailor Boy have an
entertaining banter going when, off in the distance, I see a couple of whales breeching.
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“Oh my gosh, look,” I squeal, pointing. “They are huge. Do you know what they
are?”
“Humpbacks,” Sailor Boy answers, smiling at me. His smile is captivating. This is
the first time I have ever seen whales in the wild. I sit there watching them, in awe of
I wish I could pause my life sometimes, when moments so rare and pure occur.
These few minutes where I watch a pod of bumpy, humpback whales breach is one. I
might have spent time going below deck to fetch a camera, but the scene is too wonderful
to leave even for a second. Instead, I sit there transfixed on the horizon that moves and
bubbles with life. I am one of the luckiest people in the world. Whenever I travel, I
encounter the most amazing people and get to experience nature in ways I have only
dreamed of until it magically happens to me—by accident. I inhale the salty air and let
every molecule of my body remember in advance that feeling, that moment, and my
wonderful life.
I smile as I exhale, noticing the numbness I carry towards life since my body was
“Could you put some sunscreen on my back?” I ask Sailor Boy. “I feel like I am
beginning to burn.”
“Of course.” He begins rubbing the sunscreen into my shoulder blades while
massaging them when he leans closer to my ear and whispers, “You know, we just
reached the next level in our relationship.” I feel my heart bounce. No, I don’t want to
feel that much. Shit, I really like him now. No, that is not allowed. You will never see
We finish sailing and make our way to La Playa de Las Jarretaderas for happy
hour. They begin lounging in chairs, talking amongst themselves, while I plop down on
my stomach on a beach chair, pull out my journal, and begin writing about the day I have
just experienced.
“Does anyone want to go for one last swim in the ocean with me?” I ask.
I begin jogging towards the water and swim out past the break so that I can float
on my back. I want to be able to feel the motion of the waves tonight when I lie down to
go to sleep. That is one of my favorite feelings in the world. I love the rocking swell the
ocean produces. I begin swimming back into shore and allow the riptides to catch me. I
go limp and let them pop me out after spinning me around numerous times within the
current. I know it is dangerous, but the powerful suck that the ocean has, as it yanks you
closer, is intoxicating. Eventually, I drag myself out of the frothy water and head toward
my chair to find a partially melted, frozen pink drink waiting for me.
“Do you want to grab a bite to eat before you have to head to the airport, Chels?”
such a silly, simple thing. I suddenly remember he asked me a question, and I have been
too busy thinking about how cute everything he does is. “Yes, I would really like that. I
am starving. But is there somewhere I can rinse off and change before we go to dinner
“Ok, perfect.”
I jump into the lukewarm shower and attempt to rub off the sand and sunscreen
with my bare hands. I rinse out my bikini and wring it out the best I can before stuffing it
in my backpack. I have one thing left in my bag to wear that isn’t caked in sand and
well. I slip the light fabric over my tan skin and strap on my yellow leather sandals with a
big flower on the top. At least I will make a good last impression.
I walk out of the bathroom and see Sailor Boy attempting to teach Graham how to
drive his motorcycle. He keeps stalling every ten feet on the wide sidewalk. I can’t help
but snicker at his mechanical ineptitude. As I walk closer, I can feel Sailor Boy’s eyes on
me. I catch his gaze and hold it. There is something here, and it scares me.
“Let’s start walking, it might take him a while to get to where we are eating at this
rate,” Sailor Boy says, as he moves to begin leaving behind his brother. I don’t object
because this way I get to talk to him alone for a little while. However, I don’t know what
“Wait, do you see the sky? It’s magenta. I bet it looks beautiful from the beach.
Here, watch my backpack. I will be right back,” I say, as I toss my bag to the ground
while grabbing my phone. I begin sprinting down the concrete path, lined with neatly
trimmed grass and tall palm trees rustling in the breeze, towards the beach. My dress
floats behind me as my stride opens up, and my shoes clack against the ground with each
step. My lungs fill with air, and life rushes into every cell. I can’t contain the joy
I am more alive in that moment than I have been in three years. Looking back on
it, I can see the shades of depression and self-loathing falling away with each stride I take
towards the beach. I finally begin to run towards myself, getting closer to who I am at my
I run back to where I left Sailor Boy standing with my bag. He is looking at me
like I am an anomaly.
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“I got my picture, so let’s see if we can beat your brother to the restaurant still,” I
say, as I sling my backpack over a shoulder. I don’t care if he likes me anymore. I don’t
care if anyone does. It doesn’t matter what Gus or Westyn think of me from back home; I
“Would you help me carry my bags?” I ask Sailor Boy, “and find a cab?” I want
to get one more chance to talk to him alone before I leave, even if it means compromising
my ability to take care of myself. I think he is the most unashamedly unique person I
extremely flustered because I am so worried I will miss my flight. I begin to make forced
small talk, which I have always detested, and my last attempt to converse with this man
“I had such a fantastic day,” I say. “I wish I didn’t have to leave.” I can’t believe
this is all that I can come up with to say. What has happened to the girl who can create
wonderful conversations, the girl who loves to work with words? Where have all of my
words gone? I try desperately to allow my eyes to tell him that I think he is wonderful, to
He puts my stuff in a cab and gives me a hug. A hug that lingers. Maybe, just
I arrive at the airport on time to catch my flight, and my mind is still lingering on
that last hug and conversation with Sailor Boy. I decide to text him.
“Thanks so much for everything these past two days. It was really great getting to
***
Abilene, Texas
When I left Mexico, I fully intended for that to be goodbye, but Sailor Boy had
other plans. We began texting a bit about sharing pictures from our time in Mexico with
one another, but soon it grew into a fun cyber-friendship where we had deeper
conversations.
Over the next month, Sailor Boy invited me down to Mexico numerous times, all
of which I took as a joke because it would be certifiably nuts to go visit someone I had
met only once. However, after his reassurance that he was serious, I realized it wasn't an
empty invitation, and even though it sounded crazy, it didn't feel that way.
So, a month and a half later, I am standing in the airport on my way back to
Mexico with a backpack full of books, clothes, and Gus in my back pocket if it all goes
***
I am standing in the women’s restroom at the airport, trying to will myself to stop
nervously sweating and to sober up. I’ve drunk numerous Barcadi and Cokes on the flight
over to quiet my anxiety. I say a quick prayer and walk out to meet Sailor Boy.
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He is standing there in a button-down shirt and khakis, leaning up against the bar,
He greets me with a stiff hug that is too impersonal for someone who just flew to
another country to see him. Essentially, this is the beginning of a four-day-long first date,
Bucerias, Mexico
After a bus ride filled with awkward babbling, we begin walking up the hilly
cobblestone and dirt street towards his apartment in Bucerias. I need to loosen up. Just
“I like your motorcycle helmets. I think the yellow is prettier though,” I say. Is
“I don’t have a yellow helmet. I have a red one and a green one,” he says,
“No.”
“I think you might be. Hold on, do you have WiFi? I am going to find a test
online.”
“Yeah … but I really don’t think that is necessary. The helmet is clearly green.
“Here take this test,” I hand him my phone. Five minutes later, I confirm my
assumption that he is indeed partially colorblind. I feel the tension leave my body. I crack
up at discovering this about him while he putters around the kitchen in denial.
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***
We walk towards the beach; Sailor Boy has a plastic bag filled with fish, bonita,
he caught. It is our first date, a candlelit dinner by the ocean. My toes wriggle in the sand,
and I finally open up about the things that make me who I am. I tell him all about my
love of pickles and old books. We have a mutual love of pickles. I don’t think I have ever
met anyone so different yet similar to me. All our long-term goals align, but our interests
vary in complementary ways. In the distance, I begin to see paper lanterns lift off into the
warm night air and float out over Banderas Bay. It looks like stars are dancing around the
stratosphere. I have always wanted to release a wish on a paper lantern, and I wonder
where those wishes go. Do the lanterns engulf them in flame? Do they drown in some
body of water? Is there a place that has an accumulation of lost lanterns, singed and damp
“I know.”
Mentally, I keep pinching myself. This is real. Yes, you are living in a fairytale
moment. Embrace it, but be careful. Don’t get your hopes up.
“Are you ready to go? Maybe we can stop by a few bars and grab a few drinks,
maybe even play a game of pool,” Sailor Boy says, pulling me back into the magical
“Sure, that sounds like a lot of fun. I love playing pool,” I respond, “but I don’t
We drink a few beers at the Drunken Duck before heading upstairs to his friend’s
apartment to chat, waiting for the pool tables to open up. His friend has an adorable boxer
named Toby. I immediately sit on the sandy floor and ignore his friend smoking a joint
and talking to Sailor Boy so that I can give the skinny dog some love. I am giggling, as
“Do you want some?” the stranger asks, extending the joint in my direction.
