Losing You. Part Twenty-One.

Being unemployed wasn’t such a bad rap. For the first couple of weeks I enjoyed the long stretches of days that I had to bum around the house, watch TV, and write Katy long e-mails about my musings about who was skankier - Britney or Christina.

I made a half-hearted effort to look for a new job, but really I just concentrated on placing my hopes on Americorps. It had been weeks since my phone interview, and I was sure that any day now I would get a letter in the mail detailing my new life. It was the only thing that really lightened my spirits...the thought of traveling around the country doing different service projects with a group of people my age. I likened the experience to "The Real World", only with a philanthropist bent.

The hopes of Americorps also helped me ignore the fact that there were two huge obstacles when it came to getting another job. It was already winter in Hayward, which around there meant that there were almost no jobs to be had, as tourist season was over. I would grab the paper as soon as it landed in my mailbox, open it up to the classifieds, and maybe find two job postings, usually for construction jobs or "Assemble At Home" scams. The other obstacle I was facing - which I really, really, really didn’t want to face - was the fact that I had little to no viable job skills. Sure, I could direct a youth group. I could run a cash register. I could type on the computer. Yet when it came to a real job - office work, etc. - I had nothing. It seemed like everybody wanted a piece of paper that said my skills had been developed in a classroom, that someone else had seen proof of these skills. They hadn’t. I had all these different life experiences, all of these grab-bag type talents, and I still couldn’t find one flippin’ job. Not that I had really tried to - even the jobs that were hiring sounded like they sucked ass, so I didn’t apply, wanting to believe that I could hold out for something better, something more to my liking.

However, all of that stuff took a back seat to the current problem in my life...Travis. Things with him had become increasingly odd. Little things...like the fact that he hadn’t kissed me in about two weeks. "I have a boyfriend, yet I don’t get to make out. Something is wrong with this picture." I wrote to Katy in an e-mail, detailing my exasperation. We would go out and all night long he would tell me how much he liked me, how attracted to me he was, etc., but he would put distance between us when it was time to say goodnight instead of close in for the end-of-the-night make out.

And he hadn’t called. The last date we had been on had been great, and he had even stared at me for a moment and told me he would call, and yet a week had gone by and I hadn’t heard from him. I tried to chalk it up with excuses such as he was busy, he was probably working, and I was only noticing it because I had too much time on my hands, but I knew something was up.

One Friday afternoon I ventured into Hayward in search of something to quell both my growing boredom with being unemployed, and my anxiety over the whole "he’s not calling me" thing. I loved Main Street...the tree-lined one-way street boasted rows of little shops, and there was something comforting about walking into various stores and chatting up the owners I had befriended while working at Eagle Wings. I spent a few hours perusing the aisles of the bookstore, then walked around the corner to Backroads coffee shop, intending to kill a few more hours by grabbing some coffee and reading my bookstore purchases.

I saw him as I passed the storefront window. He was sitting in front of the shops’ computer, staring intently at the screen. A moment of panic weighed down on my knees and I wondered if I should turn around and go somewhere else. Instead I pushed open the heavy wooden door and stepped inside, immediately recognizing Rachael from "The Real World: San Francisco", who was sitting at table with some of her friends and holding her daughter Evita in her lap. The first time I had noticed Sean and Rachael standing on the corner of Main Street, I had become giddy with excitement at the "star" sighting. Now it was like running into the mayor...notable in conversation, but nothing too revolutionary. We caught eyes and said hello as I walked up to the counter, and I heard someone behind me say my name. I ignored it and placed my order, and then there it was again. I again pretended to not have heard it, and as I was handed my coffee it was said again, this time louder and more insistent. I turned around and let my eyes wander around the place as if I had no idea who would be calling my name, and finally I let my gaze settle on Travis.
"Oh. Hey." I said, strolling over to him.
"I was afraid you were ignoring me." He said, smiling sheepishly. I briefly thought, "You haven’t called me for a week but then are worried that I’m ignoring you during a random run-in here? How fucked up is that?" but I smiled and shook my head to feign nonchalance. When I want to, I can put up such a good front. Even if I’ve been screaming at you inside my head to call me, fucker, I can still walk right up to you, give you a wide smile, and act like you’re just one of those people that I see around every once in a while, a casual acquaintance. Let’s catch up and then go our separate ways, that kind of thing.

