Abilene Christian University

Digital Commons @ ACU

Electronic Theses and Dissertations Graduate School

Summer 8-12-2016

It Took Twenty-Six
Chelsea T. Johnson
ctj14a@acu.edu

Follow this and additional works at: http://digitalcommons.acu.edu/etd

Part of the Nonfiction Commons, and the Poetry Commons

Recommended Citation
Johnson, Chelsea T., "It Took Twenty-Six" (2016). Digital Commons @ ACU, Electronic Theses and Dissertations. Paper 37.

This Thesis is brought to you for free and open access by the Graduate School at Digital Commons @ ACU. It has been accepted for inclusion in
Electronic Theses and Dissertations by an authorized administrator of Digital Commons @ ACU. For more information, please contact dc@acu.edu.
 ABSTRACT

My experience of dating my way through the alphabet by the time I was twenty-

four-years-old has taught me a lot about boys, men, and especially myself. It gave me the

opportunity to learn about and learn from a variety of people from different backgrounds,

both similar and vastly different from my own. I illustrate my journey of self-discovery

through dating, while exploring the major issues I struggled with throughout this time. I

explore themes of abuse, love, lust, pain, insecurity, commitment, spirituality, and self-

discovery in my thesis.

I aim to answer the following questions within the memoir: How has my dating

life/journey mirrored my spiritual journey? In my quest to find love and “the one,” what

did I really find? What obstacles did I have to overcome throughout this journey, and

how did I do that? How have my experiences affected the manner in which I now form

and hold relationships?

This thesis is in the form of memoir. It is an exploration of how I looked for love

in all the wrong places before I realized that I had to love myself first. I tell the stories of

twenty-six relationships I had with boys and men over the years in my quest to find love.

I will explore the manner in which I overcame the pain and loss that I encountered in

some relationships and how I used others as a means to mask this pain or prove

something to myself. Aside from telling the stories about the relationships, the arc over

the entire work will be my journey towards finding true love of self. I will also address
how my spiritual journey with God was affected by the experiences I had and the people I

allowed into my life.

 It Took Twenty-Six

A Thesis

Presented to

The Faculty of the Graduate School

Abilene Christian University

In Partial Fulfillment

Of the Requirements for the Degree

Master of Arts

In English

By

Chelsea Johnson

August 2016
To all those who have loved or hope to one day.
 ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

First, I would like to thank my family for being supportive throughout this long

process. Thank you for bearing with me as I worked through difficult memories and for

being open to discussing my past. I could not have done any of this without you all.

Second, I would like to thank my friends who sat with me in the middle of the

night when I couldn’t stop crying. Who brought me chocolate and donut holes when the

writing process got tough. Who made sure I was eating and not completely immersing

myself in my writing. I would like to specifically thank my roommates, Danielle and

Lydia. None of this would have been possible without you all.

Third, I would like to thank Dr. Weathers. I have learned so much about the art of

writing and grammar from you in this past year. You have helped me to learn how to be

critical of my own writing, and you have showed me how there is always room for

improvement. I have valued the time spent working with you, and will always be aware

that non-restrictive commas are my blind spot when writing. Thank you so much for

everything you have done for me.

Finally, I would like to thank all of the boys and men that I write about in this

book. Thank you for giving me permission to write about your stories and for providing

me with alternate names. Thank you for being gracious readers of my accounts of our

stories together. Mainly, I thank so many of you for remaining some of my best friends

even after terrible breakups.

 TABLE OF CONTENTS

INTRODUCTION ................................................................................................ iii

ALPHABET GLOSSARY.......................................................................................1

I. A...............................................................................................................................7

II. B .............................................................................................................................17

III. C .............................................................................................................................19

IV. D.............................................................................................................................25

V. E .............................................................................................................................29

VI. F .............................................................................................................................34

VII. G.............................................................................................................................38

VIII. H.............................................................................................................................48

IX. I ..............................................................................................................................55

X. J ..............................................................................................................................57

XI. K.............................................................................................................................62

XII. L .............................................................................................................................67

XIII. M ............................................................................................................................71

XIV. N.............................................................................................................................79

XV. O.............................................................................................................................80

XVI. P .............................................................................................................................92

XVII. Q.............................................................................................................................95

XVIII. R .............................................................................................................................99
 XIX. S ...........................................................................................................................102

XX. T ...........................................................................................................................141

XXI. U...........................................................................................................................144

XXII. V...........................................................................................................................149

XXIII. W ..........................................................................................................................159

XXIV. X...........................................................................................................................165

XXV. Y...........................................................................................................................181

XXVI. Z ...........................................................................................................................186

REFERENCES ....................................................................................................191
 INTRODUCTION
When I began Shelly Sander’s memoir class, we were assigned to write three

pieces throughout the semester that somehow corresponded with one another. As I began

to ponder potential topics, I had a particularly odd experience with someone I was dating

at the time, Matthew. I have used writing as a tool to uncover some truths in my life and

sort out confusion, so with this knowledge, I took to writing when I became confused

about what I saw and felt about uncovering a nasty truth in Matthew’s trash can. I will

admit the story spilled itself on the page without much prompting from me, and the

amount of personal discovery I made was surprising. From there I began to think about

how I could connect other autobiographical events I have experienced with the one I had

just written, and I turned to my journals as a source of inspiration. I have been writing in

journals for years now, so a good portion of my adult life is meticulously documented on

the pages within various peacock-adorned bound journals.