“No thanks.” I look to Sailor Boy to see if he is going to take it. That would be a
deal breaker for me. He doesn’t, but I almost wish he did because then I would have an
excuse not to continue further into this thing that scares me.
“You ready to go?” Sailor Boy asks. I nod yes. Toby licks my shoulder and neck.
After winning and losing a game of pool against some locals, we begin walking
back up to his place. Once we walk in, he hands me the lantern wrapped in cellophane.
I am taken aback. “Umm … yes, I think so.” Is this a test of some sort? He has a
sly smile. I know he likes working with his hands to build and fix things, but I don’t
possess much of that trait. I begin trying to follow the directions written in some Asian-
“Good work. Let’s head up to the roof to see if it will fly,” he says. I resent him
slightly for doubting that I could construct a paper lantern and that it might not fly. Jesus,
According to tradition, you are supposed to make a wish on the lantern and watch
As we stand there on the edge of the roof, I hold the fragile prayer while he lights
the candle. We stand there for a few minutes silently, holding it as the hot air fills it. I
know what my wish is going to be. I actually have two. I wish this trip to be amazing and
that all our travels end safely, and I wish Sailor Boy to kiss me at some point this long
weekend. If he does kiss me, I hope it’s good. I do not want another awful first kiss like
when I returned from Mexico a month ago. The warm light finally begins to float over
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the roofs of Bucerias and out over the Pacific. We watch the lantern grow smaller in
silence. I can’t stand the silence. It makes me nervous. I keep glancing at the dirt lot a
few floors down and back up at the sky again to see hope flickering in the distance. It
would only take one step to end this silence … . God, I have morbid thoughts sometimes.
I look up again.
Silence.
The waiting is killing me. Why can’t he have poor eyesight like me and finish his
wish already? Listening to the wind in the palm trees, I squint into the darkness and the
abyss over the ocean that has swallowed our lantern and my wishes. Maybe I shouldn’t
have made two on one lantern. That is technically against the rules.
“And it’s gone,” Sailor Boy says, turning to me and pulling me into a close hug.
This is the first time he has held me, and I don’t want him to let go. One of his hands
glides up my spine, over my shoulder blade, and holds my chin. His rough, strong hand
lifts my face so that our eyes meet, as his thumb caresses my cheek. His other hand
comes to meet the other side of my face. I close my eyes as he leans in to kiss me. Hope
fills me. This is how it is supposed to feel. I open my eyes and look into the softness of
his features. There is no way that a better embrace, a better feeling, exists in this world.
“Thank God,” the words escape before I can contain them. I am embarrassed that
“Well, is there?”
I glance up at the stars and thank God for answering my prayers before closing
***
The sun begins to peek through the windows in Sailor Boy’s apartment. I still
haven’t fallen asleep because I am replaying our magical date and late-night
conversation. I look over at him still sleeping deeply, so I slink off the bed, lie down on
the couch, and pull out some homework. I might as well be productive if I am going to be
awake. It is nearing the end of the semester, so I have deadlines for final papers quickly
sources for my research papers when around ten he begins to stir. I catch him opening his
eyes, while he lies on his stomach with one arm hanging off the bed. He looks at me,
We pack up our stuff for a day out on the ocean, and as we walk out, he hands me
the red helmet. At least we can agree on the color of that one. I am going to ride on the
back of a motorcycle for the first time on a real road. My mother would kill me if she
knew I was doing this. Actually my mother would kill me if she knew I was in Mexico
right now. I probably should tell her before I leave the country to go gallivanting around
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with a guy I just met, on a first date touring the state of Guadalajara. It would be a
I nervously climb on the back of the bike and wrap my arms tightly around him. I
don’t want him to know I am scared. The red motorcycle lurches forward, and we are on
***
“So do you want to try to learn how to drive it?” Sailor Boy asks, as we are
walking past his bike, after spending a few hours out sailing.
“Yeah … sure,” I stutter. He puts away the spinnaker and walks the bike out
towards the open sidewalk where he attempted to teach Graham how to drive it only a
month ago. I have to do better than Graham. I bury my fears and hop on the bike. I can do
this. Whatever you do, don’t crash. I work the bike into first gear, then second. This is a
lot more fun than I anticipated. I love the feeling of controlling the bike and experiencing,
firsthand, the power it holds. I continue to make small loops on the sidewalk and in the
parking lot while I get the hang of it. I want to go faster now. First gear, second, now
third. I feel the hot air whipping past me as I begin to drive around the resort, smiling at
the guests who look at me with jealousy. I turn around and ride back to find Sailor Boy
“You can have your bike back now. I am ready to go to the beach.” I have made a
deal with him before coming back down to visit that it is imperative that I go to the beach
and swim in the ocean for at least a little bit. I jump on the back of the bike and instead of
grasping the grab rail I confidently clasp my hands together, feeling his rib cage move in
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and out with each breath he takes. I am feeling more confident now, not only in riding the
bike around Mexico but also in allowing myself to open up and be vulnerable again.
After going for a swim, where we play tag in the water and I almost lose my
bandeau top, we sit on the beach in Bucerias, sipping on warm beer and talking.
“Would you take a picture of me standing in front of the water, please?” I chime.
“Sure.”
take the picture. I strike my typical pose with my hands in the air and a big smile. I
rogue wave. I emerge from the sea, coughing saltwater. Sailor Boy is bent double and
hysterically laughing. I can’t help but smile while still sputtering. Who am I kidding? I
am a huge klutz and always have been. He would have seen this side of me at some point,
“That’s fine,” he says still laughing. “Do you want to drive us back?” I
contemplate this. This could be my opportunity to redeem myself from that last
unfortunate event. I have never been one to try to impress males, but I think this would be
sexy.
“Sure, I can do that.” I climb onto the front of the bike in my wet bikini. It slides
around on the leather seat. This might make things more difficult. Sailor Boy hops on the
“You ready?”
“Oh yes, I have got this. But could you help me start it again? I just can’t get it to
“Here we go.” The motorcycle lurches forward, and I begin to turn it towards the
main road. It moves too fast. I’m losing control. Its front tire hits the four-foot-tall sea
wall and burns its rubber into the concrete, decorating it. I leave my semi-permanent
mark on the popular beach town. Out of incorrect instinct, my hand locks on the throttle,
continuing to rev the engine until Sailor Boy kills it for me. I have just crashed his
he picks up me and the bike and makes sure we are both okay. I notice an old man
perched two feet to the left on top of the wall. I look away and ignore him as he begins to
***
We are on the midnight bus heading to Guadalajara for the rest of the weekend. I
yet. I want to though. I want to be close to him, but I don’t want to get too attached
I wake up to Sailor Boy guiding me into the hotel La Fe. My eyes slowly focus on
my surroundings. There are bronze statues in the lobby, silver poetry scripted on the
walls, and large paintings strategically placed and lit. Am I in a museum or a hotel?
“Do you like it?” he asks, as we walk upstairs into our room.
“It is perfect. Did you see the poetry on the walls? And, oh my … is that an air
conditioner?”
I am overwhelmed by how idyllic this place is, how perfect he is. I think I have
I turn the air conditioner on high and collapse on the bed. The lack of sleep from
the past few days is catching up to me. I burrow into the soft comforter. Sailor Boy holds
me close, and I drift off to sleep. I dream of kissing him. I study every detail of his being.
Instead, he is a sun-weathered and salt-washed masculine, allowing the hair on his chest
and back to grow, with stubble across his face, and curly hair that is a little wild. He
looks like his lifestyle. However, he is obsessive about cleaning his ears daily. I have
always loved learning the little things about people, the things that make them tick.
I wake up to the sun shining through the small window and the feel of Sailor
Boy’s arm heavily weighted across my torso. This is how it should feel. Everything
inside me is cheering that I have found it, and I try to quiet my crowded mind with the
healthy dose of reality. I move to Romania in a month. He moves to San Diego in a few
weeks. We are going to be on opposite sides of the world. It won’t work … . But, what if
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it does? I smile and wriggle out from under the covers. Goosebumps cover my skin as the
***
Guadalajara, Mexico
We spend the day exploring Guadalajara, side by side. We marvel at the stained
glass spire in the Expiatorio Templo. I spin around within the Teatro Degollado, feeling
tiny, surrounded by the rich, red, velvet chairs that have heard the Guadalajara
search for books I am reading in my Latin American Literature class while Sailor Boy
experiences my love for books and the world manifest itself in simple moments. We
strain our necks, staring at the ceilings and walls of the Hospicio Cabanas, where Orosco
had painted world-famous frescos that move with you. I share my passion for Latin
American art under the fiery dome, discussing the possibility of visiting Frida Kahlo’s
house one day in Mexico City. We steal kisses in vacant gardens. I beat him in an air
hockey tournament in a street arcade filled with teenagers and win another kiss. He buys
me a replacement pair of TOMS in the iconic San Yonys market, which reminds me of a
parking garage filled with tents. I introduce him to the wonder of Horchata. We learn that
we both like to travel: getting lost, wandering aimlessly, and allowing talking and silence
***
Tequila, Mexico
I am surfing through the radio channels, searching for the perfect station of my
favorite Spanish music, turning up the volume so that we can hear it over the wind
blowing in from the warm fields filled with agave plants. We are on our way to spend the
Inside the Jose Cuervo plant, I hold a glass of reserve-aged tequila, slowly sipping
on it, trying to taste all the notes and flavors. I look at Sailor Boy and can’t help but
smile. I don’t want to admit it to myself yet, but I have a serious problem. I think I have
met the man of my dreams at the wrong time in my life, but like my mother and
grandmother always say, what is meant to be will be. God, please let this be meant to be.
