Love and Other Things I'm Bad At (27 page)

9/9

Sitting in bathroom hiding from Mom and Sterling, who are being disgustingly romantic. Making out on sofa a little bit. Draping themselves in suggestive ways. Do they not realize they are middle-aged and not supposed to do that?

But then, think of my grandparents.

Or don’t, if you want to spare yourself.

This family doesn’t know how to have relationships but does apparently know how to kiss, etc.

I came in here to paint my nails, get ready for any future outings. Not just the one to possibly, maybe see Grant after not seeing him for eight months.

Eight months. That’s, like, long enough that I could have had a baby in that time. Not that I
would
have, or even came close to having, because, you know, I don’t do those sorts of things, but it’s a point of reference, you know, nine months. And yes, I
would
know, because my stepsister Angelina-not-Jolie had a baby two years ago.

Babbling. Must pull myself together and stop contemplating the can of shave gel on the tub, which has line through CFC initials on back. CFC-Free. That’s me. CFC with a line through it. Canceled.

And why does sensitive skin sound so much better in French?
Peau sensible
.

See, it’s
sensible
skin I have—not rashy and allergic and sensitive. Just
sensible
.

Like
moi
.

Occasionally.

9/10

Am parked outside Shop & Shop grocery store on College Ave. The mountains off to the west are beautiful. I’ve really, really missed the mountains.

OK, I’m just delaying the inevitable freak-out.

Now, officially, freaking out.

So much for thinking that I’ve changed or am being mature. I’m a wreck. I’m stressed over the top. If I were a cheese, I’d be melted. If I were a bagel, I’d be toasted.

God. Can’t believe I’m making
bagel
metaphors. I think I need to eat before I go inside and face Grant.

Like, an entire bottle of Tums. Well, probably they sell those at Shop & Shop, so at least I’m in the right place.

What if Grant won’t talk to me? Won’t talk back, I mean? What if he just stands there with that cold “like the lake” Superior glare he has sometimes? So disapproving. He’d just stare at me and mouth the words
spring break
, and I’d have to run out of the store with my tail between my eggs like Oscar.

Legs. Tail between my legs.

And think about it. How would I have felt if he suddenly showed up in Wisconsin and walked into the place where I worked, Bagle Finagle? I’d have freaked out. It would have made no sense, you know?

So he’ll see me standing there and . . . how will he react?

Time to stop writing. Take deep breaths. And walk in there.

Wish me luck, dear journal.

LATER

Blood pressure: 300/200 at best.

Pulse: thready (learned that on
Grey’s Anatomy
) and yet pounding.

I am recovering from Grant Encounter #1.

From a distance, customer service desk looked non-
threatening.

Then again, from a distance even tigers can look nonthreatening, like teeny tiny cute striped kittens.

I tried to camouflage myself by pushing a shopping cart. Then I put the closest tall thing I could find in front of my face to hide me; unfortunately the only thing that would work was a giant package of toilet paper, on its end. I was crouched over like a tiny older person with back trouble. Like I wasn’t a mostly healthy, mostly vegetarian person with a love of calcium that strengthened my bones.

Up close, the customer service desk was a whir of activity. I hid behind the TP and watched.

It was him.

He turned around.

Same dark brown hair. Same eyes. (Why would they have changed? I don’t know. I was just stunned by the sight of him, that’s all.) Kind of stronger looking somehow. Older? I did see him in January, which isn’t that long ago, but I somehow had forgotten a little about his hockey body. He’s no towering cornstalk like Wittenauer. He’s more of the strong, silent type. Not the tall, skinny type.

He didn’t see me for a minute so I had time to study him, to peek.

I was slowly walking forward when my shopping cart slammed into someone else’s that I didn’t see. The towering TP tipped over.

Grant and I made eye contact. I wanted to run, but TP was in the way.

Grant looked a little pale and green, like he was going to throw up. Then I realized it was because he was wearing this green Shop & Shop employee vest. It was dorky. Not fashionable in the least. Almost embarrassing. Then he said, “You’re not a very good driver, are you?”

“I’m a—a—fine driver,” I said.

Then we both started laughing. “Courtney? What are you doing here?” He came out from behind the counter. “I’m so . . . stunned. I just can’t believe you’re here. Um, why are you?”

“I’m not sure,” I said. My stomach churned. “I need Tums?”