As I opened up one of my first journals and flipped through the pages, I came to

the last page that had a list of names and tally marks. Instantly my mind wandered back

to the time when I kept track of every boy I dated, and as I read through the admittedly

lengthy list, I began to remember all the stories from all the dates and relationships I had

been in at various stages of my life. As I continued thinking about the list of names and

the stories of boys that hadn’t worked out, I realized that I had dated my way through the

alphabet. This shocking discovery made me question my dating habits. At that point, it

occurred to me to write about some of the stories from these relationships that lacked

iii
 iv

closure for the two remaining personal essays for the memoir workshop to learn more

about myself and why these relationships didn’t work out. .

When I thought about what I should write for my thesis, the idea came to me rather

quickly to tell the stories from each of the dates and relationships. I knew that I had

universal experiences that would resonate with a large portion of the population. I was

searching for love in my life, like so many others are and have before me. However, I

have often found myself questioning if I am good enough to deserve the kind of love and

partnership that I desire, or if it even exists. Love is the one thing that ties any human to

another, and I had learned a lot about what to do and not to do in order to find it.

It was at this point that I moved to Romania for the summer, working and writing.

I began to truly sort out all this confusion and loneliness through exploring my journals

and for a few months removing myself from any world that I was familiar with. I

discovered that I took my running career and applied it to my personal life. I run when

situations get difficult. I run physically, from relationships to traveling around the globe. I

run emotionally, from burying events like rape so deep inside that it took me years to

begin the process of healing and isolating myself from others. I discovered that I had

been searching for love with all of these boys and men, and yet, I had neglected to find

the first love that matters most: the love of self.

It was after this realization that the idea for my thesis morphed into what it is now;

it took dating more than twenty-six people for me to figure out that I needed to love

myself first to find the happiness and peace that I desired and deserved. It took twenty-six

different relationships for me to realize that my self-worth wasn’t wrapped up in another

human being. It took twenty-six for me to learn the biggest lesson of my life.
 v

The Writing Process

Someone gave me a journal when I was nine-years-old and moving to Katy,

Texas. However, instead of using it as a journal I used it as a place for my directory of

pen pals for the next few years. I used all of three pages until I moved to London when I

was twenty. I packed it in my suitcase on a whim to document my travels and stories

from my time abroad. Soon I began writing bits and pieces of my time abroad in the

journal, but it quickly developed into much more. I began to write down everything that I

saw, experienced, thought, and questioned. Writing became my outlet for frustration and

confusion, and it became a way for me to make sense of life and the world. This outlet

morphed into a passion for the written word and how it can be molded to help others

understand emotions and situations. I began writing poetry and continued journaling

diligently, and then I began this project of writing a full-length memoir about my dating

life.

I encountered numerous problems throughout the writing process, but the main

ones that I struggled with the most were fear of writing the truth and the judgment that

may come from that and writing characters with compassion.

Madeleine L’Engle states in Walking on Water, “ridicule is a terrible witherer of

the flower of the imagination. It binds us where we should be free” (103). This statement

alludes to what I was experiencing as a writer throughout the great majority of the

creation process. Numerous chapters of my memoir contain pieces of my life that I am

not proud of looking back on them, but they were essential to molding me into who I am

today. Periods during my life when I questioned the existence of God and renounced my

faith are reflected in the actions that I take with creating and maintaining relationships in
 vi

my life. It is this aspect of my memoir that I have struggled with. I have a choice as a

writer to “sugar coat” certain stories or leave out details; however, by doing that I am

compromising the essential truth embedded in the story. Throughout writing my memoir,

I struggled with how much to tell the reader and how much to hold back. L’Engle

explains how “art should communicate with as many people as possible, not just a group

of the esoteric elite,” and this illustrates how I began to view writing the messy bits of my

memoir. I am a flawed narrator and my readers are also imperfect, so I would be doing a

disservice to my experiences, the lessons I have learned, and myself by holding back in

my writing, no matter what the consequences are in regards to being morally judged by

peers and superiors.