Please let this work out because I have accidently let my heart go and it’s too late to get it
I stretch the hair net over my short curls and hold in my laughter as Sailor Boy
puts his on. I have to get a picture of him with this on. He looks so ridiculous. Like he’s
read my mind, he starts to strike goofy poses, holding a piece of cooked agave. Shit, I
could really love him one day. I can no longer suppress my giggles amongst the quiet
The group moves ahead, and Sailor Boy grabs my hand, holding me back. He
embraces my face in his hands and kisses me among the barrels of aging tequila. It might
not be romantic to some, but this is my dream. I burn inside like liquor that hits the back
of your throat.
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“We need to catch up with the rest of the group,” I say, as I begin to jog towards
“Wait,” he suggests, “let’s sign one of the barrels. Do you have a pen?”
“Do I have a pen?” I snicker. “I always have something to write with. A trait a
writer develops quickly. Let’s sign this one.” We crouch down and sign our names next
***
I am in my short hot-pink tight t-shirt dress with my army backpack on the floor
between our feet. I am standing on my tiptoes, letting him kiss me over and over again. I
need to go through security and fly back to Abilene, to return to my real life; he needs to
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go to work. I don’t want to stop kissing him because then I may never see him again. My
heart is opening up and falling apart with each beat. I wish I knew if this last kiss was the
***
Dallas, Texas
I can’t believe he is standing there, in the rain, in this gravel parking lot. He has
driven to see me for one last long weekend before I move to Romania and he moves to
“Hey! Welcome to Texas,” I squeal, throwing myself into his embrace and
quickly kissing him. Pinch me. He is here. I can feel his heart beating inside his shirt. He
is on my turf, in Texas.
With each kiss I give him, any remaining walls wash away. I know I should be
more careful, but sinking into us comes naturally. I am falling for him in a way I never
knew was possible. It is unconditional and all consuming. It is a permanent love that is
***
Viscri, Romania
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I am sitting on the back porch of Viscri 125, and I am both excited for and
dreading my return to the US in a week. I am ready to see everyone I have missed these
past months, but I am scared that I won’t be able to keep some of the progress I have
made. I do not want to slide back into old, bad habits of self-loathing.
I listen to the birds singing to the wind that rustles in the leaves of the trees. The
barn cat comes and slinks onto my lap, curling up between my legs, crisscrossed on the
weatherworn, wooden bench. The ducks quack up the slight slope leading from the creek
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to the garden so that they can feast on slugs before the morning dew burns off in the
summer sun. I open up my laptop and use my only connection to the world I left three
months ago, the Wi-Fi next door to where I live. No one in America is awake at this time
Abilene to San Diego. A long weekend trip to take, once I get back to see Sailor
Boy, to kiss Sailor Boy again, to love Sailor Boy again, and, most importantly, to tell him
that I am in love with him. We will go sailing, and I will continue to learn from him. We
will laugh and talk for hours near the ocean and in a city, two aspects of civilization that I
have missed dearly this summer. We might even go to Tijuana because it is becoming
habit or tradition for us to make a trip to Mexico every time we are together. Mexico is a
part of our story, and it influences us by making us more passionate and alive. We will
make plans for me to visit his family in St. Louis for Thanksgiving and mine in
May. We will become real. We will be together in the same country for the first time. We
will get to really love one another after waiting for months. I will support his dreams of
sailing and creating his own pickle company, and he will support my love of writing and
teaching.
Instead, I receive a video call after work; I grab a beer and sit down. I know it is
going to be bad news just based on the tone and body language on the other end. I brace
myself. It starts off like the typical way these things end. It’s not you, it’s me. You didn’t
do anything wrong. But then it turns. I begin to hear words that don’t make sense. I never
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had any feelings for you. I wanted to, but I think I am a sociopath. I need to get help, but
Time is frozen. I can’t comprehend that the past eight months have been an act, a
lie. I really felt everything, but he did not. I still really feel everything. I listen to him talk,
trying to explain how it got this far. “I didn’t want to hurt you.” I feel sick. I am still
completely in love with him. I surprise myself when I start to pray for him to find healing
and peace, while he is destroying what I thought would be my future. I want him to be
able one day to feel the love I’ve given him and hold for him. I should be reacting with
anger, and I would have in the past, but instead I continue to pray for him to be able to
experience the majesty of loving another person with every fiber of his being. I pray that
I feel as if my heart is being forced into a box ten times smaller than it needs to
be. My love is unwanted and left unused. We say goodbye. Maybe one day we will be
friends when he can feel and I have found a way to move on. I know in that moment that
my love has been real despite Sailor Boy’s playing the part of a man falling in love. I
Looking back on it now, I still do not know what overcame me in that last hour I
spent talking to Sailor Boy. Some force far greater than I took over and let love flow
through me when I should have screamed in anger. Even now, when I write letters that I
never send to him, this feeling overcomes and takes over me, filling me with compassion
that feels foreign under these circumstances. It is this oddity that makes me believe that
what I felt was true love. The kind that cannot be broken by anything in this world.
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Some of my friends and family worry about the love I carry for Sailor Boy. They
say he doesn’t deserve it. But what harm comes from putting a little more love in the
the edge of the dance floor, bobbing to the beat. The smell of sweat, spilled beer, and
cigarettes hangs in the smoky air. Hundreds of college students fringe the perimeter of
the large, salted, wooden dancefloor. It is the typical Wednesday night, and half of Texas
Antonio; the song enters its final verse, and I begin to search around me for anyone to
Rule 1: Girls cannot stand in a circle if they want to be asked to dance. That is too
intimidating to a single male. Instead, the desired formation is a curved line facing
Rule 2: Stationary dancing and mouthing or singing the words is also appropriate
in the situation if you want to attract male attention. It is necessary to look like
you are having fun even before they ask you to dance.
Rule 3: You may either show off your legs or your arms and cleavage, but you
cannot show both. This is important to distinguish you from the sluts working the
edge of the dance floor. You want them to know you are just here to dance, not
hookup.
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Rule 4: Never turn down a dance, because you never know who is watching.
The next song starts, “Sideways,” by Dirks Bentley, and boys pick girls off the
edge, spinning them onto the dancefloor. I wait patiently, swaying back and forth while
humming. I think the pitcher of rum and coke I chugged on the twenty-five minute car
ride here is beginning to wear off. I watch as my friends sip on drinks and get steadily
more intoxicated while I sober up. Things work with our group this way. I am the
youngest so I get drunk before, sober up while dancing, and drive everyone home at the
end of the night. They drive me there, get drunk off cheap drinks, and I drag them out of
I catch Bumblebee walking through the crowd. Don’t look this way. Look this
way. No, don’t look this way. I have been admiring the six-foot-three blond baseball
player since I stepped into the weight room during pre-season cross-country training a
semester ago. I would try not to watch him lift weights. Instead, I attempted to be
invisible in the weight room, hiding from the embarrassment of how weak my upper
body is. I noticed that he drove a yellow truck with black stripes and a bumblebee
insignia on the back of the bed. Henceforth, his code name was Bumblebee, in order to
dreaming? Am I really that drunk? I thought I was getting sober. I look over and see
I nod yes.
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“So how is your track season going? You did really good in cross-country last
tonight. The song ends before I want it to. I wish that maybe he will ask to continue
I walk off defeated and ecstatic. In a delusional state, I attempt to click my heels
in victory of having been noticed by the cutest boy at school. I didn’t think about the
I wish I could say that Bumblebee didn’t see me leap. I wish he and the rest of the
baseball team hadn’t seen me bust my ass on the salty floor misted in alcohol. I wish my
economics professor hadn’t pointed out the bruise and cut the next morning, which
good. I am about to go on a blind date with Uberto. My friends swear that I will instantly
like him. He loves to visit art museums, has gotten his degree in architecture, and has
recently moved back to Houston. He has neatly cut blond hair, ice-blue eyes, and is a few
inches taller than I am. Besides being on the short side, he sounds like the perfect person
for me.
