Ask Me Anything

Robbie, please tell me you are not lying on the couch, crying, and listening to that song you like by The Smiths on repeat with mascara running all over your sad fucking face.

Yes, yes, I am.

The angel on my shoulder or demon in my mind or whoever the hell she was could be such a royal bitch sometimes. Where to begin…

I don’t find it necessary to start by saying I was lying on the couch, crying, and listening to that song I like by The Smiths on repeat with mascara running all over my sad fucking face. We both knew it to be true. I find it more pertinent to discuss why I was lying on the couch, crying, and listening to that one song I like by The Smiths on repeat with mascara running all over my sad fucking face. Here we go.

Jason Vandrake. I swore he was the love of my life. In this very moment and every moment leading up to this one for the past five years, Jason was totally the love of my life. We had our ups and downs, and as of late, things hadn’t been good, and I knew they weren’t good. You know when you have a problem and you say to yourself, you say, self, let’s take care of that problem later? Well, I think that’s what I did with Jason. Rather, I think that’s what we both did. There were problems in our relationship, problems we didn’t tend to, problems that became no matter in everyday life with one another. When you let things fester, they come to a head. Ew, what the fuck? That was a disgusting sentence. Ignore that one.

I wasn’t the perfect girlfriend. I’ll always admit when I’m at fault. Jason, however, was so far afield from perfect that it would have been unthinkable to even see the line of perfection on the horizon with a really expensive pair of binoculars made especially for seeing intangible concepts. Still, I loved him. I loved him up until the moment he cheated on me and broke my heart.

On fucking Cinco de Mayo, mind you.

Unsure of why the voice inside my head was reminding me that Jason Vandrake broke my heart on Cinco de Mayo, as if I gave a single fuck that he chose that specific day to do it or some shit, I rolled my eyes, breathed deeply because it seemed like a cliché heartbroken thing to do, and turned off that one song by The Smiths, the one I liked. There was a rap on the door. Just like Edgar Allen Poe or whatever.

“Coming,” I said. Another rap.

“I’m coming,” I called out, getting up from the couch. My bare feet followed the path to my apartment door, the rapping only getting louder as I went.

“I said I’m fucking coming if you would just—”

I opened the door, and there was my best friend, Maggie Brixley.

She came bearing the gift of a hug and two six-packs of some kind of light beer in brown bottles. I had specifically requested she bring light beer because it’s much better calorie-wise than regular beer, I told her. She had said beer is beer and it didn’t matter and we were gonna get chunky about it, anyway.

“How are you?” she said, rubbing my back with a six-pack swinging in the balance behind me.

“Well,” I said with a fake smile—an annoyingly fake one, “I’m fucking here, if you know what I mean. How the fuck are you?”

“Damn, dude. It’s that bad?” she laughed. Even if she was laughing, I knew she felt sorry for me.

“It’s fine. I’m fine. Get your ass in here.”

She put the beers in the fridge, save for two she took out, one for each of us.

“If I were a bottle opener, where would I be?” she muttered to herself. It wasn’t a question directed at me, so I didn’t know if I should even answer it.

“Top drawer behind you,” I muttered to myself in response.

“Oh, nice,” she giggled, and she twisted around in a three-sixty, popped open the drawer, grabbed the bottle opener, and plip-plopped both tops off.

She was by my side with a beer in one hand and a beer in the other in no time.

“Cheers, my lady,” she said, and we clinked bottles.

“Cheers,” I sighed dramatically.

“So, Jason,” she said.

“Yeah, Jason.”

“Wow.”

“I know.”

“Wild.”

“Fuckin’ totally.”

“Just… insane, really.”

“Mmhmm.”

“What’s with him?”

“I don’t even know.”

“He’s got problems.”

“Really does.”

“Always has.”

“Oh, I know.”

“Don’t you, though?”

“Oh, I do.”

“I’m sure,” she muttered, and she took a big swig of beer. Likewise, I took one of equal proportions. “How’d you find out, anyway?”

“Hmm? Find what out?”

“That he cheated on you on Cinco de Mayo,” she said, sounding super offended.

“I don’t get why that’s such a big deal to everyone,” I said, scrunching my brows in her direction.

“Who’s everyone?” she asked with a smirk, and I shrugged. I’d forgotten it was just the voice inside my head that had mentioned the Cinco de Mayo thing. “Weirdo,” she teased. “How’d you find out?”

I breathed in for a long time, then breathed out for even longer. She just stared at me like I needed help on a molecular level.

“Honestly?”

“Honestly,” she said.

“Joe McComo,” I said.

“The gas station guy?” she squealed, her eyes popping open, wide as the setting sun on the horizon—the horizon of imperfection.

“That’s the one.”

“You talk to that guy?” she said.

“Sometimes, yeah.”

“Why, though?” she asked.

“He’s nice,” I said genuinely. “He really is. Joe and I talk sometimes. Anyway, he told me about the parking lot tryst.”

“Parking lot tryst? They did it in the parking lot?” she said with a dose of concern.

“Pretty much. It was in her car.”

“Who was it again? What’s the bitch’s name?”

“Erica Keyes,” I said.

“Fucking Erica Keyes. Who knew,” she said with a sigh, and she tapped her half-empty bottle against mine yet again.

We both seemed to sigh at the same time and for the same length of time, and as soon as we finished, we looked at one another and burst into laughter.

“Weird, right?” she said.

“I know, dude,” I chuckled.

