The Opposite of Loneliness: Essays and Stories Page 3

  I knew, of course, that their breakup had been mutual and long coming. Brian and Lauren were beyond associated, and their collapse was slow and necessary. I also knew that only days before, I’d engaged in late-night deliberations with Charlotte over whether or not to break things off—that only days before I didn’t think of Brian the way I thought of him now—but neither of those things seemed to matter. Lauren was harrowed, drastically, and my cheeks were smooth and dry. I felt inadequate, cold; my relationship with Brian abruptly grounded.

  For some reason I hadn’t until just then tried to think of the last time I’d seen him. But it must have been Tuesday morning when I darted out of his room and off to class. I’d forgotten my computer charger so I had to ring the doorbell again and I crawled back into bed fully clothed for a minute before I left. I wished I could remember the last thing he said to me but I couldn’t.

  * * *

  The gathering came to a close around noon when UVM’s president (whom none of us had ever seen before) stopped by to give his condolences and explain the logistics of a campus vigil scheduled for a few days later. No one wanted to be the first to leave, but eventually Susannah said she had a rehearsal and kissed Brian’s parents on the cheek before heading back into the snow. Others followed suit, and I was pulling on my peacoat when his mother came over and placed a hand on my shoulder.

  “Claire,” she said, her eyes still welling. “Thank you.” I nodded, opening my mouth and then shutting it. “Brian told me about you, you know that? When I’d call him to check in, he’d tell me about you.”

  I didn’t know what to say.

  “He was an amazing guy.” It sounded so stupid. I wasn’t expecting it but something about speaking to her made my face squint up and I covered it with my hands because I’d started to cry. She moved her hand back to my shoulder and I thought about what Brian would think if he could see us.

  “James and I were hoping you could say something at the vigil,” she said. “William and Adam will be speaking as well and it’d be nice to have you.”

  “Sure,” I nodded again, instinctively.

  “Good,” she said. “I think he’d like that.” There was silence for a minute as she studied me. And it struck me for the first time that she thought I was his girlfriend.

  “Sure,” I said again, for no reason. Comprehending, finally, what I’d just said I’d do. What I’d just agreed to without

  thinking.

  * * *

  That night it sleeted. Thick waves of ice rain pelted down on our pines and the Burlington streets were once again reduced to dark slush. Charlotte and our gay friend Kyle sat around my apartment and tried to watch The Royal Tenenbaums but abandoned it halfway because the whole thing felt stupid and we felt bad for laughing. Personally, I was trying not to think about the fact that I had to stand up in front of the university in two days and say something about Brian. Stand stupidly with a piece of printed paper as Lauren and the rest of them silently sobbed. I’d probably try to get choked up and fail under pressure.

  “Who’s she?” a girl would ask.

  “Apparently they were hooking up?” her friend would answer. They’d look at each other, wax dripping off their candles and onto their paper cup holders, eyebrows raised.

  I had a headache and around three we finally divided off to our beds.

  That’s when I got it. No subject line; just the name, Lauren Cleaver, bolded in my inbox:

  Hey I have a strange favor to ask that’s kind of time sensitive. I’d appreciate if you gave me a call but understand if you don’t want to. Let me know if you don’t so I can figure out some other way to do this. 9175555837.

  L

  I called her immediately. It was three A.M. but the message was sent at 2:15 and I didn’t feel like waiting. It started ringing and I sat up.

  “Hello?” Her voice was strained but clear, and I remembered that she was a singer.

  “Hey. It’s Claire.”

  “Hi.”

  “Hi.” There was silence for about five seconds and I wondered if she was trying not to cry. “Do you know where Brian’s journal is?”

  I didn’t know he’d had one but didn’t want to admit it. Once again I got strangely possessive, like I had something to prove.

  “No,” I said. “I don’t think so.”

  “Okay. Well, it should be in the third drawer of his dresser. He should still keep it there.”

