Ann Aguirre - I Want It That Way

Like tonight.

I was sitting on the floor of my closet, hiding, because I was afraid of what the sound of his voice might do to me. There were four saved messages in my voice mail. I hadn’t played them since the day I walked out of his apartment, but tonight, need rose up until it might strangle me. If I didn’t listen to these, then I might call him. That would be a worse way to torture myself.

So I plugged in my earbuds, put them in and played the first one.

Hey, Nadia. I just want you to know I’m thinking about you. Call me.

That one, I played four or five times. I thought about erasing it, but I couldn’t bring myself to do it, not yet. Maybe I’d store these on a USB drive and keep them in a box, along with the notebook that contained my memories of him. Maybe, if I gave all of those feelings a new home, my chest would stop aching. A sound principle, if you believed in transference.

Message two: It’s me. Sam said you showed him how to tie his shoes today. He was so excited, you have no idea. And it means so much to me that you’re good to him.

Ridiculously, I touched a fingertip to my phone, as if Ty lived in there because some evil wizard had cast a spell and locked him away from me like a genie in a lamp. But nothing happened apart from the solitary tear trickling down my cheek. I didn’t like feeling this way, but I had no idea how to stop.

Message three: I miss you. God, this has been a shit day. Call me back?

I played it twice before moving on to the last, the most recent one. He’d left it the day after we got back from the ski trip. Message four: Hey, sweetness. I had an amazing time. There’s just something about you.... Anyway, thanks for being with me. Talk to you soon.

The closet door banged open.

For a supremely awkward moment, I stared up at Courtney and she gazed down at me. The silence was horrendous. “So...I’m not exactly inexperienced at coaxing people out of closets, but I didn’t expect to need that skill set with you.”

I burst out laughing. In that moment I felt sure we’d end up close, not social friendly or I don’t hate you when I’m drunk, but full-on friends. “I was afraid you’d accuse me of doing weird shit to your clothes.”

“I can see you were having a moment with your phone. Listening to ex messages?”

“How did you know?”

“It’s a classic wallowing strategy. You might also put on a shirt he wore or do bizarre things with his pictures. Been there, done that.”

“How long did it take to...stop?”

“With some people, it doesn’t. They never leave you. The guy I dated in high school...to this day, I still talk to him in my head. We have these long, involved conversations, and I imagine him advising me on my love life.”

“That’s weird, Courtney. Why don’t you just call him?”

Her breath hitched. “Because he died when we were seventeen.”

“Jesus. Now I want Angus to take us out and get us drunk.”

“I heard that!” Suddenly, he was standing outside our room like an alcoholic fairy godfather, dangling his car keys.

It ran through my head that I shouldn’t go out tonight. Responsibilities like bills, work, classes, practicum careened through my head until I shook it, denying all the reasons I wasn’t allowed to have fun. One night wouldn’t ruin my life. And I needed a break from trying to prove to my parents that I was worth the way they’d scrimped and saved to get me here.

“I’m in,” I said. “Courtney?”

“Fuck it, why not?”

Laughing, I put away my phone and threw on a sparkly, backless halter and my sexiest pair of jeans. Angus nodded his approval when I came out ten minutes later. Courtney wasn’t far behind. She was wearing more makeup than usual, giving her a sultry look.

“All right, ladies. Let’s do this thing.”

Angus took us to Heat, the closest bar to campus. Since it was within walking distance, it was pretty much always packed with freshmen and sophomores keeping the place loud every night. I appreciated his flawless sense of setting because this was definitely the right venue for us to make asses of ourselves. Considering the people around us, we’d probably be the least obnoxious idiots in the place, even if we got mad drunk.

Courtney and I started strong with tequila shooters. I knocked back four, serious about a liquid cure for what ailed me. She shrugged and kept up, then we went out on the floor to dance with Angus. He already had a crowd around him but he made room, nudging people away so we could form a trifecta of booty-shaking. Courtney was a terrible dancer, worse than Max, but it didn’t seem to trouble her. Me, either. Two more shots, and I wouldn’t care if I took my top off.