Another challenging aspect I encountered was writing the characters that appear

in my story and the stories themselves with compassion. During my first year of graduate

school at Abilene Christian University, I had a professor present a quote about charitable

reading to the class. I wrote it into my spiral notebook and never forgot how important it

was to read charitably, even when it is ideas that contradict your own. I brought this idea

into my writing. I wanted to write charitably and provide compassion towards all the

individuals in my story, no matter how difficult that was. I found it extremely difficult to

remain compassionate and charitable towards the people in my life that have hurt me the

most; however, taking this challenge pushed me to really think about everything that

happened from another viewpoint. I discovered that numerous times some of these

situations where I thought I was only the victim were actually partially perpetuated by

me. This realization was a very large pill to swallow and frankly scared me away from

writing for a while because I was terrified of learning more about the situations I was
 vii

writing about. In the end, this was the greatest challenge and gift I could give myself as a

writer and a person because it allowed closure to occur in most of the chapters.

Comparable and Contributing Works

Wild, by Cheryl Strayed, is a memoir documenting a woman’s journey along the

Pacific Crest Trail, but along that excruciatingly long hike she must face her past and the

mistakes she has made along the way in order to reach, going into her future, a state of

peace. Cheryl Strayed is a solo female, self-supported long-distance hiker, and this

adventure pushes her to her physical limits as she faces lack of food, water, a boot, and

numerous other challenges. Strayed also works through emotional baggage throughout

her three-month-long hike. She processes her father’s abuse towards her mother, her

mother’s decision to leave, and the early death of her mother, whom she was dearly close

to. Her mother remarried, but after her mother’s death, Cheryl’s stepfather remarries and

she loses the only parental figure she has left. Also, she works through the collapse of her

marriage due to her numerous affairs and heroin addiction. Her physical journey mirrors

the emotional journey she is going through.

I took this memoir with me to Romania, and it was one of the few books I had in

English. I read and reread Wild at least half a dozen times. I connected on a deeply

personal level with Strayed and her story; while different, we have both gone through

life-altering pain and loss and we have both grappled with coming back from it. This

memoir and story pushed me to want to be as honest with myself and my reader as

possible in order to learn the lessons I needed to learn.

While the structure of this memoir is different than how I structured my memoir, it

is the manner in which she writes about her past that I am trying to emulate in my
 viii

writing. Strayed hits on many topics that are typically taboo in the world of female

writing: adultery; the enjoyment of sex; drug addiction; and the loss of family, both

intentional and unintentional. This manner of being so open with the reader allows for an

immense amount of trust and respect to be formed. It is this relationship that she builds

with the reader that allows her to speak her truth, no matter how ugly it is. She doesn’t

glorify her past choices, but she also doesn’t shy away from revealing her darkest

mistakes and lowest moments. I think that by being honest with the audience one

establishes credibility and a deeper connection with them. I am attempting to do this in

my writing as I explore some of my past decisions that I am not proud of, but that I know

I had to go through in order to get where I am today. I think honesty about how messy

life can be will resonate with readers and create a bond between the audience and the

author that will allow others to draw inspiration from my journey.

The manner in which Cheryl Strayed flashes back and forth between the present

and the past is a beautiful craft, and throughout It Took Twenty-Six I am trying to make

the transitions between memories and thoughts as seamless as her transitions are. She

also doesn’t flash back in sequential order throughout her memoir but instead allows

aspects of her journey along the trail to trigger memories. This is a more realistic manner

of working through the pain and loss in life rather than chronologically. In my memoir, I

do not present my story in a chronological manner, but in alphabetical manner. I’m

attempting to ensure that the reader is still able to follow along easily, as I was able to in

Cheryl Strayed’s memoir.

Swimming Studies, by Leanne Shapton, is a memoir that follows Shapton’s journey

as a swimmer and the transition from competing for a spot on the Olympic team to
 ix

discovering how the sport will fit in with her new life as a non-competitive swimmer. She

struggles to find a new identity and passion for life after closing the chapter of

competitive swimming because it is all she has known up until that point. The journey to

mesh her love for swimming and art, such as painting and photography, is a fascinating

one.

My favorite characteristic of Leanne Shapton’s memoir is that it is nontraditional

and contains aspects other than writing to facilitate her story. She incorporates

photography and art throughout the memoir, which truly conveys the intermingling of

passions that she has. I incorporate these techniques into my own memoir. There are

passages straight from my journals, that are raw and unfiltered, and there is no way to

describe how I was feeling other than how I wrote it in the moment. I think it is beneficial

to incorporate images from my journals and other visual aspects I collected that help to

illustrate different aspects of each relationship in the text. Also, I have enjoyed writing

poetry for years, and there are a few poems that I incorporate in the chapters detailing my

relationship with Anthony and Vincente. Additionally, one of my chapters is primarily a

poem that I wrote about rape and my experience. The structure for this chapter is

especially important because I feel that allowing the reader to know what happened to me

is crucial to the understanding of the rest of the memoir, but by constructing it in poetry, I

do not have to go too far into detail about the actual incident.