We were quiet for a moment, just looking at each other, waiting to see who was going to speak first.
"I’m sorry I haven’t called." He said finally.
"Oh. What do you mean?" I replied, still faking a smile. There was a slightly sadistic pleasure in watching him stumble and stammer, trying to find the words to explain himself without sounding conceited.
"I mean...well...I guess, the fact that I haven’t called you in so long, after I said that I was going to." He answered.
"Oh, I guess I didn’t even notice." I said, shrugging my shoulders.
"Oh." He said, and I did not fail to catch the slight look of disappointment that crossed his face. "You are so weird", I remember thinking.
We stared at each other for a few more minutes, then I started to gather up my things. "Well, I better get going."
"Do you wanna do something tonight? Like go to a movie or something?" He asked quickly, his face eager, as he watched me stand up.
"Um...sure." I said. We made plans and I walked out of the shop, buoyant in the feeling that I had somehow won...even though deep down I knew that if I hadn’t walked into Backroads that afternoon, I probably would never had heard from him again.

That night, Travis apologized about a hundred times for not calling. It seemed that every other sentence he said as we sat at the bar in Wild River was about how sorry he was for not calling, how he did really like me, and that it had nothing to do with me. He had a habit of doing this. No one had ever made me feel as insecure as he did.

***

"That girl is a fox!" Travis exclaimed, looking past me. We were slow dancing at the Cruz a few nights later, and I turned my head to see who he was talking about. I spied a small, petite, bottle-blonde girl standing against the wall, talking to her friends. "She is a fox." He repeated.

I laughed. I still remember the feeling that came from laughing that way; it was convincing, but the sound of it made me feel slightly sick. I wanted to appear confident, cool, laid-back. I didn’t want him to think that I cared that he was not only checking out another girl in front of me and telling me how hot he thought she was, but that she was the exact opposite of me. It struck me sometimes that the way I reacted to things like that was in order to push my feelings down so I didn’t make someone else or the moment uncomfortable. It was like the story of N and Heather, only the caricature version...Travis was the shallow version of N, and he was mooning over the painted version of Heather. All the while, I stood there again, witnessing everything and not having enough balls to call "Cut" and give my critiques to the principal players.

Later that night we sat in my car, talking about the night. Everything had culminated...the fact that he hadn’t kissed me in what was now two weeks, the fact that he hadn’t called for a week, the fact that he would make up for it for a while by being charming and attentive, then turn back around and do something that always made me mentally go "Poor Form # 67 for you."...and that number just seemed to keep sky-rocketing up.
"It’s just that...when you do that, I feel like you’re almost purposely trying to make me feel bad. I can handle you telling me which celebrities you think are hot, or what was so hot about ex-girlfriends, but when it’s right in front of my face, and when you’re paying more attention to them than to me...it’s kind of hard to take."
"I’m sorry." Travis said, staring down at his folded hands. It was the kind of apology that isn’t really meant...it’s more said in hopes that this particular topic of conversation will soon end.

We were quiet for a while, both of us staring at the black pavement of the parking lot I had parked my car in.
"Are you even still attracted to me?" I asked in a small voice. Even as I said it I realized how pitiful I sounded. I had to get it out, though...it was the only answer that I could think of to all the questions that filled my head every time Travis demonstrated his hot/cold behavior. Travis continued to stare forward as he squirmed slightly in his seat.
"I was." he said, looking down at the floor and then at me. "I mean, I am. I don’t know."
"Great answer." I said, quietly, as I looked out the drivers’ side window.

***

My backbone had become my wishbone. So many times I’ll look back at the different times I forgave him, told him to forget about it, and I’ll wonder why I didn’t just tell him to fuck off when I would have done with anyone else. "I’m too smart for you." I would think as I watched him pull another one of his tricks, did something else to demonstrate how desperate he was to make me think he was sly, mysterious, unattainable.

I had my reasons. The most obvious one was that I was bored, and he was the shiniest piece of entertainment I had found thus far. The less obvious reason was that I was so past the point of caring, too sad to give a fuck, that it was easier to just forgive him and forget about it. Sometimes I think about it and explain it away with the excuse that we were just using each other, but I don’t think it started out that way. I think that, in the beginning, Travis wanted to care about me, and there was a small hope inside of me that this might be something worthwhile. I think that, possibly, if we had met at a different time or if both of us had been in different places, we might have meant something to each other. But we were both so lost...and you can’t really attach yourself to someone who has one foot out the door. And we both did.

It was a night at Cruz that broke it. Katy had come up for the weekend, and we had met up with Travis earlier in the night at Anglers. Katy and Travis had hit it off after she had asked him if he was gay. He had laughed and told her that he had gotten that a lot because of his fashion sense and metrosexual-type grooming, and they had bonded over their love of Jaeger shots. Later we hit up the Cruz to dance...Katy and I danced together, while Travis visited the bar at every opportunity to down another shot.