There was an awkward pause while he adjusted a few packs of gum in a rack of candy. Big Red. Juicy Fruit. Stride. I stared at them, at his hands, to avoid making eye contact. He reached into the top rack, which was full of medicine that only
looked
like candy. “There you go,” he said, handing me a roll of Tums.

“Oh. Thanks,” I said.

Then I felt it. The chill. A polar ice cap descended onto the customer service desk, like every freezer door had been opened, which is funny, because Grant and I kind of hooked up over polar bears.

But then, the chill vanished almost as soon as it arrived. All of a sudden it felt really, really warm in that Shop & Shop. I wanted to run to the freezer section. My blood was running hot and cold. Any second now, I’d probably pass out.

Was I coming down with something, or was it just seeing Grant?

“Is that it?” he asked. “You drove all the way from Wisconsin for a roll of Tums?”

Maybe he thought I was there to try to win him back. Or apologize for bailing on him for spring break. Which I still needed to do.

“It’s a long story. But not all that long, actually. I just found out that I, um, don’t have financial aid for Cornwall Falls. So, I had to come home.”

“Home?”

“To Denver. And I have to apply to transfer, and, um, CSU has great environmental classes and programs. . . .”

“So does CU,” said Grant. “So does anywhere these days.”

It wasn’t exactly a welcoming hug kind of statement. What was he implying? “Well, right, I know. But I applied to transfer here.”

He nearly choked on his breath mint. “Here. Really.”

“Really,” I said.

He didn’t say anything. Not encouraging. At all. But I figured he was still mad at me from way back when, and so I’d have to really be convincingly nice from now on.

“So how are you doing? What’s your job here like?” I asked.

“I’m responsible for customer service green team initiatives.”

“Translation?”

“I’m kind of in charge of getting people to use reusable bags.”

“Wow. Huge.”

He smiled. “Shut up. I also handle customer complaints.”

I raised an eyebrow. “That doesn’t sound fun.”

“I know. But it beats restocking forty-pound bags of dog food at Pet Me.” He shrugged. “Some of the time.” We both laughed and that kind of broke the polar-cap ice a little more.

“The thing is, even if I do get accepted as a transfer, I’ll never find a place to live. I mean, everyone’s already moved in. But my mom wants me out, like, yesterday.”

“Your mom wants you to move?” He looked really uncomfortable.

“Oh, I wasn’t asking—”

“I didn’t say you were—”

“I mean that’d be really bizarre and—”

“Uncomfortable,” Grant said.

“Uncomfortable?” I said.

“Sleeping on the floor. I mean. Obviously,
we’re
fine. That wouldn’t be the problem.”

“Of course not. Obviously.”

Ha! What a joke. If we were “fine,” then I’d hate to see “horrible.”

Fortunately, a customer came to the desk wanting lottery tickets and I looked behind me and there was a line that had formed. Because were we fine? Probably not, unless I apologized for the spring break thing. But I couldn’t find a way to bring it up!

“Anyway. See you around?” I said.

“Call me when you find out what you’re doing,” he said. “And, uh, if I hear anything about any kind of, you know, openings . . . I’ll call you.”

“That’d be great. Thanks.” I started to walk away.

“Courtney!” he called after me. “I need your number.”

“Right. Right.” I jotted my cell number down on the corner of a brown paper grocery bag, then tore a piece off and handed it to him.

“I could have added it to my iPhone,” he said. “You just wasted a bag.”

Stupid green team initiatives. I ran out to the car and started crying. So emotional. Nothing worse than getting corrected by Grant, Mr. Perfect.

Mr. Perfect Ex-Boyfriend.

LATER

Got home. Shaken and crumbly like a stale carrot cake muffin. Tried to call Wittenauer but he was heading into class and didn’t have time to talk. Instead, called Jane. Told her that I’d just seen Grant.

“You’re kidding!!! How is he? Tell him I said hi!”

“
Jane
. It wasn’t like that. It wasn’t a social visit.”

“It wasn’t?” she asked.

“No!”

“What was it, then?”

“I don’t know. Awkward!”

She asked if I’d told him about Wittenauer yet, and I said, no, of course not, considering as how I only saw him a few minutes and we were in the middle of customer service. Did she really expect me to rub salt in an old wound the first time I saw Grant?

But
does
Grant know I’m still with Wittenauer? I wondered. Why would he? How could he? Well, that could wait until our next conversation. If we had one.

Jane and I talked so long that I was still on the phone with her when Wittenauer called back after class, and we talked for hours again. He still wants me to move back. Says he’s miserable. I told him I’m more miserable. It was a contest trying to one-up each other on how miserable we are. I think I won, but is it considered winning when it’s a contest for most miserable?