It’s strange to be going on a date with someone new. I need to shake off the
nerves I have been carrying around all day. Maybe it’s because I am still seeing Anthony,
Anthony
Noun | An·tho·ny | \`an(t-thǝ-nē\
Verb
1. Breaks boundaries between employees.
2. Abusive.
We have been seeing each other for months, and he resists real commitment yet is
growing increasingly possessive. It wasn’t until a week ago when he fell asleep while I
was admitted into the ER and the nurses couldn’t wake him that it began to hit me. He
isn’t there for me when I need him, and I do not want to need him anymore. So now here
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I am, walking across a dark parking lot laced with puddles, looking to meet a new
The entrance of the restaurant is cast in a melancholy yellow light, and the sounds
of loud, chattering, tipsy Houstonians escape every time the doors open. Maybe I
shouldn’t be here. I feel weak and overwhelmed by the thought of the crowd inside. A
young man sitting on a bench outside of the restaurant stands up as I walk closer. I think
that is him. Dirty, blond hair and, yes, a giant, perfectly whitened and straightened smile.
“Let’s go inside before it begins to rain again.” He ushers me through the doors
into the dimly lit room that is too loud for me. “A table for two.”
He is certainly cute and pulling off that preppy look I never go for, in a sweater
and borderline skinny jeans. He really is only a few inches taller than I am; I am used to
dating guys over six-foot, but I need to try new things every once in a while. Shoot,
“Let’s sit at the bar while we wait. Do you want anything to drink?” Uberto asks.
“Oh no, I can’t. I got out of the hospital a few days ago, and I am still on some
“What happened?”
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“So you’ll be fine then. Excuse me, ma’am, could I have one margarita?”
I don’t know what to say to him. I don’t feel great, and now I am beginning to feel
claustrophobic. Why did I let my friends talk me into this? I glance around the restaurant
and begin to notice that every painting or decoration that they have is car themed. The
ceiling is made of old license plates hammered into place, bending around beams and
corners. The walls are covered in a collage of picture frames with different antique,
classic cars, like the ones I imagine are still being driven around Cuba. I hear him trying
to talk to me over the crowd, but everyone around us is speaking loudly. The couple to
the right of us is having an intense discussion about something they heard at church or in
Bible study.
I miss having deep conversations with someone. I want to be able to be like that
couple one day, conversing about topics like religion, politics, economics, the books we
are reading, and different cultures. I think good conversation is beginning to become the
most attractive aspect of any prospective guy I want to date, and I don’t think Anthony
can fulfill that need of mine. I miss school and learning, so I need to have someone
challenge my intelligence. The couple’s buzzer goes off, and they make their way to the
hostess stand.
Uberto leans closer to me. “Don’t you think Christians are so silly?”
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Did I just hear him correctly? I glance down at my chest and see the small, silver
“Excuse me?” I ask, hoping I had just misunderstood what he said. He leans in
I’ve definitely heard him correctly the first time, and the second version is even
worse. Who in their right mind would say something like this on a first date? Maybe it is
“Umm, no. I don’t think so,” I reply. How does a one respond to a question like
that in a loud restaurant? I look at his margarita and there is still plenty left in his drink,
anymore. I was already uncomfortable being here, but now I am dreading having to stay
“Ahh, time to eat,” he says, as he hops off his stool and briskly walks towards the
hostess.
If I just walk out now will it be that bad? I wish I had planned a friend calling me
to bail me out of this date. What if I just hide in the bathroom for a little while until he
leaves?
“Follow me this way,” the hostess says. Ugh, I am stuck. Shoot me now. I know it
has been a while since I have gone to church, and sometimes I don’t act or behave as I
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was taught good Christians are supposed to act. But I still believe, and this is a deal
breaker that I didn’t even know I had, until a few moments ago.
We are seated at a table in the back room. The walls are cheerfully painted and
covered in more photographs and paintings of old cars, the ceiling is gleaming with
aluminum, and the décor is the only good part of this blind date. I remind myself that I
only have to get through dinner then I never have to talk to him again. Be polite until
dinner is over.
“So Uberto, what do you think of the pictures of the cars on the wall? Which one
is your favorite? I like the blue one over there, see it?”
V
Bouquet, Panama
Jessica and I enter the hostel, Spanish by the River; she walks ahead to check in,
and my eyes rest on the hammock on the porch. The morning fog is cool on my clammy
skin, so I pull my old track sweatshirt on over my sleepy hair and crooked glasses, as I
fall into the blue-and-green-striped hammock. I will just sit here while she signs us in,
already walking back towards the office. I attempt to reach for my army-issued backpack
without removing my rear from the hammock, but I fail miserably and am ejected onto
the terra-cotta tile floor. I straighten my glasses and look up, peering through the
windows in the main living room. I see the silhouette of a young man. Instantly, I
remember that, while traveling across the tropical climate of Panama, I haven’t showered
or brushed my teeth in over twenty-four hours. I grab my backpack and scamper into the
Ruby, the receptionist at the hostel, leads Jessica and me through the small house,
showing us the four rooms and one bathroom, while giving us the run-down of the house
rules. We enter our room, and I look longingly at the set of bunk beds. I faintly hear Ruby
explain that we almost have the place to ourselves because there is only one other guest.
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My focus is solely on mustering enough energy to pull myself up onto the top bunk and
collapse into whatever is waiting for me. I try to direct my attention back to Ruby.
“The other guest is actually going on a tour this afternoon with cliff diving and
volcanic hot springs, and if you all want to join I can call to see if there is room.”
concern with getting in bed has shifted to rinsing off in the shower, brushing my teeth,
“They aren’t leaving until two, so you would have time to sleep for four or five
“That’s fine. I’ve never seen volcanic hot springs,” I answer, looking back and
forth between Jessica and Ruby, as I allow the frame of our temporary bedroom door to
prop me up.
***
***
this morning with Jessica and Vincente. To celebrate the holiday and our accomplishment
of hiking up a volcano in the middle of the night to watch the sunrise over the Caribbean
and the Pacific Ocean, we’ve decided to go out for dinner and dancing with our new
friend JB, whom we met while cliff diving and soaking in the volcanic hot springs.
The night begins to get going when my old and new friends order me an orgasmo
while I am in the bathroom, and before I realize it, Jessica is dragging me onto the floor
for some salsa dancing. I feel stiff from exhaustion and climbing. My hips struggle to
sway back and forth. I want to feel sexy, but my body refuses to cooperate. JB and
Vincente begin dancing poorly, and I cannot stop looking into Vincente’s metallic, mint
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eyes. There is something about him that mesmerizes me, sucks me in, and makes me
want to know more about his life. The life of a working nomad, who moves yearly to
different parts of the world to explore, learn, and work. It inspires me to do more and be
more.
cheering. Music is blaring in the streets, produced from the stereos in the trunks of parked
cars and marching bands parading through the streets; the whole scene is contagious
madness.
“Do you want to have a shot?” Vincente asks our group. We all nod and duck into
tequila my memory fills with gaps, but at one minute I am dancing, the next minute I am
making out with Vincente, and later I’m sneaking off to the bathroom to take shots out of
***
developed later when we continued to talk about life, politics, travel, and books, but that
night the girl who I had been in my early years of college reemerged, and I had missed
her and her outlook on life. I had forgotten how to be carefree and to live fully in the
moment. I had forgotten how to have fun. I was beginning to realize that, while I liked
having men in my life, I didn’t need them. I saw a glimpse of that girl those days in
Panama, and that made me even more determined to find her, regardless of where in the
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world that would take me. I was starting to slow down and finally stop running from
myself.
Budapest, Hungary
Air France Flight #1694
May 14, 2015
Paris (CDG) to Budapest (BUD)
Depart: 8:45 PM
Arrival: 10:55 PM
I haven’t seen Vincente since we met in Bouquet, Panama, six months ago, and
now I’ve just landed in Budapest, where I will be staying with him for the next few days
before I move to Romania for the summer. I check my phone when I get off the plane; he
so nervous to see him. He is a question mark in my mind, and he is the only one
remaining. My army-green bag emerges from behind the shrouded baggage area, and I
lug it off the conveyor belt. How am I going to get this on and off a train by myself in a
few days? I thought I had under-packed, but it feels like the opposite. I can rearrange my
Thank goodness, the cab driver speaks a little English, so from the back seat I
vent my frustrations and fears to the middle-aged, Hungarian man. By the time we make
it into Vincente’s neighborhood, the cab driver is worrying with me about traveling
across the world and staying with an acquaintance before moving to Romania. As he
pulls over, he is trying to tell me something that I can’t quite understand, maybe a
warning or advice, but I see Vincente standing there in the darkness, wearing a faded
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orange tee shirt and jeans. Nervous energy rushes through my veins, my blood boils and
ices in the span of mere seconds, and I feel the sexual tension that was there in Panama
begin to overflow. I get out of the cab and he gently squeezes me. He smells the same,
“It is good to see you. How was your flight? Are you hungry?” While grabbing
my largest suitcase and lugging it up three flights of granite stairs to his apartment, his
“It was good, just a long day of traveling, but I got to see Paris and eat delicious
“I have some cookies, I think. They are from Portugal. My mom sent a suitcase of
goodies from home after I went and visited them a few weeks ago.”
