One of these mornings, I wasn’t going to wake up.
Nauseous, numb, cold-sweat shivering, head throbbing, and mouth drier than Death Valley, I blindly scrolled through this morning’sBoston Globewhile choking down some glucose tablets and promising myself I wouldn’t let this happen again. I hated these hypoglycemic fogs with a passion, and it took my body hours to truly recover.
The highlight, by far, was a text from Tiel.
05:21 Tiel:in case you forgot, you called me last night. I suspect you were very drunk and will be very hungover when you read this.
05:49 Sam:I didn’t forget. I’ll pick you up at 7 on Friday. I’m spending the night with you and we’re watchingThe Boondock Saints.
05:50 Sam:(thank you for writing in actual words. my retinas would bleed if I had to read text speak)
05:55 Tiel:you’re welcome but you’re rude. RUDE.
05:56 Sam:because I said I’m staying with you?
05:56 Tiel:no. you can always stay with me but how do you know I want to watch that movie? Maybe I want to watchPitch Perfect.
05:57 Sam:we’ll watch whatever you want. just let me take your clothes off and spend the night with you.
If I could hold on to her, I’d be okay.
I HELD A black sheath dress over my body and inspected myself in the mirror. I’d worn that one to an audition. Too boring, and not particularly forgiving when it came to my hips.
“And then the venue crew misplaced the good Strat and all the fiddles,” Ellie said. “Needless to say, we spent a bloody hour going through the vans, calling the last venue, and basically losing our fucking minds. And they were backstage the entire time. I’ve never been so ready to punch someone in the throat as I was at that moment.”
I grabbed a purple sweater dress and rubbed the fabric between my fingers. Too heavy. I’d be a greasy sweatball before we left the apartment.
“Maybe I shouldn’t go,” I murmured.
Sam and I talked throughout the week and continued texting each other first thing in the mornings, and while he frequently referenced wanting to get naked and spend the night with me, I needed more time to sort this out. I was still bruised over last Friday, and that rejection didn’t dissolve because he got drunk and unloaded everything on his mind.
“Oh, lawd. I don’t understand why we’ve had this exact conversation every day this week. He called. He apologized. He was a typical Neanderthal man. Get dressed and go to the damn event!” She swore under her breath. “You’re still into him, yeah?”
I dumped three gray dresses—more audition and formal performance wear—on the bed. They would work for the occasion, or at least from the limited information I was able to extract from Sam, but I hated them with the fire of a thousand suns.
Throw in some black tights and I was my grandmother on her way to Friday evening mass.
“He’s the right combination of cool and nerdy,” I said. “He’s secretly precious.”
I flung two maxi dresses on the bed—too summery, and with a thin layer of icy snow on the ground, it definitely wasn’t summer anymore—and a floaty pink thing I wore to a rustic wedding last spring. Too fairy princess.
“You like hanging out with him?”
I stared at a red dress edged with white cherries. Too quirky.
“Yeah,” I said.
This was the first time in months that we hadn’t gone out during the week, and it was odd not seeing him. Even with his commitment to stream of consciousness honesty, talking or texting wasn’t the same as beingwithhim. I thought about inviting him out on several occasions, but tonight was different from our usual music, drinks, and movies routine.
This ventured into date territory, and I didn’t want to muddy those waters with a mid-week hop for some R&B in Roxbury.
I threw four more dresses to the bed, all printed with random objects—pineapples, cats, bicycles, dragonflies—and sighed. They were perfect for teaching music therapy classes, or sessions with my little buddies, but they weren’t even close to appropriate for an Official Work Event.
“Stop analyzing. Don’t be that analyzer girl,” she said. “We don’t like Analyzer Girl because she spends her whole life reading into everything guys say when she should be kicking ass.”
I glanced at my near-empty closet. Maybe I could get by with jeans and an Abbey Road t-shirt.
“I’m not being Analyzer Girl, really. I’m not. I want Sam like fat kids want cake—and I was a fat kid so I know—but he’s a player who didn’t want to play with me. There’s really no other way for me to interpret that one,” I said. “How many guys do you know who turn down a BJ?”