  “All right.” I wasn’t sure where this was going. I heard the small pop of an inhale and realized she was smoking a cigarette. It made me angry.

  “Do you think you could take it?”

  “Why?”

  “Because he wouldn’t want his parents to read it.” I paused and we let silence hang between us again. “I’ve thought a lot about this. It meant a lot to him. His parents will clean out his room and they’ll read it and it will upset them and . . . him.”

  “Why don’t you take it?”

  “Because . . . I don’t have any reason to go over there.” I thought about this for a moment.

  “Ask William to take it.”

  “I don’t want William to read it.”

  “But you want me to?” I was genuinely confused. She paused and I heard her inhale again.

  “You’re not going to,” she said. It was a command, not a question, and I didn’t like the way she was talking to me. I’d always thought she was shyer, soft. “Call William and tell him you left some clothes there you want to pick up . . . you did sleep there, right?”

  I didn’t say anything. Neither did she. I kept the phone pressed to my ear but it sounded like she’d moved it away from her face and I wondered again if she was trying not to cry.

  “Listen,” she said finally. “Just. He wouldn’t want his parents to read it, okay? They wouldn’t want to read it. There’s shit in there about them and him and—if you can’t do it I’ll just figure something else out.” I imagined for a second the way I’d first seen her: singing in that basement with the ukulele and red-pepper lights. She’d seemed so cool, so nonchalant. I wondered if she’d hooked up with someone after that show. Not Brian, obviously, but some other boy with an unshaven face. I wondered if he was in her life now. If she had some guy whose bed she looked forward to when everything was boring. If he knew where she’d been that morning and how he’d felt about it.

  “Fine,” I said. “I’ll do it.”

  “Thank you.” There was silence again and I wasn’t sure if I was supposed to hang up. I wondered if she knew I was speaking at the vigil, but figured she must have. I thought about saying something but didn’t, and we stayed on the line for a while longer, cross-legged on our beds.

  “Bye,” she said suddenly, and hung up before I could respond. I meant to go to bed but I couldn’t sleep—and found myself clicking through all seven hundred of her Facebook photos before I passed out with my hand on my laptop.

  * * *

  The question of whether or not I was going to read it wasn’t a question. As soon as I had the worn leather journal—slipped out, as predicted, from his third dresser drawer—I went into our central library and up into the stacks. I’d taken a sweater as well, a plain green one he wore a lot but that wasn’t distinct enough to be recognized as his, and put it on, which made me feel both sad and safe. I sat at an old desk and opened it from the back, flipping until I saw my name for the first time. His sentences were short, unembellished, repetitive, and it was clear he wasn’t lying to anybody. I scanned quickly, eyes sliding back and forth across the pages, reading paragraphs, excerpts, lists:

  I’m acting weird. I know I’m choosing to distract myself. The Claire thing feels uncertain. A distraction. Re: Lauren, I feel like I’m still not comprehending it all. I act like everything is fine and even now I choose to deal with Claire stuff instead of . . .

  Lauren on Saturday: I sent her a g-chat to which she
didn’t respond (she was at band rehearsal), then texted her. She responded upon leaving, then I responded, then she either didn’t respond or did while my phone was dead. Then I e-mailed her and she may or may not have seen it but didn’t respond and . . .

  Lately I’ve felt a kind of numbness. Like this feeling like I’m faking it all—but maybe it’s just because I’m used to being in love. Like I can hug her and move my fingers along her neck but it’s not real. There’s no emotional desire for closeness. She feels it too I think but it’s funny because I wait for her text messages, hoping she’ll contact me and get really pissed and insecure when she doesn’t. I know she waits before responding which is . . .