He walks over to a brown suitcase in the corner that is piled on top of two other.
That is his life all packaged in a few suitcases that move every year. I look at my two
bags and realize how very similar we are. Are we both running from something whenever
we travel? Or are we searching for something that we can’t even know yet?
“Are you positive? I don’t mind sleeping on the floor. It’s your place and I’m just
I say that, but I am secretly hoping he will still let me have the bed because I am
firm bed and wrap the comforter around my shoulders. I talk about everything and
nothing until four in the morning, when jet lag and exhaustion finally creep up on me and
overcome my fear of my unknown relationship with Vincente. I don’t need another one
I wake up and check my phone. There are dozens of messages from old friends
and family telling me something has happened. That I need to get online and see for
myself. That there are rumors floating around. That someone has died. Jet-lagged and
confused, I try to make sense of the all the information, all of the sadness, and all of the
loss. I am alone in a foreign country with only a mere acquaintance, who is asleep on the
floor, and my world is crumbling. I have left behind everything I know to move to an
Eastern European village for three months. I left behind a new love for this adventure that
I had planned before he entered my life. I left because I wanted to be alone, and I am
realizing that I felt this urge to leave and be alone when what I really want is to have love
in my life.
Vincente begins to stir and looks up to me sitting on the bed, curled in a ball
around the glowing screen of my phone in the dark chasm of his bedroom.
“One of my friends died. I’m going to go back to bed. I’ll see you after work.”
“Alright,” he says, slowly getting out of bed. “I will meet you here after I get off
***
It is my last day in Budapest with Vincente, and we have done everything today.
We’ve eaten Hungarian food, visited Buda’s Castle, Hero’s Square, and the Thermal
Baths. We’ve walked and watched the singing and dancing fountains on Margaret Island
for two hours while we lay in the cool grass where I worked relentlessly at leaving only
the veins of leaves behind. We’ve wandered around a festival and climbed around a
castle, and now we are at a club with some of his friends, taking shots of tequila and
dancing in an ancient building. The pink and purple neon lights bounce along the stone
walls, and I feel the alcohol tingling in my limbs. Vincente comes up behind me and
begins to dance. I feel his hands on my waist that steer me around to face him. He bends
down and begins to gently kiss me … and then more forcibly. I kiss him back and allow
I break away and make my way up a stairwell. What have I done? Why did I kiss
him? Did I like it? Yes and no … I need to talk to Sailor Boy. I miss him and it’s only
I return to the dance floor. “Vincente, I need to go. My train leaves soon,” I say,
My emotions were all over the place that night. I was high on the need to live life
to the fullest one-minute and burying myself in self-loathing, doubt, and fear the next.
Too much had happened since I arrived, for me to be able to comprehend. That week
changed everything. I left everything I knew, I lost things I wasn’t supposed to lose at
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this point in my life, and I didn’t know how to I was supposed to move on. That night
We fall out of the club, and he wraps an arm around me as we begin to stumble
down the streets, laughing about nothing and everything at the same time. Once back at
Vincente’s apartment, he helps me gather my bags and lug them the fifteen-minute walk
to Keleti Station and aboard my train, which will take me on the final leg of my journey
to Viscri, Romania. He leaves me with a kiss on the lips, as I collapse on the bench. I am
can stop messing everything up and hurting everyone close to me and myself.
The train lurches forward, and I lie down on the worn, blue-velvet bench and curl
into the fetal position. I clutch my American phone, my lifeline, clinging to people three
thousand miles away. What do I need? What do I want? I am about to find out this
summer, but I know one thing for sure: I hope Sailor Boy is in that future with me.
W
March 7, 2015
I am working the Rhythm and Blues Half Marathon and 5K in Dallas, Texas, and
my boss has me come in from graduate school for the weekend to help run the event.
Race weekends are all work and no play typically, but my roommate Danielle is from
Dallas, and she has other plans for me. She convinces me to hang out with her best friend
Saturday night before the race so I won’t be in my hotel room all night alone. After hours
of working packet pick-up and running countless last-minute errands for my boss, it is
time for my weary self to go out on the town with a friend of a friend.
I walk out of the hotel, exiting the marble-floored lobby and see a white truck
waiting with Danielle’s high school best friend, Westyn, waiting for me. He has a shy
I pull myself up into the truck and lie back in the seat, allowing myself to sit for
the first time that day. He begins to drive cautiously through the confusing mess of Dallas
highways and tollways towards a mystery restaurant for dinner. He is talking to me, and I
simultaneously going through the checklist of things left to do before the race. I allow
myself to daydream about how in twenty-four hours I will be in one of the largest cities
in the world on crowded highways like this one. I am not present in the discussion that I
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am having with this stranger. I cannot focus or engage anything. All I want to do is get
away and finish working this race. I want to explore the vibrant streets of Mexico City
with my best friend and then jet off to the magnificent beaches of Puerto Vallarta for
some alone time. I just want to be alone. I want quiet. I want books and journals and
peace. I want nothing to do with my current life. I need to escape. The lights slowly stop
blurring together, and I realize we have arrived somewhere. I step out, as the valet gets in
the driver’s side; he looks at me, waiting for me to close the door, and I just stare at him,
lost in my head and the world I feel I have been dropped into.
I follow Westyn across the street and into a dim restaurant. I notice he is wearing
cowboy boots. They tap softly against the pavement. We sit down and as I look around
everywhere and fountains. The atmosphere is quaint and intimate in an ethereal manner. I
look down at the beer menu, and I am lost in the ample selection; I glance back up,
asking him for a suggestion, and notice how kind his face is for the first time. I need to
***
I stumble out of the restaurant, not drunk off alcohol but instead laughter. I
“So do you want to go play Top Golf?” Westyn asks excitedly. I don’t want to
“Yes! But I will warn you I am very competitive, so I hope you are ready,” I
snicker. I can’t even take myself seriously right now. Is this delirium or is it Westyn?
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***
We are waiting to play Top Golf and passing the time by playing a few rounds of
mini golf. After a clear victory on the first course, I suggest that we even the playing field
It is hole nine, and he has his head on the top of his club and is spinning around it
like kids do with baseball bats. Spinning and spinning around while I count slowly to
thirty. As I count, I begin to recall the evening’s conversations and think about my
decisions this past week. I love to laugh and Westyn and I have so much in common, but
I slept with Gus only a few days ago. I needed to feel something. I chose him to make me
feel, which he can do physically, but I’m not sure about intellectually.
Gus
Noun | \-ˈgəs\
4. Hercules.
5. Boomerang fuck buddy.
6. Fallback.
“Thirty,” I squeal. Westyn stumbles, as he tries to hit the ball. I can hardly breathe
“Your turn. Let’s see you do better,” Westyn says, while still laughing at his poor
performance.
I step on the AstroTurf and place my neon-orange ball on the ground, take a half
step back, and position my club securely on the ground, mentally preparing myself to not
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get dizzy. I begin to spin around, laugh harder, and forget to breathe again. This is my
life: everything is whirling around me and I don’t know where I am. I don’t know where I
belong. I can’t wait until tomorrow to be gone. I can’t wait until May when I leave for
“There is no way you pulled that off.” He begins to walk towards the hole. “That
is impossible.”
“I did it, didn’t I? I got another hole in one.” I bounce up and down doing my
victory dance.
***
It’s 1:45 AM and Westyn and I reluctantly say goodbye with an awkward hug
across the median in his truck outside of my hotel. I need to be up in less than three
hours. I hop down out of the truck, turn around, and wave while smiling about the
Was that a date? I thought this was just someone to hang out with while I was in
town and didn’t know anyone. Did Danielle set me up? That felt like a date. He paid for
everything, even when I offered. I really can’t remember the last time I laughed that hard.
Gus used to make me giggle like that, but he doesn’t anymore. Now all he wants is more
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focused on the physical, and I thought that’s what I wanted too. I need to go to sleep. I
***
exhausted from traveling and the lack of sleep of the past few days, but I am still on a
high from my most recent trip to Mexico. Twenty-four hours ago, I was getting off a bus
in Nueva Vallarta to go sailing with Sailor Boy and his brother. I had been living in a
dream this past week, and coming back to reality is depressing. I see Westyn’s name float
onto the screen of my phone. He wants to meet for coffee or tea before my drive back to
Abilene. A week ago, I had so much fun with him, but now I feel completely different. I
am confused. Do I have a crush on Sailor Boy? Do I have feelings for Gus? Do I like
Westyn like that? I agree to meet him somewhere for food and caffeine since I am
reason to be nervous. I slide out of my truck and see him waiting for me by the entrance.
