Heart on a Shoestring (9 page)

“Suit yourself.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means sometimes you have to sit back and let the people you love make mistakes.”

“Well, thanks.”

“Derek is a good guy. You’ll regret losing him.”

“I’m never going to lose him. He’s my friend. You can’t break up with a friend.”

I hung up with her and tried to convince myself. Derek didn’t want a girlfriend anyway. We kissed, yes. We had good conversations, yes. I think I even enjoyed myself, but that didn’t change the fact that Derek was a turtle hiding in an unbreakable shell. I didn’t trust guys like that. Whatever he kept hidden I honestly didn’t know if I could bear hearing it. It seemed bad. As a friend, I could handle it. Help him. Love him and be a shoulder to cry on. As a girlfriend? I didn’t know. That was the biggest problem.

Not knowing.

My phone beeped again. Another text.

Derek:
Liz, did you get the envelope I put in your bag?

Me:
What envelope?

Derek:
Look for it.

Me:
Oh, found it here. Opened it just now. You didn’t have to do that.

Derek:
Go buy yourself some new clothes whenever you stop limping around.

Me:
Well, I guess I’ll accept since you threw out most of my stuff, but only this once. I still haven’t asked how you have stashes of money to throw away.

Derek:
I never throw it away.

Me:
Ok. Fair enough. Thanks for the trip. I learned a lot and I really appreciate it.

Derek:
Glad to hear it.

Me:
A guy from my past texted me today. He wants to get together. Should I?

The glowing screen didn’t beep. I waited for the little dots to show up on my iPhone, saying he was responding, but they didn’t show up. I started to type, erased, started again, erased, then finally settled with a simple text.

Me:
You don’t even want to get married, Derek.

Derek:
I don’t, but if I did ... it would be with you.

Me:
I can’t marry someone who hides his past. I’ve spent my entire life being a savior to guys like that. I don’t have the energy anymore.

Derek:
I’m not looking for a savior.

Me:
This won’t work. It just can’t work. Let’s stay friends, okay? You date other people, if you ever want to. And I will. That way we can always be friends and never say goodbye forever.

Derek:
I will never say goodbye forever. Not to you. I’m sorry. I don’t know what’s gotten into me. This isn’t like me. I don’t even know if I’ve ever felt this way before. I’m sorry. I won’t bring it up again.

Me:
You’ve never felt what way before?

Derek:
Never mind. Goodnight, Lizzy. Good luck with your guy.

Something about our conversation irritated me, but then again that was typical of us. Another reason I couldn’t bring myself to be with him. What if we spent our entire lives bickering? What if we started our first night as husband and wife by arguing about what kind of wine to drink? I needed someone more like me. Someone full of spunk and energy. Someone who drank deep from the well of life and relished every moment, every experience, as though it may be the last. Derek taught me a lot. I was thankful for him. And for the first time in a long time I felt relieved of the heavy burden I carried so long. But I couldn’t make him happy. Not until he found happiness alone first.

I rubbed my head and turned off my phone. The darkness reminded me of him. Our last night on that island. He held me the entire night. Woke me up with gentle kisses on my eyelids. I couldn’t love him, though. What if he ended up like my father? Like a creaky old room in an abandoned house, void of character and hauntingly stoic, hidden....

I shook the thoughts away, watched them drift into the darkness and out of sight, then closed my eyes and imagined Oliver kissing me on the lifeguard chair as the Atlantic ocean shined with the sun’s early morning pinks and purples.

The last thought I remember before falling asleep stuck with me until I woke up.
I don’t like who I am.

I just didn’t know who else to be.

Time for a change. I limped my way to my favorite salon and requested rich, chocolatey brunette. No more funky colors. I wanted to appear normal for Oliver.

As Gabbie, the young girl with perfect blonde curls, made me look new again I thought of Derek. I felt bad for him. I really did. But how could I be with someone who didn’t want to be with anyone?