Love Does, by Bob Goff, chronicles the adventures experienced by Goff

throughout his life that taught him more about God. He talks about the journeys he has

gone on solo, with his wife, with his children around the world, and his search for finding

some “whimsy” in the everyday adventures as well. After a new story in each chapter, he
 x

reflects on what he learned from God, then and now. Throughout his memoir Bob Goff

takes readers with him on his journey and helps them to learn from his mistakes and

triumphs, and in the end of it all, he leaves the audience feeling inspired to live life in

search of the small adventures that make up the everyday. Goff wants his readers to

discover the magic in everything God has touched and to help create more magic in the

world.

I do not follow the organization of Bob Goff’s narrative, mainly because I found it

too simplistic. I don’t appreciate the lack of complexity in the structure or the manner in

which he literally spelled out the lessons he learned from each of these experiences.

However, I did leave the book feeling inspired, which made me reflect on what he was

accomplishing in the text. He is using his life, mistakes and triumphs, as teachable

moments, and by making himself vulnerable about how he didn’t have a plan most of the

time, he connects with the reader. He also wants the reader to learn about God and the

power of love through the telling of his story. The main aspect that interests me in his

memoir is that he has highlighted love as an unstoppable force within the world, and that

is similar to the large arc that I thread throughout my narrative. However, I do not want to

belittle my readers by structuring this in too simplistic a manner for them by spelling out

the lessons I learned. I craft my memoir in a manner that allows the readers to learn with

me through reading my essays. I want my readers to understand that love is complex and

powerful, and yet despite that, it is one thing that drives us all to be better and do better.

Angry Conversations with God, by Susan E. Isaacs, is a memoir centered on the

concept of a woman going to couples counseling with God. She explores the various

aspects of her life, her spiritual journey, and her dissatisfaction with the Lord and her life.
 xi

Throughout the memoir, the reader goes through the journey of comprehending life and

what has happened in the course of it through the lens of a struggling Christian woman.

She illustrates a woman losing and finding her faith numerous times throughout her life

and her search for love.

The manner in which she addresses religion, within the text, is honest and real, and

her vulnerability with the readers in sharing with them intimate mistakes and struggles

with God establishes credibility and trust. This is something I try to emulate in my own

memoir. As a Christian woman who has struggled with my faith over the years, I

connected well with her story, and although I would not want to write my memoir in the

same structure, I would like to create a similar relationship with Christian readers. I

discreetly address the struggles of living as a Christian woman within a broken world and

trying to find love. The central arc of my memoir is the personal journey to find love and

how my spiritual journey reflects the people I allowed in my life at the time.

How Faith Influenced My Writing Decisions

I grew up in a Methodist household. I was born and raised in the church; however,

my journey with my faith hasn’t always been so straightforward. During my years at

college, I began to question my faith. I had reached the first rough patch in my

relationship with God, and unfortunately, this was only the beginning. During my second

to last semester of college I was raped and it was after this that I lost my faith entirely for

the next two-and-a-half years before slowly coming back to the church and God.

This living in the faith, leaving it, and coming back to it has influenced my life

decisions and the way I handle relationships. I have found through the writing process
 xii

that my love for myself mimicked my love for God in many ways, and that is reflected in

my writing as one of the major themes. Love of self.

My memoir is far from what some would deem a Christian text, as it includes sex,

excessive drinking of alcohol, and the act of running away from all the problems and love

in my life. However, it was through the act of writing and revising this memoir that my

dwindling and almost diminished faith in God returned slowly as I worked through the

stories. It was my initial upbringing in the church that helped me realize that I had to

forgive myself and let go of what I had blamed God for in my life.

Leo Tolstoy’s book, What Is Art? deals with the difficult task of attempting to

define “good” and “bad” art. Tolstoy discusses numerous theories and manners in which

art can be classified into the two categories, but it is his emphasis on art as

communication that struck me. “In order to define art precisely, one must first of all cease

looking at it as a means of pleasure and consider it as one of the conditions of human life.

Considering art in this way, we cannot fail to see that art is a means of communion

among people” (Tolstoy 37). This way of looking at art has been reassuring to me as a

writer. It is one of my missions to reach people with the accounts of my life and

hopefully help them in their own lives in some manner. With this goal in mind Tolstoy’s

account of art as communication has served as a resource that reassures me to remain

truthful, even when it is difficult, in order to communicate that with potential readers.

Tolstoy continues to explain that “as the word which conveys men’s thoughts and

experiences serves to unite people, so art serves in exactly the same way … that through

the word a man conveys his thoughts to another, while through art people convey their

feelings to each other” (Tolstoy 38). This unification of people through words and art is
 xiii

what connects us all. Life experiences and the feelings that accompany these experiences

are commonalities that all people will have. While some of the readers of my memoir will

not share in all the experiences and feelings, most people will identify with at least one of

the themes in the memoir. Most notably, the discovery and perpetual working towards

loving oneself and others.