“Wow, you’re really going to be okay. Look at you. You’re smiling and laughing and everything.”

“Sorta,” I said.

“You know what you need? You were with Jason for seven years—”

“—Seven?” I interrupted, looking horrified.

“Yeah, why?”

“Fuck,” I whispered. “I thought it was five.”

“Well, it was definitely seven. That’s a long time. You need to get your priorities straight—”

“—Less than three days after I find out, and you tell me I need to work on my priorities?” I protested.

“You need to work on your priorities. Find you a guy who is like a rebound or something like that,” she suggested.

“I’ve never been the rebound type, and you know that,” I said firmly. “I’m not that kind of girl.”

“I know, dude, but listen. What about Joe McComo? As much as I don’t like his dreads—”

“—He doesn’t have dreads anymore,” I reminded her.

“Or that zit on his face,” she continued.

“Pretty sure it’s a birthmark,” I said, shaking my head and laughing.

“Oh, whatever. He’s kind of cute.”

“You’re telling me he’s kind of cute after you just judged the ever-loving fuck out of him?” I asked.

“Kinda. I said he’s kinda cute,” she insisted.

“I’m not going to go out with Joe from the gas station, nor am I planning—”

“—Nor,” she said annoyingly. “Nor!”

“Okay,” I laughed. “Whatever with you.”

“You know why we’re friends?” she said.

“I know why we’re friends. The question is whether you know why we’re friends,” I said.

“I know why we’re friends.”

“Well, you’re not saying,” I said matter-of-factly.

“It’s because of the continent thing,” she said in a bashful, hushed tone.

“The continent thing? Dear God,” I muttered, shaking my head at her again. “It’s because of our names. The double consonant and then the I and then the E. Consonant.”

“Yeah, that’s what I said.”

“Okay, then. That’s why we became friends in middle school or whenever that was.”

“Long time,” she said. “Anyway, what were you saying about nor?” She pronounced the word just as annoyingly that time, and it was hard to refrain from laughing.

“I was saying I’m not going out with Joe or with anyone right now. I need to take a step back and reassess things,” I explained.

She noticed my empty, and she got up and grabbed us two fresh beers from the fridge. She spun around, opened the drawer, clutched the opener, popped off the caps, pop clink pop clink, and then she was back.

“Reassess things? You need to reassess how little time you spend looking at the ceiling of some guy’s bedroom,” she said.

“Thank you. That’s very graphic,” I chuckled.

“Not really. Lord knows Jason wasn’t putting out.”

“Why’d you have to bring the Lord into this?” I said. “Don’t make it weird.”

“Well, He knows everything.”

“Okay,” I sighed. “You’re high-strung tonight.”

“You’re low-hanging tonight,” she sneered.

“Mm. Am I?”

“Totes.”

“Maybe it’s because I just got dumped,” I said.

“Oh, that’s right. Duh!” she said, and we were cheersing again like it was really necessary. “All I’m saying is, be open to the possibilities of a thing happening.”

“I’m not going to just invite a thing into my life when I consider myself emotionally unavailable.”

“You don’t have to invite a thing into your life,” she said calmly. “You just have to be open to it. If a thing is meant to come into your life, it will. Maybe some guy will come in when you least expect it, and he’ll sweep you off your feet and whisk you away into the sunrise—”

“—I think it’s the sunset, usually,” I said.

“Yeah, that. You never know. Mr. Right could be right around the corner. He could be at the gas station, like Joe, or he could be at the grocery store, or he could be—you know, I feel like you’re not even listening to me. What are you doing on your phone over there? Are you looking for that song you like by The Smiths?” she said, rambling on.

I shook my head slowly, staring at my phone screen with sadness.

“It’s ten p.m.,” I said.

“Okay, and what difference does that make? Other than it’s late and I should get going soon?” she asked.

“He always used to call me around ten p.m.,” I said.

“You need to stop, my lady,” she said. “Stop this nonsense at once!”

“Ten four,” I muttered.

“I’ve gotta get going. Promise me you won’t be staring at that thing all night and hoping he’ll call. Promise me. Will you promise?” she said. Maggie had a tendency to talk more and more the closer she was to departing.

“Yeah, I promise.”

“Good seeing you. Take care, okay?” She leaned over and kissed my cheek. “Okay, you’re so pretty. You’re great. You’re gonna find someone, like don’t even worry, dude. Look at you. Ugh,” she said, continuing to ramble and only stopping to chug the last of her beer and toss it in the recycle bin. “So, so pretty,” she continued, “like you could have literally any guy out there. Or any girl, even, if that’s your thing. And you know that’s a big compliment because girls have way higher standards, I think. Wouldn’t you say so?”

“Mags, you’re doing that thing you do,” I said.

“Oh, I know,” she giggled, and I walked her to the door and accepted another free hug. “Don’t drink all of that tonight,” she said. “And don’t keep staring at your phone.”

“Got it,” I said.

When she split, I went back to staring at my phone. I took a long swig of beer, not necessarily a big one but a long one, and I watched the minute change on the time.

Ten oh three.

Tick, tick, tick. You’re just ticking your life away. Listen to Maggster. Go find you a guy to make you forget all your worries.

Shut up, I told her.

Ten oh four.

I took the last two sips, stepped into the kitchen for another, and returned to the couch. I picked up my phone.

Ten oh five.

It vibrated.

“Jason,” I whispered, entirely too hopeful.

Then, I pulled up my text messages at ten oh six, and my eyes settled on a picture of a dick.