  I need to slow things down. I won’t hook up with other people if I have her as an option and I shouldn’t be entering something serious again. But then again, it’s like what William said with his whole “why change options if this one is good” approach. I like Claire. Maybe I need to stop lying to myself about that. I want a girl that’s full of life and enthusiasm and optimism and creativity and assumed profundity. Who I do not have to brag to. Who I can engage in a dialogue. I want honesty, more than anything, probably because Lauren and I lost that. I just don’t think Claire is that person—too sort of sad all the time and self-deprecating. Or maybe she is, and I just need time to myself to . . .

  I worried a lot this week that Lauren might actually be the right girl for me long term, which was depressing because I haven’t had to deal with that whole mindset for a while . . . Not that I made a mistake in breaking up with her. But in that we might have ruined the potential for a future together of some kind. It needed to end for now. THE relationship needed to end for this time of our lives. But it’s obvious I’m not over HER as a person, I just need to admit it. (I know she feels the same.) She had a gig in Laurence the other day and I nearly felt sick thinking about the guys who’d be there to . . .

  I had a dream last night where Claire and I were in a Lauren/Brian state of our relationship. She didn’t want to hang out with me (or I sensed that) and I was compensating by being pathetic and always acting, like pretending that I was happy and cool and fun because I felt insecure about how she felt about me. I’m starting to think Claire should just be my girlfriend!? I don’t know what it is. Maybe I’m just exhausted. BUT it also diminishes the fantasy. Why CAN’T we? Maybe it implies there’s something wrong with the relationship. Some reason . . .

  I almost feel like I’m settling. I dunno. Maybe I’m just not totally over Lauren (true), maybe I’m just unsure about her on a more fundamental level. The fear of course is to start dating Claire and then not stop. I just need to find out if she can be imaginative and interesting and spontaneous and make me laugh and want to build something together. BE something. I guess I’m not crazy about her. Or don’t really know how I feel. She’s sort of into pretension and that’s unattractive. She just has this look on her face a lot. Sort of aloof and wide eyed and her lips purse slightly when she’s looking somewhere or reading the computer. And it just really turns me off. I look at her at those times and I just think like, fuck, I need to get out of this. And then I feel bad about it because part of me really does like her. Lauren was hotter—or at least had a better body (more in shape). And the sex was better. But it’s probably because Claire’s so clearly insecure when she’s naked and . . .

  I went into the bathroom and threw up. I rinsed my mouth in the sink but felt nauseous again and returned to the toilet to vomit a second time, and sat down on the toilet, pressing my fingers into my forehead. I’d never felt so disgusting in my life. Not disgusting—but vacant, punched, like someone had taken a wrench and shoved it into my stomach and twisted it around. I tried to remember that I’d had thoughts like that too. Tried to recount the pros-and-cons list Charlotte and I’d discussed from the depths of my bedroom: he was overemotional, too cocky, didn’t shower enough. And I’d had better sex too. But it didn’t matter.

  I walked out of the bathroom and down the narrow staircases through the books and emerged onto the street and the blaring sun. I opened my phone to call Charlotte but realized I wouldn’t know what to say. I walked a few blocks down Pear Street, passing people who didn’t know me, and felt anonymous and fat. I stopped when I got to the quad and turned around because I had no destination in mind; I thought about texting Kyle but realized, again, that the prospect of articulation was too exhausting. I think the one thing I really wanted in that moment was to text Brian and crawl into his bed; complain about Brian and the vigil and his death and fall asleep with his arms pulled around me and my hair tangling against his sheets. I took out my phone and called Lauren Cleaver.

  “Hello?” she said.

  And I hung up.

  * * *

  That night, I got really fucked up. I had four drinks before we got to the party and did a couple of lines in the bathroom, which I hardly ever do. Spencer was the one with the coke, always was, and he dragged me and Kyle in behind him and locked the door.

  “Claire bear,” he said. “Claire darling, you’re first, you poor thing.” He was gayer than Kyle and the two of us exchanged a look.

  “We’re not talking about it,” Kyle said. “That’s the rule.”

  “That’s not the rule,” I snapped. “You’re making me sound like such an asshole.”