He had caught up to us during a slow song. We were sitting in our booth, and I had just been telling Katy how I would be pissed if Travis didn’t ask me to dance to at least one slow song. Very few things piss me off, and while I know it’s an odd thing, not dancing with me during slow songs is one of them. It’s that whole regression back to being an ugly duckling in middle school and having to suffer the slow songs alone, pathetically standing against the wall of the gym. Travis had tried to make conversation with us, but finally Katy blurted out, "Hey Travis, maybe you should dance with Amber since it’s a slow song." Travis looked at me while I toyed with my beer bottle, trying to convince myself not to be hurt or upset if he didn’t pick up Katy’s direction.

"Do you want me to dance with you during a slow song?" He had asked, his eyes concerned. See, that was the thing...sometimes he could be such an asshole, and then other times he could just kill you with how sensitive and sweet he could be. I nodded, and he took my hand and pulled me out of the booth.

We wrapped our arms around each other just as "Unbreak My Heart" by Toni Braxton came on. His hands slid up and down my back in the kind of hug that a slow song creates, and then he pulled away to look at me.
"I’m sorry if I’ve been...distant lately." He said. I just nodded. "It’s just that I’m trying not to hurt you with some of the stuff I’m dealing with."
"It’s okay," I said quietly. "I know why you do the things you do."
"You do?" He said, surprised. I nodded again.
"Ana." I said, staring at him. He didn’t say anything. He just pulled me towards him and wrapped his arms around me again. We continued to dance, and the words to "Unbreak My Heart" started to make perfect sense. It was one of those weird moments when the cheesiest thing takes on the most profound meaning, and I’ve never been able to listen to that song since without thinking of that night.

Later that night back at the cabin, feeling exhaustion overtake me, I had begged off movies and pizza with Katy and Travis so I could go to bed. Travis came in a few minutes later, carrying the Playboy magazine that Katy and I had bought earlier in the day. It had Gabrielle Reece on the cover, and she was one of the Katy’s "body" idols, so we bought it and had laughed at the fact that two chicks had bought a Playboy to share.

Travis threw me a smirk as he sat on the edge of the bed and flipped through the magazine. "Wow, she’s hot," he said, trying to bait me. "Wow, look at her..."
"Hey, can I see that for a second?" I asked sweetly, motioning for the magazine. He looked at me, that smirk still on his face, and handed it to me. As soon as it was in my hands I threw it against the wall opposite from him, and then went to back to my original position in bed as if the whole scene had never taken place.

His little game ruined, he began to undress...first his puffy vest, then his flannel shirt and jeans, last his socks. I stared at him as he threw back the covers and climbed into bed. He still had his white t-shirt on along with his boxers, and it struck me as strange...he had never worn that much clothing to bed before when he was with me. I wanted to ask him about it, but thought better of it.

At first, both of us just laid there, awake but not talking, neither one of us making a move towards the other...that stiffness you feel when you’re in bed with someone you’re not entirely comfortable with.

Finally he spoke.
"Do you mind if we’re not...intimate...for a while?"
I didn’t know what to say. Part of me wanted to yell, "You call this intimate?!" and the other half just wanted to get out of bed and go sleep on the futon with Katy. Instead I just said a quiet "No." and continued to stare up at the ceiling, grateful that it was dark so he couldn’t see my face.

After a while I noticed that he was crying. His sobs were small and quiet, but unmistakable. I moved towards him and asked him what was wrong. I can’t remember exactly everything that he said, but it was all about Ana. About how he loved her but hated her at the same time for what she was doing to him. How he told her that he loved her every time they talked, but that she still continued to be with other guys, and that now he didn’t even know where she was, that she had just disappeared. How he didn’t want to hurt me but that he was too fucked up to be any good to anyone when he was still so in love with someone else.

I listened to him, and I murmured my understanding, and the whole time I couldn’t help thinking how we were in the exact same position. I think I even told him that I knew how he felt, that I had gone through the same thing once, but I didn’t tell him specifics. I couldn’t. It was all still too fresh, still too raw to want to share it with someone, especially him. I know he would have understood, would have sympathized, but it wouldn’t have mattered. He couldn’t do anything to make it better, just like there was nothing I could do to make him feel better. I knew too well what was at the root of our problem: I wasn’t Ana, and therefore, everything about me was wrong.