“Good morning, how was your trip? I can’t wait to hear all about it.”
We sit down in a booth and I let the stories of my adventures in Mexico City,
Puerto Vallarta, Yalapa, and sailing spill out. The stories of my travels energize me more
than the pot of tea I am consuming at a rapid pace. I didn’t realize it at the time, but he
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continually rubbed a section of his cheek that he had missed shaving that morning the
Soon enough the meal is over and I know I need to head back to Abilene, so like
the gentleman Westyn is, he walks me to my truck and continues to talk to me, as I sit in
hug, but then wait—is that a kiss … on half of my mouth? Is it meant for my lips or
cheek? I feel the heat rise into my face. I grow embarrassed for misreading the sign or
signal. Westyn is red. He tries to recover from the worst first-kiss award he just won by
He walks away.
I close my car door, put the key in ignition, and turn. What just happened? That
was not what I pictured was going to happen and certainly not how a kiss with him would
feel. I pull out of the parking lot, thankful that I have received a little clarity.
***
package. It is a box full of goodies from Westyn. Chips and salsa, tea, candy, and a love
letter. My head spins like it did on the mini-golf course. This is too much, too fast. I can’t
handle this. There is Gus. There is Sailor Boy. There is Westyn. All of them are
completely different. Gus is hot. Sailor Boy is dangerous. Westyn is a sweetheart. I have
back to Texas after living in London for half a year. I am so excited to be coming back
home. I get to see my family, friends, and I get to see him. I begin to make my way to
baggage claim in a daze induced by jet-lag and sleep deprivation. Getting on the escalator
heading downstairs, I rest my hand on the moving handrail and notice that it travels faster
than the automated stairs, which tugs my right arm away from my body and pulls me off
balance.
***
I have an hour to get rid of the chlorinated smell that is seeping out of all my
pores. I am so nervous. I haven’t been on a date in almost a year, and he is so cute and
nice.
The doorbell rings, and I frantically race down the stairs to beat my parents to the
door. Grabbing my purse, I slip out to meet him on the step, and we exchange an
awkward half-hug. He walks me to the truck and opens the passenger door for me, as I
climb into his banged up, white, petite Toyota. I nervously wedge myself as far as I can
in between the seat and the door, like I am trying to escape from the guy sitting two feet
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to my left that makes me so nervous and giggly. I am not good at making small talk, so I
“Did you know that all babies are born colorblind? And that tigers have striped
fur and skin? I also heard that months that begin on a Sunday always have a Friday the
13th. Isn’t that neat?” I say in quick succession, as I stare at the eye patch swinging from
We pull up to the mini golf course next to the batting cages. I hope we are playing
mini golf. I don’t want to embarrass myself by attempting to swing a bat and hit a ball.
Thank goodness, he is heading towards mini golf. I pick out the neon-orange golf ball
The entire time he stands close to me. Too close. My heart beats out of my chest
when he lightly touches my shoulders after every turn. He adds up the scores and I win. I
The next part of the date he has planned is getting gas. A superb addition to any
date, where I quickly learn that we both enjoy the smell of gasoline. My stomach begins
to grumble. In all the excitement and chaos of trying to get ready in time, figuring out the
perfect cute-yet-casual outfit that was a touch sexy but in a modest manner, I forgot to eat
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anything for dinner. X gets back in the car and hears my stomach enter into our
conversation. That is saying something since he is partially deaf. He drives to Sonic and I
cram myself back into the ledge between the seat and the door of the truck once again,
putting as much space between us as possible. I don’t know why, but he makes me so
nervous.
“Can you order me a kid’s meal, grilled cheese with cheese tater-tots and a green-
“A green apple what?!” he asks, a look of disgust spreading across his face.
“I think I will let you order that for yourself,” he says, as the look of disgust fades
into amusement. “You might have to lean closer for them to be able to hear you though.”
I lean across the gray bench-seat of his truck and order my meal and drink, being
careful to not actually touch him in the process. I try to hold a semi-normal dialogue
while waiting for my food, but all that comes out is random nonsense and nervous
chuckles.
“So you know pirates weren’t commonly seen wearing eye patches, it was
actually more common for blacksmiths to wear them in order to protect one eye from
sparks. Soldiers and sailors also wore them if they lost an eye in battle. Well, I guess that
It’s still relatively early in the evening, so I suggest that we go for a walk because,
despite being a nervous wreck, I am not ready to go home yet. X drives us to the country
club by my house, and we get out and begin walking along the pathways. The grass has
been recently trimmed. Piles of grass shards, moist with Houston summer humidity,
cover the concrete, and the smell of suburban perfection permeates the air. We chat about
superheroes until we reach a bend in the path, and I hear the sound of water pressure
surging from the earth and the ticking begin as the sprinklers come on ahead of us. As we
turn around to make our way back to the truck, he slips my hand into his.
“Wait! You like me?” I question. I am utterly confused that he could like me after
I haven’t been able to say anything coherent, intelligent, or funny the entire evening.
I feel the heat building in my cheeks and spreading across my chest. Why am I
reacting like this? I have held hands before. He keeps talking and it is all going in one ear
and out the other, but suddenly he stops under a light post and pulls me close into him,
Today I was reminded why I love him so much. We were riding in the car back
from lunch and he began doing these goofy dance moves. I love that he can just be so
silly around me and make me laugh. He always tries to make me smile whenever I am
I have four screaming three-year-old children splashing me with their feet in the
shallow end of the YMCA pool, so I begin telling my story about how Nemo lives in the
pool and they should get in the water to meet him, when I notice the lifeguard sitting next
to my class. He is extremely tan and has mirrored knock-off Ray Bans blocking my view
of his eyes, which I later discover are my favorite color, a gray-blue color that mimics the
hue of the ocean with stormy, swelling waves. His shaggy summer blonde hair skims the
top of his sunglass frames. How have I never noticed him before? Is he new? He is super
cute.
I have fallen for you fast and hard and it’s hard for me to say how I feel
I love you in the most inexplicable way. I don’t know how you’ve done it,
but you have given me hope to trust myself, you, and most importantly,
us.
no end these past few days. I hope you have a good shift and night
studying biology, and know that I not only love you, but I’m completely
Love,
Chelsea
I tuck it behind your windshield wiper before you get off work and leave the scene
quickly.
February 7, 2015
I’m sitting alone in Mackenzie Park on the dry grass next to the lake filled with
noisy geese, staring at the grass and watching the ants crawl throughout the natural maze.
I imagine it is like expansive fields of wheat to them at this time of year. The last time I
was sitting here with X, it was in August a few weeks before I moved to London. The
We would lie for hours in the grass under the trees heavy with leaves that shaded
us from the intense summer sun three and a half years ago. The breeze blew over our
damp skin, as we picked at fallen leaves, leaving only the veins. I babbled to X about
nonsense and snickered endlessly when he would tickle my right side and lean in for a
soft kiss. He was the first to discover that by tickling me and giving me a kiss he can
make me stop overthinking everything. I ripped blades of grass slowly in half then would
toss them into the lake, enamored by the beauty I was surrounded with. I watched them
slowly float in circles on top of the water, as I listened to him make plans for our future.
I feel tears dripping into onto my lap, and I slowly pull my mind out of memory.
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Why are we always bickering? How come everything I say or anything I do leads
to an argument or fight? If he wants to dump me then fine. Do it, but don’t drag it out. I
apologized and I feel bad about what I said, but still he stays mad. Doesn’t he know that
we are wasting precious time? Three more weeks together—that’s all we have—and all
he wants to do is argue and fight. All I want is to spend quality time together in these last
stomach thinking this could really be the end. My going to London and being selfish once
October 8, 2010
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Tonight is the night. We have talked extensively about taking the next step in our
relationship, so it going to happen. I make sure to wear my cutest underwear, the pale
pink and white pinstripe bikini bottoms with a little shear chiffon pink fabric holding
together the sides, and the delicate pale, pink bra with tiny rosette sewn where the double
string straps meet the cups. We pull into the parking lot behind the Auto Check across the
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street from my church and climb into the backseat. I am tense yet sure of myself and my
decision to give myself to him because I have never loved anyone as deeply as X.
October 2010
I emerge from my dorm shower, skin red and puffy from the scalding water I have
allowed to wash away my tears for the past forty-five minutes. X had neglected to tell me
the whole truth about his past relationships. A knock at the door startles me, and I walk to
open it, wrapped in a white towel that’s monogramed, with my name in black script and
TLU in harsh black and yellow bold letters. Sarah Brown, my teammate from the cross
country and track team and subsequently my best friend, comes in and immediately gives
me a huge hug, disregarding the fact that my hair is leaving wet spots on her tee-shirt.