  This time Kyle and Spencer exchanged the looks and I remembered then that they’d hooked up a few times sophomore year. I’d expected everyone at the party to be sympathizing, offering condolences, but it turned out to be the opposite. I think they were all afraid to approach me or figured it wasn’t their place. That, or fewer people knew about Brian and me than I’d thought.

  “Hey, I’m gonna go,” I said, attempting to be genuine. “I’m fine, really, I’ll see you guys in a minute.”

  “Clairee,” Spencer cooed.

  “Look, I’m fine,” I said again. “I’m actually feeling great.”

  And I was. The coke had me instantly angry and empowered. Fuck Brian, I thought now. Fuck Brian and Lauren and his parents and his vigil. It was unfair of them to involve me in all of this and I wanted to scream at one of them, steal a car and drive home to Austin. I would never tell Lauren what Brian had written about her. Never tell her that all this time he was still thinking about her. Doubting their decision, hoping she might text him. I imagined she must have been doing the same thing—loving him alone at night, thinking of him while she was with other guys—and denying her that knowledge, denying her something, gave me pleasure.

  The music pulsed and I wove through bodies and red cups looking for faces I knew. I felt confident now, defiant, and I wanted a circle of people to enter. To tell a story to and hear them laugh. But I couldn’t seem to find anyone I really recognized, and the faces crammed in the living room of 398 Brown Street seemed younger than ever.

  “Who are these people?!” I shouted to a boy next to me. I’d never seen him before in my life.

  “What!?” he shouted back.

  “I said, who are these people? I feel like they’re all eighteen!”

  “What!?” he said again. But this time he walked past me, shrugging, and I went back into the bathroom where Kyle and Spencer were making out.

  “Oh, sorry,” I said, backing away, but Kyle opened the door again a second later.

  “Come on,” he said, taking my shoulders. “Let’s go home.”

  * * *

  I woke up the next morning with a headache behind my left eye and thought seriously about calling Brian’s mother and telling her I just couldn’t do it. That it was going to be too hard. But I think part of me, deep down, wanted to do it, because I didn’t call all morning and by the time the sun set again, I knew it was too late to cancel. I had to prepare something and that was that.

  I opened a Word document and stared at it for a few hours. Charlotte kept bringing me food because she wanted to help and didn’t know what else to do—but I le
t most of it sit cold by my computer, Brian’s musings on my body still fresh in my mind. We watched the end of The Royal Tenenbaums around four (Charlotte thought I could use a fresh start), but I was as lost afterward as I had been before. I played with the idea of framing the whole thing in Keats’s Grecian Urn—talking about how there was something romantic in preservation at a moment of static bliss. But the whole thing felt like an English paper and I realized a note of optimism might actually be inappropriate.

  Around ten P.M. I started to panic. The pressure of the deadline, of the task I had to complete, clarified my already numb condition. I was upset and anxious and overwhelmed—no longer by the circumstances themselves, but by my mandate to assess them. How was I feeling? How were we all supposed to be feeling? What did Brian’s death say about our generation? The ephemeral nature of life? The need to cherish?

  I gave up on profundity and tried writing honestly. Brian was an amazing guy. Even when he was busy with his own work and issues, he always took the time to listen. But every time I wrote these sentences, phrases from his notebook echoed back at me. “I almost feel like I’m settling.” “There’s no emotional desire for closeness.” “Lauren was hotter—Claire’s so clearly insecure when she’s naked.” They pierced me, deeply, and I entered a realm of insecurity I’d never been in before, wary of acknowledging it. I hated Lauren Cleaver more than I’d hated anyone in my entire life and I thought a lot that day about whether she’d sent me to pick up his journal on purpose. Knowing I’d read it, knowing I’d get hurt. But I remembered how swollen her face was, how raw her eyes had been, and had another thought entirely: that she’d asked me in an act of self-protection. Scared of what she might read. Scared of the rejection she might discover.