Someone came up behind me and moved with me. I couldn’t see his face, but it didn’t matter. Dancing wasn’t the same as taking him home. Arms over my head, I swayed side to side, trying to pretend I felt sexy instead of so incredibly alone. The guy put his hands on my hips. I worked in a slow circle, spinning to face him. The strobing lights made his face look weird and demonic; his eyes flashed red. You’re so drunk. This was fun, right? Exactly the kind of excitement I was supposed to have in college and then reminisce about after I settled down.

I moved away from Gropey and got closer to Angus. He took the cue to glare, driving the other guy off. Courtney was laughing at something, and as I twirled, I spotted a face in the crowd, and shock went through me like a lance. It was dark, smoky and loud. I was wrong; I had to be. But for a few seconds, I thought I’d spotted Ty, and it knocked the buzz right out of me. Tracking through the crowd, I stopped dancing and took a second look. No, this kid was much younger, shorter, too. Only the red hair was similar, and he had a mess of freckles. He noticed me looking and signaled, like we were connecting across a crowded room.

Nope. Sorry. You’re not Mr. Hot Ginger.

To cover my near meltdown, I danced, but I didn’t drink more. You’re fooling yourself if you think booze can wash this away. I remembered how Courtney had said, With some people it doesn’t. They never leave you. Maybe, ten years from now, I would still be having conversations with Ty in my head, remembering everything about him with this awful, aching clarity.

Jesus.

I tried it now in the silence of my head. So work is going well. Grades are up. Everything’s on track, except for how much I miss you. Do you think about me? Courtney had said she got answers from her ghost, but my subconscious was silent, possibly because the guy haunting me was alive and well, living in 1B.

As planned, Courtney got shit-faced, and when Angus was helping her to the car at 2:00 a.m., he realized I was stone sober. She tipped over in the back, giggling, and he shrugged. I circled around the front to the passenger side.

Angus slammed into the car, frowning at me. “I’m pissed off at you. The whole point of this was for you to participate in the age-old letting-go ritual.”

“I’m not ready,” I whispered.

I might never be.

In the backseat, Courtney was singing superloud about how this shit was bananas. I didn’t disagree.

March blended into April, and April to May. Study, work, skim chapters, memorize material, go to the practicum, joke around with the roomies: that was my life. And time marched on. One low night, I crept into Max’s bed, and he held me. We didn’t talk, and the next morning, he said nothing about it. I didn’t feel much better about Ty and me, but he still didn’t answer when I talked to him in my head. At this point, I had no idea if that was good or bad.

I had just finished the last of my finals when my mom called. I’d tried to keep up with them better, sending regular emails—not that she nagged me about it. Today when I answered the phone, her tone was off, echoing with forced brightness.

“Hey, how did exams go?”

“Pretty well, I think. I worked hard this semester.” There had been no reason not to. No weekends away, no sex, no dates. If not for my roomies, people might’ve thought I’d joined a cult structured around abstinence and lack of fun.

“If you have time, your dad and I need to talk to you. Can you call us on Skype?”

“Sure,” I said as a cold hand twined around my intestines. In the years I’d been away at school, my parents had never shown any interest in video chat. “Just let me get my laptop.”

“Okay, honey. We’ll be here.”

Something’s really, really wrong.

On the way to my bedroom, I almost threw up. Somehow I choked it down and called them, as requested. It took a few tries for them to answer, and I could imagine Mom and Dad arguing about how to do it, just like the stupid pine tree. The mental image put a smile on my face, so I didn’t look scared or sick when they finally picked up.

“There you are,” my dad said.

He’d aged visibly since Thanksgiving, even more lines, more gray in his hair. That was enough to worry me, but the look in his eyes? I’d never seen anything like it—a reeling combination of fear and despair, reinforced in the slump of his shoulders. I couldn’t stand it. The only time I ever saw my dad cry was when he buried my grandmother, but that was a grief I could understand. As a kid, you think your father is invincible. You tell other kids that he can beat up their dad, and he will, if they don’t leave you alone.

This man was frightened. He resembled my father, but there was none of his quiet strength, none of the certainty, only hesitation and confusion. That was not my dad. Never in my life had he ever shown any sign that he didn’t know everything. He’s dying, I thought, and then I wanted to jam a metal spike into the brain that could consider such a thing.