It is dark and the TV lights up the room with flashing blue lights, but I could care
less about what he decides we should watch. I want to be enveloped in his embrace, as he
lies there wrapping me up into his arms. I can’t stop laughing. All of a sudden, all the
noise seems to die down and I hear X whisper, “I love you Chelsea.” I am silent, but a
***
My feet stumble upon exiting the escalator, as I try to find my footing on the
solid, stationary ground. I drag my black-and-white, houndstooth carry-on after me. It has
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to weigh at least sixty pounds, as it is filled completely with old, delicious smelling
books.
I spent my weekends while living in London, digging through stacks and scouring
bookshelves in quaint bookstores for some of my favorite novels and books of poetry in
different sections of the city. It was my attempt to grasp something that I loved while
living and working in a foreign place. The past few months apart were excruciatingly
painful due to unreliable internet and a major time change. I felt lost without X there by
my side or the ability to talk to him regularly. I learned to love where I come from and
appreciate other cultures in those months, but most importantly, I began to love myself
I glance around searching for him; he is where I have grounded myself in Texas,
and I need to regain my sense of belonging after being gone for so long. I just need to be
held by him, to feel his embrace. I need his full lips to reassure me that I belong here by
***
again, but I don’t want to hurt him. I can feel the vomit travelling up my esophagus. I
swallow it down further into my gut each time. I know I am about to break every promise
I ever made.
I wish he would hurry up and get here so this can be over with. Or maybe I hope
Nothing is the same anymore. We do not click anymore. He no longer carries the
familiar scent of being freshly showered with a slight smell of hair gel, his kisses don’t
taste as fresh, his eyes have lost the brightness they carried underneath their stormy color,
and he has gotten so skinny from running that now we are two sets of bones clinking
against one another in awkward embraces. How did this happen to us? Why do I not
March 9, 2012
It’s the first Friday of Spring Break, and I am at the YMCA lifeguarding until
9:00 PM with Jon. I haven’t talked to Jon much previously, but now he is sitting here
next to me and the empty pool in a lawn chair listening to me go on and on about why I
have to break up with X. Bobbing his head up and down and sporadically throwing in
In my right hand covered in new scabs on the palm from where I ate track two
days ago my phone is constantly vibrating. X’s name floats on the screen then disappears
for brief intervals between his frantic text messages. He must know something is wrong
I’m on break from this lifeless shift, so I leave Jon by the pool and sneak my
“Yea, what’s wrong? Why are you calling when you’re at work?” she asks
without pausing.
“I just don’t know how to do it, Mom. I don’t know how to break up with him
when I still love him, but I know it’s not right. I feel like a horrible person because he did
nothing wrong.” My throat is being constricted by some foreign animal, some foreign
My mother continues to reassure me that I am doing what is right and that she will
be there to support me, but all I can think about is the constant other call I can feel as it
tries to break through my resistance and will itself to be answered against my will. I
I pull up to my parents’ house after getting off work, and I slump through the
front door, emotionally drained and dreading the conversation that will soon follow. My
mom and dad are waiting for me in the kitchen. I sit on the counter while they walk
around the island, asking me if I am one-hundred-percent sure that this is what I want to
do. My dad makes mumbled comments about how he never liked him anyway, and my
mom tops that with recounting times when he talked down to me. Their conversations are
spinning around the room with me in the center. Why didn’t anyone tell me about all
these concerns they had about him earlier? It has been almost two years now. I don’t
want to turn my phone back on. I am scared. I feel sick. I am going to throw up. I hop off
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the counter, scamper out the backdoor, and hunch over into the yard; dry heaves wrack
my body. I rest my forehead on the soft grass, letting my tears run down the blades into
the damp soil. Why am I doing this? Because I am not happy. Because I cannot make him
happy anymore.
I haven’t seen him in months, and there he is standing talking to my friends, his
friends, our friends. I don’t know what to do. Do I smile and wave like a lunatic? Do I
just ignore him? I don’t want to ignore him; I miss him. I miss the hugs and kisses. I miss
his knowing exactly how my mind works so I don’t have to explain it. I miss being able
to be myself around someone else. Oh God. He’s just looked over here. I wish there was
somewhere to hide.
and see his silhouette darkening the glass in the door. Why is he here? Why am I so
excited that he is here? I am dating Lyman right now. I open the door five inches and
peer out into the shadows, and I can make out the stubble on his chin.
“Can I come in for a minute?” his deep voice utters, disarming me.
“Yea … I guess.” Why do I want to just be held by him again and kiss him? I am
He doesn’t answer, and instead pulls me into an embrace. The hug that used to
ground me to this earth. The energy that made me want to stay put for the first time in my
life that made me feel safe. That feeling was back. Where had it gone a year ago? I look
up at his face still ten inches above me, and I have a desire to kiss him. My hands travel
up his back and around his neck until I can hold his face and pull him down to me again.
“I still am in love with you,” I whisper, as I kiss his lips softly, brushing against the rough
new beard.
Anna drives me up to X’s parent’s house and parks on the other side of the street
and waits in the car, turning up the volume on popular hip-hop music. I step out and
begin to feel myself shaking. I am about to break him again. I am going to break his heart
and my heart.
“You have twenty-five minutes then I am leaving you,” Anna yells from the car.
I hate her in that moment. Doesn’t she realize how hard this is?
He comes out the front door and gives me a hug, as I cross the barrier marking the
difference between the yard and the porch. The barrier between us being a couple and
being alone. I can feel a heaviness weighing me down, and it becomes difficult to move
and breathe.
I don’t want to hurt him, but we aren’t working. Our schedules are completely
opposite. We never talk. We never see one another. I don’t want to be touched by him
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anymore. I don’t want anyone to touch me anymore. I never feel safe. It’s all nightmares
and he tries to help, but he can’t. I need to work through this on my own now.
“I can’t do this anymore. I don’t know how to make you happy if I can’t have you
touch me. I need space to figure out what has happened to me. I need to get help. Plus,
we’re both so busy with our new jobs. We never see each other. It’s just everything is
adding up and we just aren’t working anymore,” I list without any emotion entering my
voice.
“I don’t want this. We can figure this out. Just stop. Please stop. You don’t mean
this. I don’t need to touch you. I can wait until you figure it out, just please don’t leave
me again.”
His words crush me under the weight of my guilt for not telling him one of the
final reasons why this had to happen. That Anthony kissed me, and I didn’t pull away.
I don’t remember what’s after that, but I walk away without hugging him. I make
it to the car before I feel myself break open. I open the door and slump down into the
passenger seat, putting my head between my knees, as all the guilt for hurting him again
and betraying his trust comes rushing out. I turn off my phone for the next week.
***
At the bottom of the escalator my dry, irritated eyes search for anyone familiar. I
thought he was picking me up, but maybe someone else is. My heart begins to sink when
the reunion I have been imagining in my head for three months fades into a distant almost
memory. I trudge towards the baggage carousel to wait for my luggage, the suitcase that
has supported me for the past six months and that’s when I hear it.
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“Chelsea!”
I turn around and see him standing at the bottom of the escalator.
I walk into his loving arms, searching for the comfort I have been longing for
since I left for London. The comfort is not in him anymore. It’s in me, and I am free.
Y
Curled up on Kjersten’s bed, dreams of my past life in England float throughout
the transparent vision of sleepy-haze. Kjersten lies next to me. She has been one of my
closest companions throughout my years at Texas Lutheran University, and she lets me
stay over when nightmares plague me night after night. She will lay me down on her
couch downstairs with a blanket and put on Disney’s “Beauty and the Beast” when I
can’t breathe between sobs. She drinks and dances on bars with me when I need chemical
and musical releases from the suffocation I feel from my past. Last night was one of
those. I needed to find the answer to a question I had been asking myself for two-and-a-
***
During our first year of college, I met Yenne in our freshman experience class
that was supposed to help prepare us for college. I was the overachieving student athlete
making straight A’s and earning the term of star cross-country runner and best freshman
ass from the football team. Yenne was struggling to make the grades so that he could play
baseball in the spring. I was strongly encouraged to help my fellow classmates that were
struggling in school. I was pushed to help Yenne by my professor and the coaches on
campus. I didn’t hurt that I also found him cute in his baseball hats, UT tee-shirts, and
ripped up sneakers. He looked like a bad boy who might be a surfer with his unkempt,
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curly brown hair that faded to blond at the ends. However, I was the good girl who didn’t
***
“Hey, so I was told that we should study together … . You know, to help each
other out since we are both student athletes and stuff,” I say. I can feel myself sweating
through my old, thin running tee-shirt from a cross-country race at Rice University.
“Oh yeah, well, that sounds good. When do you wanna study? When is there a
test or paper due soon?” he responds. He adjusts the hat on his head and looks around the
nearly empty classroom. The look on his face makes me wonder if he has ever been one
“We have a test in a week and a half, but we also have a paper due in three weeks,
I believe.”
