Spun Down

The problem was, I cared about Tom way more than I’d cared about any other human in my life, I decided. It took me five hours in the car alone with my mom and no bathroom breaks to come to that conclusion. And I suppose I don’t do my best thinking with a full bladder, but this seemed true enough.

The rest of my friends weren’t nearly as hard to say goodbye to, but they hadn’t shown up at my doorstep at dawn the day of my departure because I hadn’t said when exactly we were leaving and they just had to see me and had to talk to me and couldn’t bear to see me go. Instead, we’d gone to a party, which I guess was fitting, except that Tom hated parties and everything felt wrong because they told me they wanted to send me off with a good time, but it was probably the worst night of my life, and I didn’t even puke in the bushes like at homecoming sophomore year.

There were so many people there, and I didn’t want to see anyone, I just wanted to see my friends, dammit, and everyone kept coming up to me and wishing me well and every time one of them said how much they’d miss me, or how great I was to have around, or how much moving sucked, Tom would squeeze my arm like he was comforting me and that made me cry way harder than anything anyone said to me that night. And I got drunk off of wine coolers and danced like a slut and Tom didn’t drink because he never drank, and when I tried to break up with him in front of my house I was slurring my words and crying, and all he said was that we’d talk in the morning, because it probably sounded like I was blubbering nonsense.

Alyssa and Taryn came over the next morning to help me pack, but I’d already packed almost everything and all of us were really hungover so we just kind of sat on my bed and talked about what we usually talked about and then I started crying again because it felt too normal even though I was leaving in three days, and that just wasn’t right. They cooed and comforted me and leaned their heads on my shoulders.

Then Tom arrived and said we needed to talk, and they left with sympathetic looks and hugs and promises that they’d call me like, every day, which is such a giant and unrealistic commitment.

Saying goodbye to them was okay.

Talking with Tom was not okay, because he started yelling at me, practically, about how I was going to break up with him drunk in my front yard and that was so cheap and wasn’t I better than that and didn’t he deserve better after all we’d been through? And I’d never heard Tom actually, really yell, so I just stared at him while he kicked a hole in the box that held all of my new winter clothes.

He was so angry. I’d never seen him like that before. I was the one who got mad. I was the stupid, irrational one. The one who tried to take the easy way out by getting drunk on wine coolers.

He was still breathing hard when he looked up at me and asked, “You weren’t serious, were you? It was the alcohol. Right?”

I sat down on my bed but then I started remembering everything we’d ever done in that bed and it did not help, so I stood up and tried to look at anything but him and shook my head no.

“Cassie.” I shook my head again. “Cassidy.” His hand was under my chin, forcing my head up to look him in the eyes, which is exactly what I didn’t want.

“What do you mean NO?” So much anger. So much pain. I hated breakups, and I hated how everything had to be so hard and serious all of a sudden.

“I mean it wasn’t the alcohol, Tom. That was stupid and I shouldn’t have done it and I shouldn’t have said those things to you. But I can’t do this, not when we’re in completely different states. I can’t, okay?”

And then he tried to convince me we could and did a damn good job of it, so good that all I could do was shake my head and sob at him, and he didn’t sound mad anymore, he sounded desperate, which was so, so much worse.

When he was out of words to say and I’d gathered up enough nerve, I told him to leave. I told him I was sorry, because I was, and I wished there was a different, more sincere way to say it. Then he left and I sobbed some more because I thought that would be the last time I would ever see him.

I didn’t see anyone the next two days. Instead, I moped, which my mom hated but I thought I deserved, and I guess she must have thought that too when she saw my face after yelling at me through the door about not helping her pack the dishes.

I sighed and turned to look at my mom because my neck was getting stiff from staring out the window and my brain hurt from thinking too hard. Her fingers were tapping on the steering wheel to an imaginary beat, and when she noticed my gaze she turned to me and exclaimed, “Isn’t this exciting, Cassidy? Aren’t you excited?” She looked back at the road, her grin wide and exuberant, and I kind of hoped a semi would just veer into oncoming traffic and hit us straight on.

I turned back to the window. “I have to go to the bathroom,” I said to it. My reflection in the dusty glass glared back at me and I could almost feel my mom’s stupid grin slip off her face.

“Well,” Sigh. “We’ll get off at the next exit.”