Dangerously Close to Bearable, Chapter 3
Things are happening! Let’s see what’s up.
I agonize about what exactly I’m going to say, staring at the blinking cursor like it’s going to do a little dance for me.
Eventually, I just type, and type, and type, have a glass of wine, go to sleep, and read it one more time in the morning.
***
Gonna send this now, then leave you alone.
I’m sorry about my phone call. That was really shitty of me. I don’t know if you’re up on the story (and it doesn’t matter for your feelings, I just want to give context, not let myself off the hook), but Robert and I finally divorced a few months ago, after a year and half of separation. Between paying for the attorneys, working, handling Aiden and Will (my two sons! They’re amazing), and several terrible fucking dates, I just said “fuck it” and you were the first person I called.
I might have moved on if you never answered, or I might have stopped. It doesn’t matter, because we talked, I heard your voice again, and I freaked out because of a lot of things. I freaked out because you were still sweet to me. Because you were willing to talk, even after so long. And because I needed a friend. My best friend, from the old days, who knew me in ways others never could.
But it was shitty of me to freak out because you’re different. I did.
Trust me when I say I didn’t know, and that I don’t care. Not in a bad way. You’re the same person to me—still my friend. Still the same person that held me when we were stuck in a blizzard and I got the call that my granddad had died. When you drove me overnight to pick up the check to stay enrolled.
Nothing changes that. And nothing changes how I feel about you.
(That part doesn’t make sense, but I keep it in)
I love you, and hurting you, knowing I hurt you, tears me up. You deserve better than that.
All I want is a chance to talk, one more time. You can say yes, or no, or fuck off, or just not reply. This is about you, about what you want, what you need, your space, whatever other therapy talk you want to throw in there (Betty and I had a chat about you. I’m so glad you had them to help. And I’m sorry I wasn’t around.).
I don’t know what answer I’m expecting. I just wanted to say this, and you can do what you want.
Thank you, for everything.
And I’m sorry, again.
Amy
***
Yes, there we go, a masterpiece, no notes, send.
I brace myself for the inevitable “fuck off” reply.
***
A week later, I’m still bracing myself. My phone buzzes.
Erica. I’ve changed her name, deleted the contact photo, replaced it with the pic she sent me.
“Call me?”
***
“Hello?” She says.
“Hey.” I let the word hang.
She told me it was okay to call, and I still had to muster up the courage to actually do it.
“How’s it going?” I ask. This is about making the effort.
“Alright. Needed some time, had to cool off.”
“I get it. I’m sorry.”
“For what?” Erica asks. There we go.
No spin, no bullshit. “For trying to use you.”
“What?”
“When I called, I was expecting someone different, and I got you. It knocked me off balance. And I know you’re happier now, but I still talked to you like I was trying to get something from you, and it wasn’t fair.”
The line is silent. I’m terrified. I fucked it up. TWICE!
“That’s…okay. Wow. Not what I was expecting,” she says.
“But I need you to—what?” Yeah, what?
She laughs. “Well, most people in this situation, they’re all, ‘I was so confused, you’re so different, and it made me feel weird, but I’m better now,’ Erica says, “they manage to make it my problem, like I’m some kind of freak that controls their emotions.”
“What?”
“Something up?”
“What?”
“Not gonna do the Pulp Fiction thing. Take your time,” she says.
There we go. “Right, yeah, sorry, fuck.” Deep breath, bearings, honesty. “It wasn’t your problem. I messed up, I made it weird, and you were normal.”
“Definitely deviating from the script, go on…”
“Are you fucking joking around with me?” I ask, a little more severe than I want. “I’ve been melting down for a week about how I was shitty to you and…and…fucking Christ, I’m sorry.”
“Amy, honey, no no no. Just, lighten up.”
“Really? You tear me up for a week—justifiably, I might add—and I come to you, ready to give you my heart, and you talk—“
“Wait—did you just say ‘give you my heart’?”
I’m het up at this point, and momentum has gripped me. “Yeah I did! I was going to say that when I saw you now it made me nervous because you’re fucking gorgeous and I’m a fucking dumpy middle-aged divorcee stuck in a fucking dead end job and I look at you and I see a person that I liked and a person that I like and it’s fucking me up because you’re a woman and if I admit I like you now I…” and the words stop because I’m in entirely new fucking territory.
“Amy, back up. What did you just say?”
“No,” I respond. “I don’t want to say it.” It feels ugly to admit, so creepy and gross.
But to who?
“Amy, babe, it’s okay,” she says, her voice finding that steady, even, comforting cadence she had when we were young. “This, right now, it’s not about me. I mean, it is, but…how about this? Let’s do something simple.”
I’m crying now, the tears hot and stinging. “What do you want?”
“I’m going to admit something to you, right now: I still like you. Do you feel like that?”
“I mean, it’s so complicated, you’re you, and new—weird word, it’s new to me—and it’s—“
“It’s not a hard question. Do you still have feelings for me?”
“Yes! Always! I’ve never felt any different about you, even after you sent me that picture, and it scared me because…because I think you’re beautiful and gorgeous and I would love to kiss you and hold your hand and it makes me feel so gross and objectifying and like I—“
“So you like me. A girl. You are a girl who likes a girl.”
“No, I’m a girl who likes you, a person who happens to be a girl.”
“Distinction without difference, Amy.” The line goes quiet. “Can I tell you something?”
“Tell me? Okay.”
“When you called, and we talked, and I pulled away, I got scared. I got scared because my feelings never changed, and I was terrified yours would. I expected they would. But they didn’t.”
I laugh, an ungodly gross noise, while I sob. “No, they didn’t. They didn’t, and…and I like you. What does that mean?” This absolutely cannot be real, this was not happening. But it was.
“It means I’m going to ask you if you want to get ice cream tomorrow night.”
***
“What did you say?” Betty asks.
“What do you think? Yes!”
We squeal over the phone.
“What’s your schedule?” She asks.
“Why?”
“You’ve had a big milestone! Me and the girls want to celebrate.”
“Are you sure? I’m not exactly the life of the party.”
She giggles. “Oh, it’s not a big deal—Zoey needs an excuse to get free food from Sarah.”
Tune in next week to meet some new characters!