There is no “able” in miserable. Oh wait, there is. Able to feel misery. Lots and lots of misery. We are
Les Misérables
. We get very pathetic.

Do I move back to Wisconsin so I can be with Wittenauer? Or do I stay here so I can go to school, but only at a place where Grant is?

CSU has 25,000 students. Even if I do go there, and it’s not guaranteed I could get in, it’s not like I would see a lot of Grant. So that’s not the problem, really.

The problem is that every day Wittenauer and I are not in the same zip code, I miss him. I get nervous about our prospects. And we risk splitting up.

And I hate splitting up. (See: Parents’ Divorce.)

9/11

Mom proudly handed me a letter when I went down for coffee this morning. “Congratulations! You’ve been accepted as a transfer student. On behalf of everyone here at Colorado State University—your future—your education—” Blah blah blah—

I was still reading it, but I started crying. Mom and her man-friend wanted to know what was wrong. “I got in, all right?” I told them, sobbing.

“Hon, that’s wonderful. Now all we have to do is find you a room or an apartment up there.”

“Don’t call me ‘hon’!” I said through my blubbering.

“Wait a minute. I thought you wanted to live on your own,” said Sterling. “Don’t you?”

“Yes, but—that’s—that’s not the point.” I shoved my chair back and went to the sanctity of my former room. Then I had to run back, grab my coffee, and vanish again. So much for dramatic exits.

Yes, I want to live on my own. It’s not like I
want
to live in my mom’s workout room forever. But this just all feels overwhelming and it would be nicer if I didn’t feel like Mom is pretty much throwing me to the werewolves.

I called Wittenauer and we talked for a long time. He didn’t want me to get accepted because he still wants me to return to CFC, but he said we need to take “the long view.”

The long view: We both need to go to college. We both need to finish college. Then we can make decisions about what to do with our lives.

The short view: I have to start classes two weeks late, and will be living in my car.

Wait. I don’t have a car.

9/12

So far I’ve spent the entire day looking for a place to live in Fort Collins.

Mom is so desperate for me to “gain my independence” that she went with me. We had searched every online listing first—then we drove around neighborhoods near campus looking for signs. Nothing. The places were terrible, or the roommates were horrible. As much as I wanted to move, I couldn’t justify risking my life by moving in with someone who kept a pet boa constrictor.

“Mother, if you’d like to help, perhaps you could buy a house for me,” I suggested. “You’ve been saving all that money for years, I bet you have a large nest egg, and it’d be a great investment because people are always going to need housing, plus, the market is, um, really soft. Or hard. Anyway, there are houses—”

“Why don’t you call Grant instead, see if he has any leads?” she replied.

“You call him,” I said. “I already asked him for help.” The fact that he hadn’t called me since I saw him didn’t instill me with confidence. More like fear that he hated me and wanted nothing to do with me ever again.

“Ask him again,” she said.

“Mom.”

“Do it. Courtney, it’s only Grant. Maybe you’re not close anymore, but he’s not going to bite. He’ll probably do everything he can to help you out, hon.”

She was bothering me so much that I decided I’d do whatever it took to find a place in Fort Collins. Forget that this was as embarrassing as, well, tromping all over campus with my mother in her workout gear, because she wanted to do some trail running after we settled this housing thing.

Called Grant. Initiated begging and pleading. “And I’m not asking at all to live with you, not at all, but I was wondering if you have any ideas or any leads, if you know anyone—”

“Court, I’m sorry! I’ve been meaning to call you but I’ve been so busy. Why don’t you move onto my block?” he asked.

Whaaaa . . . t? “Your b-block?”

“Yeah, I just noticed there’s a room for rent in a house on my block.”

“Seriously?” Grant must not hate me too much if he was willing for me to live close by. Or was this a trick? Was he setting me up to live in a total dump, to get his revenge? But that would be so unGrantlike.

“Yeah. I can give you the phone number from the sign.”

I called and talked to a girl named Shawna, who seemed really, really nice. She said they had a room left to rent because a girl who was supposed to live there had moved in with her boyfriend. It was a long story. I didn’t catch all of it, partly because she talked a mile a minute.

She gave me directions but said she couldn’t meet for a couple of hours, so I applied for a few jobs on College Ave., nothing too exciting, while Mom jogged. Wait. Here she comes.

Time to go. Wish me luck.