` In Madeleine L’Engle’s book Walking on Water, she discusses how one can be a

Christian artist and how art produced by non-Christians isn’t necessarily good art. This

book initially infuriated me. The fact that she was able to so quickly write off artists who

do not know the Lord or have a personal relationship with him rubbed me the wrong way.

I have been the artist that she is denouncing in certain periods of my life and reading

Walking on Water made me feel less accepted as a new Christian artist and made my

previous work feel less worthy. However, after looking at the text more closely, I came to

understand L’Engle a little more. She is not degrading nonbelievers and their art, but

instead believes that God is working through them even if the artist isn’t consciously

aware:

It has often struck me with awe that some of the most deeply religious

people I know have been, on the surface, atheists … . Many atheists deny

God because they care so passionately about a caring and personal God

and the world around them is inconsistent with a God of love, they feel,

and so the say, “There is no God.” But even when one denies God, to

serve music, or painting, or words is a religious activity, whether or not

the conscious mind is willing to accept that fact. Basically there can be no
 xiv

categories such as “religious” art and “secular” art, because all true art is

incarnational, and therefore “religious.” (L’Engle 25)

This sentiment of L’Engle’s that God is working through all of us regardless of if we are

believers or not, and that he manifests himself in our creations is something I agree with.

As someone who has struggled to consistently believe in God’s love and role in my life

and as a writer, I have found grains of truth in this thought. In the beginning of the

writing and creation process of this memoir, I spent a lot of time planning and thinking

about what to write. However, once I began the process of getting the first draft of each

chapter, I felt the memoir take on a life of its own. The memoir took control, and I was

merely a medium that the art was using to create itself. This feeling of losing control of

the final project was terrifying at first, but at it progressed I felt more secure in what I

was writing, the messages and themes I was producing, and the love that was being

poured into every page. I will say that the writing process brought me closer to God, and

while this may not be deemed a traditional Christian text, it was produced with love and

honesty, which are two of the foundations in my belief in a higher power. It was grasping

these two components of life, dissecting them, and putting it all back together that taught

me so much about why my life has been filled with the experiences it has. This taught me

that “the discipline of creation, be it to paint, compose, write, is an effort towards

wholeness” (L’Engle 70).

Flannery O’Connor’s article “The Nature and Aim of Fiction” provides insight as

to how essential the truth is in writing. “The person who aims after art in his work aims

after truth” (O’Connor, “Nature and Aim of Fiction,” 65). I found this to be especially

true when writing memoir. I felt that it was in the best interest of myself and readers to be
 xv

completely truthful in my writing, even when that was painful, because it allowed me to

grow as a writer and a human who has been hurt, and I also believe that this will help

readers the most. In a world where everything is filtered and posed in a way that hides

imperfections, exposing the messy truth makes me uncomfortable; however, I think it is

my responsibility as a Christian to display the world as I have known it.

O’Connor also goes on to talk about what happens during the writing process and

the creation of art. “The writer has to judge himself with a stranger’s eye and a stranger’s

severity. The prophet in him has to see the freak. No art is sunk in the self, but rather, in

art the self becomes self-forgetful in order to meet the demands of the thing seen and the

thing being made” (O’Connor, “The Nature and Aim of Fiction,” 82). I found this to be

true during the revision process; the memoir took on its own life, and I was merely the

facilitator for bringing it further into life. I had to forget about my personal ego and

wants, and instead I had to cater to the needs of the work being produced.

In George Steiner’s article, “Real Presences,” he states that “the difficulties which

the artist faces when he seeks for an idiom truthful to his creative experience in a society,

in a moment of history where the frankly theological is so largely held in derision”

(Steiner 223). This knowledge that we are in the midst of living during a time when God

and theology are under constant attack makes writing as a Christian especially important.

I have spent considerable time debating if this text is worthy and will be deemed

beneficial to society. Will it help others see faith and its impact in my life? Will it

inspire? Or will it further harm society? Wayne Booth in his introduction to The

Company We Keep: An Ethics of Fiction, also asks these questions of everything he

reads. Does it “morally, politically, or philosophically” benefit us (Booth 5)? The honesty
 xvi

of my story, my humanity, and willingness to learn from my mistakes makes my memoir

beneficial to others, as well as, for me.

 ALPHABET GLOSSARY
Anthony
Noun | An·tho·ny | \`an(t-thǝ-nē\
1. Mexican chef of Italian food.
2. Unsuccessful salesman.
Verb
3. Breaks boundaries between employees.
4. Abusive.

Brian
Noun | Bri·an | \`brī·ǝn, `brēn\
1. Heart of gold.

Colby
Noun | Col·by | \ˈkōl-bē\
1. Appearance then: swimmer who didn’t care.
2. Happily married.
3. Appearance now: preppy posh; the female of the relationship.