“We can study the night before the test then. Plenty of time.”
“I think we should start studying sooner than that. There is a lot of material on
this test, and I want, or I mean I need to do really good on this one,” I say, lying about the
state of my grades.
“How about tomorrow afternoon or evening? Whenever you get done with
“Yeah, that’ll work. I don’t think I’ve ever studied for anything that early before.”
***
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became fast friends, since I had a huge crush on him, and it has been a year-and-a-half
I have stayed in touch with him periodically since then, during which I have
moved across the pond, dated X, and moved on. Or I thought I had. But after X and I
broke up, I have always this lingering question of a crush. What if we had dated? We
both knew we liked each other, but the timing was always wrong. What if?
I decided a few months ago that I would answer all these questions about
unfulfilled friendships, relationships that I was too scared to enter into, and relationships I
was too scared to let go of. I was giving myself time to answer all these questions, so I
invited Yenne to come hangout. I wanted to know why I still had lingering feelings and if
***
Yenne arrives at Kjersten’s apartment late Friday night. She has suggested that we
hang out at her place because she is worried about my recently increased reckless
behavior. There is a knock on the door, and he stands there with a large beard that is
untrimmed, a trucker hat, and messy clothing hanging off his body. He has changed
dramatically since the last time I saw him; he is now one of those guys that looks
He plops on the single chair in the living room, and I notice he is only carrying a
handle of whiskey with him. He has driven an hour and a half and has only brought
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liquor. He unties the top of the crushed purple-black velvet pouch and allows it to slide to
the floor next to his limp left arm. Is he already drunk? This is not the person I used to
know. He looks vaguely similar, but he used to have potential. He was smart but he had
never had to use it and wasn’t used to the challenge. I feel my heart ache at seeing
someone fall so far. He begins taking swigs, while Kjersten and I sit on the couch
opposite of him, observing the train wreck that just walked into the living room.
Kjersten and I make eye contact. What do we do now? We can’t let him leave and
drive; he’s drunk. However, we don’t want him here either. We sit there nodding at his
stories, as he continues to take swig after swig of the bitter nectar. Eventually, his right
hand falls, and the bottle softly thumps onto the floor, slowly spilling its contents. I
silently dive to retrieve it and its cap. I screw it on and put it back in the pouch, setting it
on the floor next to him. Kjersten and I tiptoe our way up the stairs, bypassing the one
“He just literally got shit-faced and passed out drunk on his own. He has a serious
***
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The morning light begins to creep in the window, and I resist waking up because I
am having good dreams for once. I am safe. Last night was weird, but it is over and my
last question has been answered. I feel relief that I have a clean slate ahead of me. I roll
I jerk out and am on guard. My hands clench into tiny fists, and I open my eyes,
It is Yenne lying on top of Kjersten and me. I forgot he was still here in the midst
of a good night’s sleep. I can smell the alcohol on his breath. Has he been drinking again
since we left him downstairs last night? I slither out from under his body weight and
make my way downstairs for a glass of water, only to find the bottle open and almost
suede sofa. My legs are draped over him, as I lie squished onto a third of the small couch,
reluctantly reading Sapphire’s novel, Push, for my American Literature class. This book
hits too close to home. It takes me to places in my mind that I avoid. I can’t read about
rape. I’ve only just begun talking and writing about my own experience. I feel my phone
“Hey, just a heads up. The guy we played beer pong against at the Halloween
Who did we play beer pong against? There was a tall man in a creepy outfit and a
“The really tall one that had the white painted face and the black mask.”
Hmm, I gave up dating a few months ago after everything went down with the
Sailor Boy debacle. I don’t think I am interested in dating anyone yet, but maybe I should
“Are you going to come by the Halloween festival tonight? You should bring
Do I really want to get dressed to go out? And get Tux dressed up? Do I even
have time to go with all my schoolwork? I guess I should take a break, so I will be more
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productive later. I just don’t care about being social with anyone anymore. I’m terrified
of getting hurt by anyone now. I think if I did I would fall apart fully, disappearing into
the winds of Abilene. Maybe that’s dramatic, but I know deep down that I am still in love
with Sailor Boy and shouldn’t drag anyone else into my mess. Nevertheless, I pry myself
off the couch cushions to get ready for the Halloween festival, burying my desire to
remain secluded. I feel my phone buzz in my pocket. I pull it out and see a Facebook
“Hey, how is it going? Could I take you on a date this Saturday (outside, park,
casual)?”
I put my phone away, grab Tuxedo, and walk out the door.
***
It’s Tuesday evening, and I stare into my mirror with turquoise trim and question
everything. Does my outfit look casual yet cute? Do my hair and makeup look
effortlessly put together? I wonder if we will hit it off. How much longer until he arrives?
me? Okay, don’t get too excited, just relax, it is only a first date. One last check … all
good.
“Tux, please stop barking. Calm down, sweet boy,” I say, as I pet him goodbye. I
open the front door, and I am greeted by Zach, a six-foot-five pharmacy student.
“You ready to go?” Zach asks. “You look really nice tonight.”
“Thank you.”
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“So how was your day at work? You work at CVS, right?”
“It was alright. Glad to be off work and with you now though,” Zach says with an
He smiles, and I notice that his teeth are a shade of yellow. It is a paler yellow,
but still his dental hygiene is questionable. We walk to the car, and I sink down into the
passenger seat, observing that Zach’s head full of messy chestnut hair nearly hits the roof
of the car. He slumps forward to avoid this, creating a humpback. This vehicle really is
As we pull into downtown Abilene, I look around at all the beige brick buildings
for the first time during daylight. I have lived here for over a year, and I haven’t gotten
out much. I have been so focused on getting out of here, traveling, and making the grades
in graduate school. I notice that Zach is ushering me into Monks Coffee Shop. I eagerly
walk up to the counter and ponder over which tea to order: the jasmine green tea or jade-
citrus, mint, green tea. Everything about this date feels unnatural, not in the nervous way,
but instead in the absolute lack of chemistry. Be open minded, I tell myself. You need to
give this guy a fair chance. I know you are hurt and still in love with Sailor Boy, but none
We walk around downtown and we talk about things that are forgettable. I keep
trying to sip on my tea, but I keep burning my tongue every time. Why won’t the tea cool
off? Oh, what did he just say? Focus on him. Focus on trying to have fun.
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***
I open the door to Chili’s, and he walks in ahead of me. I feel chivalrous. The
hostess seats us one table away from the entrance. I take the seat facing away from the
door. I do not want anyone I know to walk in and see me. I do not want to answer any
questions.
“Do you know what you want to eat?” Zach asks. I snap out of my own head and
study him. Why are his teeth such an odd shade of yellow?
“Yes, I’ll get the pizza since it’s the only thing without meat, and if you want, we
We order the food, and I try to keep a semblance of natural conversation going,
but I know it is too soon for me to try to start dating. All I want to do is go home and curl
up in my bed with Tuxedo. I need to cry. No, I have used enough tears already on this
heartbreak. I pray that God will help me figure out how to make this pain go away. I pray
that God will take all the love I have boiling over inside of me for a person who doesn’t
care about me. I pray while I sit at the Mexican-tile table that seats six, when only two
seats are taken, and watch Zach take medicine for a medical condition he has that
I nod my way through dinner, not even finishing my food. The combination of
Zach’s yellow teeth, the detailed account of his medical issues, and the realization that I
will never fall out of love with Sailor Boy makes my appetite disappear.
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Zach drives me back to my apartment and asks if he can meet Tuxedo, since he
I let him in, and I sit in the corner of the sofa while Zach tries to bond with my
dog; it is his last hope of making a good enough impression for a second date, a second
chance. I feel myself smile and choke up a laugh or two to help ease the situation.
Standing by the door in the shadowed hallway, I listen to him tell me how he had
a great time and would like to do this again sometime. He leans in. I brace myself for a
kiss I am not ready for. His lips touch mine, and I will myself not to cry. He pulls away,
and I half smile at him. Straw, that’s the shade his teeth are.
“Thank you, tonight was fun.” I wish I could believe my words. Maybe I can
convince myself. I close the door behind him. I know I just gave him hope when there is
Booth, Wayne. Introduction. The Company We Keep: An Ethics of Fiction. Rpt. ed.
Isaacs, Susan E. Angry Conversations with God. New York: Faith Words, 2009. Print.
L’Engle, Madeleine. Walking on Water: Reflections on Faith and Art. Rpt. ed. New
O’Connor, Flannery. Mystery and Manners: Occasional Prose. Ed. Sally and Robert
Fitzgerald. New York: Farrar, Strauss and Giroux, 1969. (“The Nature and Aim of
Fiction,” 63-86).
Steiner, George. Real Presences: Is There Anything in What We Say? Boston: Faber and
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