“You look spacey,” Gabbie said as she unfolded the foil on my head. “Everything okay?”

“Guy problems.”

“I understand.” She placed a few pieces of foil in a bowl beside her. “My boyfriend of ten years just broke up with me. I don’t even know how to be myself without him.”

“Ten years? What happened?”

“We met junior year of high school. Been together since. I’ve been pushing for an engagement ring and I think I pushed too far.” She led me to the shampoo chair and tilted my head back. “It’s like I started to value the ring more than him. He felt that.”

“Ten years though?” I closed my eyes as she massaged my head and rinsed the dye. “That’s a long time. Why wouldn’t he marry you?”

“Afraid. Of a lot of things.” She wrapped my hair into a towel and took me back to the mirror and chair. “He didn’t think he could provide. Didn’t think he could give me what I wanted.”

“What did you want?”

“A family.”

“He doesn’t want kids?”

“No. So, what about your situation?”

“Well, I’m torn. There’s this guy. I’m really good friends with him. He is so interesting. Smart. Mysterious. Gorgeous. Need I say more?” I laughed. “But I don’t know. Maybe I’m like your boyfriend. I am so afraid of being rejected or cheated on or left in the dust for a career or car or video games.”

She blow-dried my hair as we both thought about my words and our own love lives. Maybe it seemed complicated to others, but to me it was simple. Don’t let anyone in and you won’t get hurt. Let them in and you welcome the opportunity to get hurt. I wanted marriage and a pregnant belly. I wanted life with a partner. A best friend. A lover. Someone to experience ups and downs and in-betweens. Like any other normal girl in the world I dreamed of my wedding day, but what if the big bad wolf dressed like Prince Charming and ate my head off?

Clearly, I had trust issues.

I made a pact with myself. Go and see Oliver after good ole Doc removed my cast, and have fun one last time. No strings attached. If I fell for him, I wouldn’t prevent it. And if I didn’t, I’d force Derek to tell me what he kept inside.

She finished my hair and spun the chair around. I analyzed myself. Dark curly hair down to my elbows. No highlights. Had been a long time since my reflection looked so normal. 

“What do you think?” Gabbie said.

“Not sure what to think.” I tilted my head. “You did a great job. It’s just been a while since I’ve had something so close to my natural color.”

“You look so beautiful. Kind of like a modern Audrey Hepburn.”

I smiled. “Well, thank you, Gabbie. Wonderful as always.” I hugged her. As I did to mostly everyone I met. “Let me know how it goes with that precious heart of yours.”

I walked to my car, imagining Gabbie going to see a movie with friends. In walks a super attractive guy. Sits down right next to her. Their elbows touch. A few butterflies and glances later, they smile at each other. By the end of the movie they’ve spoken enough with their eyes. They exchange numbers and enjoy each other for years to come.

People became stories to me. Happy stories with happy endings. Matt always considered me an optimist on pixie sticks. One too many doses of sugar. If only he read my journal. He’d see that I painted life around me beautiful. And I hoped things ended up the way I drew them. When it came to my own life, however, I painted it as I saw it. No bells. No whistles. Just me. 

Beyond the bottles of hair dye and conversations with strangers ... I was a girl. A girl no one knew. And the only one who cared enough to try to get to know me was the man who wouldn’t let me in.

I read most of Miranda’s journal. Stared at the pages for a while after I finished. Found it interesting that her handwriting changed. Seemed to depend on her mood. Soft, bubbly letters for content entries. All capitals and slanted toward the right for excited entries. An ancient italicized cursive for obviously fabricated lives of people around her. And the sad entries were quick, messy strokes of barely legible words. Often too far over and under the lines. She signed every entry with a single M.

A lot to digest. Like a starving child given a feast after eating bug-sprinkled rice for five years. Partly wanting to push the plate away and the other part wanting to turn into a gluttonous fool. I didn’t know which to be, so I analyzed her handwritings and ignored the words. Until I forced myself to go back and read the one entry I couldn’t stop thinking about. I did the math. She would’ve just turned nineteen.