Dan
Noun | \ˈdan\
1. Slobbery, drunk kisser.
2. Midwestern actor lost in Britain.

Ethan
Noun | Eth·an | \ˈeth-ən\
1. Buff.
2. Blond
3. Bold

1
 2

Frank
Noun | \ˈfraŋk\
1. Swimmer and water polo player at all-male Catholic school.
a. Somehow straight
2. Pressured to date high school friend.
3. Has never dated since …

Gus
Noun | \-ˈgəs\
1. Hercules.
2. Boomerang fuck buddy.
3. Fallback.

Hugh
Noun | \ˈhyü\
1. Childhood best friend.
2. Decade long crush.
3. Disastrous social experiment.

Isaac
Noun | Is·aac | \ˈī-zik, -zək\
1. A good one.
2. Breaker of jock stereotypes.

Jonathan
Noun | Jon·a·than | \ˈjä-nə-thən\
1. The first.
a. Boyfriend
b. Kiss
c. Cheater
 3

K
Noun | \ˈkā\
1. K follows I.
2. The other man for the other woman.
3. Gamophobic.

Lyman
Noun | Ly·man | \`lī-man\
1. Early riser—coffee required.
2. Celebrator of archaic holidays.

Matthew
Noun | Mat·thew | \ˈma-(ˌ)thyü\
1. Unskilled in household cleaning, not Mary Poppins.
2. Playboy

Nate
Noun | \`nāt\
1. Childbearing hips.
2. In constant state of denial.
3. Current occupation: youth minister.

Ovidiu
Noun | O·vid·iu | \`o-vd-įu\
1. International creep
2. Wears poorly grown goatee, mainly moustache.
3. Kisses cause crying.
 4

P
Verb | \ˈpē\
1. To close the door on naivety.
2. To disrupt.
3. To open eyes.

Quon
Noun | \ˈkwän\
1. Not James Bond’s Q.
2. Waits in queue.
3. Understands social cue.

Roberto
Noun | Ro·ber·to | \`ro-`bēr-tō\
1. R follows X.
2. Like leftovers.
3. Breaks bro-code.

Sailor Boy
Noun | Sail·or Boy | \ˈsā-lər(ˌ)bȯi\
1. Out lost at sea.

Tyler
Noun | Ty·ler | \ˈtī-lər\
1. Best two-stepper in the world.
2. Code name: Bumblebee
3. Operation second dance.
4. Mission incomplete.
 5

Umberto
Noun | Um·ber·to | \(ˌ)əm-ˈber-(ˌ)tō\
1. Hasn’t read C.S. Lewis
2. Existential small talk.
3. Sender of the dick pic.

Vincente
Noun | Vin·cen·te | \ˈvin(t)-sən-te\
1. Traveler*
a. Viajero, viajante, voyageur, utazó, ‫ﻣﺴﺎﻓﺮ‬

*Following may result in placement on the travel watch list

Westyn
Noun | Wes·tyn | \ˈwes-tən\
1. Sweetheart
2. Misinterprets signals.
a. Worst first kiss.
X
Noun | \ `eks\
1. 1. A highly heterosexual male practiced in the art of on-and-off-again relationship
… for four years.
2. 2. He thinks inside the box and likes wings while watching sporting events but
won’t drink a beer.
3. 3. The quintessential tall, blond, blued-eyed basketball player; Thor.

Yenne
Noun | Yen·ne | \`yǝn-nē\
1. Dropout
2. Drunk
3. Delinquent
 6

Zach
Noun | \`za-kə\
1. Yellow
a. Lemon
b. Corn
c. Tuscan sun
d. Flax
A
A Poem for Anthony

I wanted your touch,

but not upon my heart.
We agreed to simplicity,
not this constant conversation
filled with questions
and secret truths revealed
in separate beds shrouded by darkness.
Now I want your mind
to touch my soul instead of my body.
I consent to the complexity
of knowing you.

I hand you my tattered red spiral notebook of handwritten poems, turned to the

page where I scribbled your poem in blue ink during my lunch break a few days ago.

Giggling as I retreat under the olive-green sheets, I try to escape from your hands

reaching to hold me as you read words that expose me. Words that undress me slowly,

leaving me naked and under scrutiny. This is the first time I have ever let anyone read my

poetry outside of an academic setting. I tremble, as I curl myself into a ball at the bottom

of the bed. Waiting. Waiting for a reaction. Waiting for a verdict.

I feel you crawl over the comforter and sheets down to my corner of the bed.

Slowly I am pulled into your embrace, wrapped in all my bedding, and I notice your pale

arms that contrast against my summer skin.

7
 8

“Thank you for letting me read your poem,” Anthony whispers in my ear before

kissing my cheek.

