So how are we supposed to win? On the one hand, the world tells us that capital-L Love is epic, and all-conquering, and the meaning of everything, but on the other, it drills us with this message that we shouldn’t make any sacrifice or effort to pursue it, because that would make us weak, unempowered, desperate, silly girls.
But it’s not silly to want that connection, and it doesn’t mean that we’re weak just because we want to share our lives with someone. I didn’t even lose my mind over Garrett — no giggling or blushing or writing his name in my notebooks — it’s not that simple. Everything I did, I thought I was doing it my way: being independent and grown-up, getting by in school, living my life.
I just wanted him to love me, too.
I exhale, worn out. I thought it would be easy once I was done with the plan: no urge to check my messages, no obsessing over what he’s doing and with whom. But the problem won’t just disappear now that I’m over Garrett. I realize that now. This isn’t about him; it’s something deeper than that. It’s about who I am with him. With anyone.
What happens with the next guy?
I’m going to want to be loved by someone else one day; I’m going to long for him the same way I did for Garrett. More, maybe. So what’s stopping me from doing the exact same thing — molding myself around him without even realizing because I’m so desperate for that connection? It won’t change just because I’ll get older; LuAnn and Dominique are proof of that. They still feel that pull to subsume themselves in somebody else’s life, to go all or nothing for the sake of a relationship. And if they do, then they risk losing themselves, but if they don’t, well, they lose him instead. But it can’t be that simple a choice, can it? There has to be some middle way where I stay myself, in the world I choose, but get love, too.
There must be.
So, you’re officially over him — finally free from romantic agony, loose from the clutches of miserable, lonely woe. You did it. And doesn’t it feel wonderful?
But even though you deserve a party — a celebratory circus, a ticker-tape parade — for your awesome achievement, be warned. The specter of unrequited love can strike at any time, reducing even the most fearless, independent woman to a weepy wreck.
Don’t let it happen again. You were strong enough to strike it down before; you’ll be smart enough to avoid it the next time around.
Love isn’t pain. Heartbreak isn’t noble or romantic. You deserve better, so don’t ever forget.
25
Dominique is gone when I wake up, with nothing but perfect hospital corners on the bedding and an ache in my neck to show she was ever here at all. I trip downstairs, wondering how she went off the rails so spectacularly. Maybe Josh is right, and it really is the quiet ones you need to worry about — the ones with years of rebellion stored up tight, just waiting to burst forth in new, self-destructive ways.
Mom is waiting in the kitchen, with a plate of . . . “Are those pancakes?” I say, shocked. I hop up on the counter and take in the spread: turkey bacon, syrup, even fresh juice. “Like, not from a box or anything?”
She laughs, depositing another batch of pancakes onto the platter, fresh from the pan. The scents of butter and vanilla waft through the sunlit room. “You make me sound like a lost cause in the kitchen.”
“No!” I say, loading my plate with deliciousness. “Well, it’s never really been your number-one strength,” I admit with a grin. “But these are great. What’s the occasion?”
She leans against the counter, already dressed for the day in a smart business outfit, polished and professional. “Well,” she begins, sounding almost cautious, “I thought we could have that talk. . . .”
“Mmm-hmm?” My mouth is full of pancakey goodness.
“Your father called last night.” Mom presses her lips together. “He has . . . a proposition for you. For, us really.”
“Oh.” I stop, the free breakfast not seeming so free anymore. Dad has kept sending his usual postcards and short e-mails from his tour, but his bailing on my birthday still lingers, uncomfortable at the back of every breezy phone call. “Where is he this time?” I ask slowly.
“California, for now. He’s doing some session work.” Mom uses that same neutral tone for whenever we talk about Dad, as if we’re discussing the weather or a TV show. She has a stack of books in her study about positive postdivorce parenting and how important it is to remain impartial in your children’s relationship. “But he’ll be going to Europe for a couple of weeks over Christmas vacation,” she adds. “And . . . he wants you to go along, too. To make up for his canceling these last months.”
I blink. “Europe?”
Mom nods, her expression still unreadable. “He’s playing some shows in London, and then Berlin, Rome . . . I have the itinerary, he e-mailed it to me.”
“Would you . . . ? I mean, would I be allowed to go?” I ask breathlessly, already picturing the quaint cobbled streets of Paris, snow falling softly on the River Seine.
Europe!
“If that’s what you want, then, yes, we would work something out.” Again, Mom stays neutral, hands wrapped tightly around her mug of tea. I pause my fantasy of macarons and chocolat chaud for just a moment.
“You don’t sound too thrilled,” I tell her. She gives a small shrug.
“I don’t think it’s the best idea — you crammed in a tour bus with a bunch of musicians. But . . .” She exhales. “I want you to spend time with him, Sadie. He’s your father. And if the only time he has is this, then so be it.”
That wasn’t a no. Which means, it’s a yes.
I leap up. “Mom! Thank you!” I squeal, burying her in a hug.
She pulls back. “Before you get carried away, just think about it, please?” Mom fixes me with a look. “Think about what it would actually be like. You know how focused he gets, especially on tour. It’s your decision,” she adds. “But don’t go rushing into it. Think about it for a few days before we talk to him.”
“Yes, fine, I’ll think,” I tell her, but the decision was made the minute she said “Europe.” What is there to think about? “And thanks for breakfast.” I grab another pancake to eat on the go. “You’re the best!”
I’m still bouncing when I get to work, just imagining the adventures I’ll have. Garrett will be so jealous. He’s always talked about taking a trip abroad and tracing the footsteps of the great American expat writers who used to hang out in the coffeehouses of Berlin and Paris. He said we’d go together, after high school or when one of us did a college semester abroad, but now I’ll be the one venturing out there before him.