To myself, the only one who really listens,

Happy birthday to me. My dad’s cutting words never bothered me before. Not sure why they did tonight. Also not sure why I reacted the way I did, but I regret it now. The bloody lip wasn’t worth it. Neither was the pain on my mother’s face. Neither was the pain on my face.

I’m tired. It’s 2:53am and I worked a ten hour shift today, plus four hours of school. Community College, honestly, what is this? It’s high school tied up with a more expensive bow. And I had to pay for it all myself. 

I’ve decided from this day on to never give my heart to a man. Not unless he fights like crazy to get it. And I mean, really fights. None of this waking sleeping beauty with a kiss nonsense or sending people around the world with a glass slipper. Why do girls find that stuff so romantic anyway? No. It’s kind of dumb. The prince never really does anything. He’s just a prince and because of that the poor, poor girl is supposed to fall madly in love with him and await his rescue. 

That’s not me. After all this with my dad I’m pretty much scared of ever putting a ring on my finger and ending up like my mom, no matter how well the shoe fits. 

If a man ever comes along he better fight like William Wallace for this princess. All the way to his death if necessary. Because that is the true cost of love, isn’t it?

Killing the self to make room for others.

Not saying I wouldn’t fight too. I would. I’d die for the right man. In a heartbeat. Give everything I am for him. All I want is someone who will do the same. 

Why don’t guys like that exist anymore? Or if they do... Why don’t I meet them? They all break up with me. Even the ones I never found attractive. I’m never good enough for them. Never worth fighting for. And the ones who are all about me are the ones I can’t stand to be around for more than five minutes.

Enough of the pity party, Self. Time to go to bed and wake up to a new start. I don’t need a man to be happy. I don’t need a woman either. Friends and lovers come and go. The only person I can rely on is you, Self.

I feel bad for what I said to my dad tonight. He’s the coldest person I’ve ever known. But he didn’t deserve what I said. I guess I still have some dying to do as well.

Nice talking to ya, my dear self. Thanks for listening.

Hopefully I can sleep now. 

Love,

-M-

Miranda played the strong card well. Maybe that’s why she gave me these yellowed pages. Maybe she wanted someone to see that she was weaker than she seemed. She didn’t want a man to sweep her off her feet and carry her away. She wanted someone to hold her hand and live an adventure with her. No carrying involved. Only leaning on each other when necessary.

I thought she used guys. One of the many girls who flirt for attention and spend hours making themselves pretty to count how many heads they can turn. I’m not dumb. It’s obvious when a woman is using a man for validation of her beauty. Which is why I looked down in public. Counted the tiles and blocks of cement, analyzed my shoe strings, anything to be mistaken for another check mark in the “How Pretty Am I?” contest. That sounds bad, but my ex changed the way I saw women.

My sister is beautiful. And the thing about her is she doesn’t flaunt it. That’s what I grew up around. When Ashleigh walked into my life that abnormally warm fall night, I was hypnotized. Perfect body, always pristine, arrogance I naively misplaced as confidence, and she wanted me. I tried to get her away. Many times. Just wasn’t the kind of girl you take home to the folks. But she insisted. I was the check mark she needed to have, not because I’m the next Leonardo DiCaprio, simply because I wasn’t an easy check mark to get. When I finally caved, I ended up in bed, alone, wondering why I couldn’t calm my heart rate.

Eventually switched my degree for her and followed her all the way to a masters degree. Spent my twenties buying her fake nails and designer clothing. She never loved me. She never loved much. And she took me to hell with her. 

That’s what women had become to me. Attention grapplers. Some call it insecurity. Others call it arrogance. I call them both pride. The inability to find contentment in who you really are and instead focusing your entire life on what you wish you could be. Simply for some kind of false and transitory pleasure.