Verbalizing words seems impossible. The tension existing in every molecule of

my body overwhelms my capacity to respond. Am I relieved? That he is still here? Or

even more terrified? That he wants to stay? Terrified isn’t the right word… . I don’t know

what I am.

***

I roll over and swing my bare legs over the edge of my bed. They hang above the

ground. The dry air greets my hot body and cools the sweat between my toes and under

my knees. My body is still tingling as I catch my breath. Anthony begins to run his

fingers along my spine, stirring ripples across my skin.

“Chelsea, I love you.”

I stare out my window and watch the train, across the empty grass lot, move

quickly. The graffiti blurs into a mass of colors that my eyes can no longer differentiate. I

listen to the tack-tack of the wheels racing along the track; the sound comforts me.

“Chelsea?”

“Yes?”

“Did you hear me?”

“Yes.”

“And?”
 9

“And what do you want me to say?”

***

I am locked into the fetal position on the floor. Pain emanates from my lower

abdomen and spreads throughout my body. The agony paralyzes me for minutes at a

time. I cannot breathe. I need to get to my phone. I need help. I crawl across the beige

carpet—the carpet is so soft and I can make my fingers disappear in the shaggy fibers; I

wish I could subdue the daggers trying to scratch their way out of my intestines—I need

to get to my bedroom door, which leads to the kitchen where my purse is, where my

phone is.

My shins cut into the carpet in the doorway of my bedroom, while my forehead

rests on the cool wood. I notice the graining in the kitchen for the first time; I feel with

my right hand the minor water damage from Tuxedo’s bowl next to the column that

marks the entryway to the open kitchen. Seven feet and I will reach the barstools where

my obnoxiously teal purse is. Thirty minutes or maybe forty minutes later—what is time

when you think you might be dying—I reach the barstools and slowly pull myself upright

using its legs and the overhanging counter. With my phone finally in hand, I sink down

against the wall, disintegrating into a pile on the floor, calling Anthony.

“Hey, what’s up?” he answers in his monotone voice that has rough edges from

years of smoking.

A sob frees itself, and a barely audible whisper enters the iPhone, “Come … I …

need you.”
 10

Thirty-seven minutes later there is a knock at the front door downstairs; unable to

yell downstairs that it is unlocked, I find my phone lying next to me and text Anthony:

It’s open.

The door opens, screeching against the tile floor. It really needs to be adjusted.

The dogs begin barking, and relief cools me momentarily before the stakes of hot iron jab

at my abdomen again.

He sees me at the top of the stairs, leaned up against the wall with my legs tucked

up to my chest and my weak arms struggling to wrap the pain into a smaller area, he asks

in quick succession, “What’s wrong? What is hurting? What do I need to do?” I am

unable to speak as the stabbing pain develops into a searing sensation; a look of concern

comes over his face, and his sleepy eyes look suddenly alert as he asks, “Do I need to

take you to the hospital?”

I shake my head no. I hate going to the doctor. I hate being weak. What is wrong

with me?

He picks me up gently and moves me to the couch. He watches the strain cross

my face, as my body moves and shifts among the settling pillows.

An hour passes and none of the water, medicine, or crackers has done anything to

alleviate the now near unbearable fire growing in my abdomen and taking over my entire

body.

Hesitantly he asks, “Do I need to take you to the hospital?”

 11

I can hear in his tone that this isn’t a question anymore; this is a statement of what

is about to happen. I nod my head, letting the realization hit me that mind really isn’t over

matter in this case.

He helps me into his banged up white truck, and I remember the first time I

noticed him.

I remember when he ran into the yellow pole that left a dent two feet wide on the

right rear wheel well. The yellow paint scratched into the white paint served as evidence.

He was rushing to meet us so that we could all car-pool for the big conference in New

Orleans. He was only my boss then, the assistant manager in charge of all the account

managers. I didn’t know him as Anthony then.

Once I am at the hospital, I fill out paperwork to admit myself. My hands are

shaking, and I feel my head floating around the waiting room, eavesdropping on others’

conversations, hoping to find out what their ailments are and if I have a chance of beating

them into being admitted first.

“Chelsea Taylor Johnson,” a voice in the corner reads off like a recording.

Anthony helps me unfold out of the hard chair that only serves to exacerbate any illness

one is suffering from, and assists my slow walk to the back corner towards help.

“Is he family or a spouse?” the nurse asks in the same monotone manner.

“Umm, no he is … .”

I don’t know what Anthony is. Is he my boyfriend? Do I want him to even be my

boyfriend?
 12

“He is a friend,” I mumble.

“Alright, I will take her from here, sir. You can wait out here.”

A urine sample, ultrasound, and CT scan later and I am in a room, watching late-

night cartoons, giggling as the drugs begin to kick in and the pain slowly subsides. I

detest the stupid humor in adult cartoons. I can’t believe I am laughing at this. Where is

the clicker? This is embarrassing. I am too smart for this. The nurse walks in to check my

IV and see how my pain levels are.

