Me Vs. Me. Sarah Mlynowski
a chocolate heart. The way he’d throw me over his shoulder and spin me around. The way he’d wrap me in a towel when I got out of the shower and then kiss me on the forehead. The way he reminded me to use the bathroom before long car drives.
If I stayed, I’d miss out on a major job opportunity.
If I went, I’d have to sleep alone. I hated sleeping alone.
If I stayed, the Arizona heat, like a vacuum cleaner pressed to my head, would slowly suck the dreams out of my brain. I’d never go on another date. I’d be engaged. I’d never have another first kiss. I’d never get to wear cute pink earmuffs.
I needed to breathe. I inhaled sharply, but felt as if my air was turned off. What was wrong with me?
I’d never get to date an Aries, my true love match (I am a Gemini, and Cam is a Libra, which is nowhere near an Aries). Not that I followed such things, but that tidbit had stuck in my mind ever since I’d read it in Seventeen when I was twelve. If we got married, I’d never know for sure if I could have found eternal bliss with an Aries.
If I said no, would I ever again meet anyone as patient as Cam? Someone who had spent hours of his free time editing my final college papers, then later my résumés and cover letters, and more recently my story scripts? Someone who would calm me when a virus attacked my hard drive and ate my important files, and then reinstall all my software? Someone who would take off work to be with me when I got my wisdom teeth pulled, and then tell me he loved me even though I looked like a deformed chipmunk? Someone who would build me a bookshelf, not from IKEA, but from planks of wood he bought at the hardware store because he liked making furniture (hence the need for a pickup truck)?
If I said yes, I’d get to marry this wonderful man. Plus, I’d get to wear a diamond ring. A big, pear-shaped diamond ring. If I said no, I’d have years of girls’ nights out. Apple martinis till dawn. Sexy first-date outfits. If I said no, I’d break Cam’s heart. If I said no, Cam would marry someone else.
If I said yes, I’d be part of a real family. An annoying family, yes, but still. If I said yes, I’d spend the rest of my life with a man I loved. But was he the man?
His globe eyes were looking at me with expectancy, and I wanted—oh, I so wanted!—to say yes, and I tried, honestly I did. But my mouth still felt gummy and anesthetized, and nothing came out.
Did I still have a mouth? I wasn’t sure. I tried to shake it into working. Which Cam must have mistaken for an implicit yes, because the next thing I knew he was kissing my neck, my chin, my lips.
Interesting. Apparently, I was getting married. Getting married? Getting married! It sounded so mature. Married. A married woman. But Monsieur, I’m a married woman!
I ogled the ring while embracing him. It fit perfectly. How did he know my ring size? I didn’t even know my ring size. Though, why would I? I’d never been one of those wife-wannabes who went to jewelry stores and tried on engagement rings just in case.
Cam’s soft hands began to roam under my sweatshirt. I gently pushed him off. “What are you doing?” I asked, relieved that my mouth was back in working order. Well, not totally, because I think I meant to say, “What am I doing?” As in, was I really going to give in? Get married? Give up the dream of New York? “We can’t do this.”
“Why not?”
“Because—” because I wanted to move! “—someone might see.”
He tugged at the green wool blanket and held it to his shoulders like a cape. “We have a cover.” Cam the Man. Cam the Superman. Cam the Husband. Why didn’t men wear engagement rings? Maybe he should tattoo his finger to mark him as mine. Then I’d feel safe moving to New York.
I didn’t know what to say, so I said, “But still.” Actually, I didn’t know what to feel. My two longings were head butting against each other and I hadn’t yet decided whose side to cheer for.
“I want to celebrate. We’re engaged.” Engaged. To engage. To interlock or mesh. He started undoing my jeans, and I let him. “I want to make love to my fiancée,” he said, suddenly serious. The first time he’d used the expression make love, I’d thought he was kidding, until I’d seen the earnestness on his face, and realized he wasn’t.
He wrapped his long body onto mine, the blanket covering us both. My roommate Lila had once walked in on us when we were “making love” and claimed she couldn’t get the image of his naked, ashen butt out of her head for months. I gave the ass a squeeze. Cam took that as a sign.
Afterward, as Cam’s forehead nuzzled into my neck, and the stars above scribbled across the November sky like ink from a silver marker, I raised my suddenly sparkling hand into the air. Then I followed one of the stars, the brightest star, with my index finger as it shot diagonally across the blackness.
When I was a kid in California, I used to pretend that airplanes were falling stars, and I’d close my eyes and wish that I would marry a prince, that I would win the lottery, or that my mom and dad would stop screaming at each other.
With Cam still on top of me, I continued tracing the star’s path. And then I made a wish. I wished that I didn’t have to choose. That I could live both lives. Stay with Cam and move to New York. Have it all. The starlight burned out and I closed my eyes. And then I drifted off to sleep.
Blowing out the candles, pennies down a well. People made wishes all the time.
How was I to know that mine would come true?
1
The Hangover
I wake up disoriented, intense light spearing my eyes like hot pokers, pain stabbing my temples.
Ow. Where? Who? What the hell? Why is my pillow stuffed with metal?
Then I remember where I am and what I’ve done. Kind of done. Does it count as a yes if I didn’t verbally agree?
My stomach churns. Why did I lead Cam to believe I’d marry him, when tomorrow I’m moving to New York? I’m already packed! Lila has already (reluctantly) ordered office furniture for my room. An upstairs neighbor bought my double futon. True, she hasn’t taken it yet, but it’s scheduled to go on Monday evening. I’ve already ordered a mattress to be delivered to my new place in New York. I sold my car, too. On Wednesday. It was a two-door bright blue Jetta, which I loved dearly. Which is now gone.
I feel an uncomfortable pressure on my bladder and sit up, my elbows digging into the hard truck bed. Dumb wine from last night not only made me lose my mind, but it is also irritating my bladder. I can’t get married. I’m moving. Tomorrow.
I can’t deal with telling Cam no. Should I sneak away? Maybe just run the ten miles home? I don’t think I’ll get very far with an overstuffed bladder. I’ll have to sneak off somewhere and pee. With my luck I’ll end up squatting over a cactus. I hate those things. Another advantage of New York. No attack plants.
What did I do? What the hell did I do?
“Morning, beautiful,” he says now, his eyes still closed. He blindly reaches for me and drags me down and onto his chest. “Love you.”
I am borderline hyperventilating. As if I’m trying to breathe with my face pressed against a pillow. Can’t do this. “We have to talk,” I say in my quiet voice. Why, oh why, didn’t I say no last night? How did I get talked into staying?
Talked? It wasn’t the talking that did it.
He smiles, eyes still closed. “I know. So much to plan. A date, a place…lots to do. I’m starving. Let’s discuss over food.”
“No. I mean talk.” My voice cracks on the last word. I wriggle out of his stronghold, scoot backward and lean safely against the rear windshield. I reach for my jeans and struggle back inside them.
His left eye opens, focuses on me, and then his right follows. “What’s wrong?”
I’m not sure how to start.