“Can Anthony come back here now?” I ask.

“Who is Anthony, sweetie?” the new nurse asks, as she continues to move around

the room checking various machines. “How is your pain on a scale of one to ten? Are you

cold? Hot?”

High on pain medication, it takes me a moment to consider which question to

answer first. “Five, maybe closer to a four now … and it’s cold in here. Are there any

extra blankets I could have?” I say, careful to pronounce the words properly. I feel like I

am drunk. “When will the doctor come back and tell me what’s wrong?”

“Your test should be ready soon, and then she will come talk to you.” Warm.

Concerned. This nurse is much kinder than the nurse in the waiting room. Or is it the

drugs talking?

“Oh, ma’am, when can Anthony come in? He is the one who brought me here.”

With a sympathetic look she responds, “I’ll go find him, sweetie.” When she

leaves the room, a woman who looks like she should be the doctor walks in. She has
 13

scans of my stomach and begins talking to me. I don’t understand any of the medical

jargon. Do they provide a translator? That should be a job. Oh wait, kidney stones. I am

trying to pass multiple, large kidney stones. They weren’t kidding when they said those

hurt. The kind nurse comes back into the room.

“They showed me who brought you in, and he is asleep in the waiting room. I

tried to wake him up but I couldn’t,” she says.

“Could you try again, please, I really want him back here.”

“I’ll try again.”

She scurries out of the room. Four minutes later she returns alone.

***

Anthony is standing over the stove, sautéing mushrooms and onions in one pan

while braising chicken in another. He grabs the bottle of Pinot Noir on the granite counter

top, splashes some in with the mushrooms and onions, and then proceeds to pour us

glasses. I hop up onto the counter and sit there, Indian style, sipping on my wine while

Anthony talks about work and tickles my sides with the back of the spoon.

Anthony went to culinary school and used to own his own Italian restaurant. I

love it when he offers to cook dinner for us. I watch what he is doing, discreetly hoping

to learn a few tricks since he doesn’t like to explain what he is doing when cooking. I

equate it with watching a fish swim: so natural that it doesn’t need explanation, just

simply observation.
 14

As dinner is almost ready, Anthony opens another bottle of wine. I normally do

not pay attention to how much he is drinking, but I realize that I am only just now starting

on my second glass. We sit down for dinner, and I focus on the kitchen table, while

Anthony murmurs about how poor the food is under his breath.

“The chicken is overcooked and where did you get the produce? It lacks the flavor

that high-quality vegetables will hold.”

I helped refurbish this kitchen table; it was hideous when it first arrived in my

home. A high, hinged table that expanded for more guests, the wood stained a pale gold

that took me back to the early nineties, decorated with deep scratches etched down the

center. Downstairs in the garage I stripped the table with a borrowed electric sander and

proceeded to stain it a deep mahogany; however, the scratches were still visible and

bothered my sense of perfectionism. Onto plan B. With a stack of TIME Magazines that

had notable covers, I carefully cut them away and arranged them on top of the table. I

sealed the top of the table with varnish, effectively hiding the deep abrasions in the wood

and preserving history in one task.

Suddenly plates are being cleared, and I realize I wasn’t fully present for dinner.

He looks annoyed.

“Umm, is something wrong?” Cautious.

“No. Everything is fine.” Anthony retorts, “I’m going to wash the dishes.”

Anthony is very particular about the manner in which he washes the dishes, so I

don’t argue with him about this, and I decide to go take a shower.
 15

Dressed in my vintage, navy dress with little red flowers that buttons down the

front and my wet curls thrown up into a messy bun on the top of my head, I come out of

the bathroom and find Anthony lying on my bed. I jump onto the bed and give him a kiss.

He slaps me hard across the right side of my face. Stunned. I crawl to the back edge of

my bed and stare into his dead eyes. What the hell is happening? What did I do? I sit

there in a daze, running over a thousand questions in my mind, replaying the day’s events

and conversations, I neglect to notice Anthony making his way towards me until he has

his hand wrapped around my throat. He flips me over and pins me down on the bed while

maintaining a firm grip on my trachea, reducing oxygen slowly.

One wall in my room is painted a dark maroon. It was sloppily done by the

previous owners. I notice the red drops of paint on the windowsill. I have never thought

that they looked like blood, but now I am beginning to think maybe mine will join them.

I try to make eye contact with Anthony. I can smell the alcohol on his breath. I

scratch at the stubble on his face. I black out.

Breathe.

I am lying on the floor of my bedroom. I get up, obeying myself, breathing

deeply, and I stumble downstairs to unlock the front door. I don’t know where he is, but I

am getting him out of my house. I make my way back up the stairs cautiously and see

him at the kitchen sink taking a shot of vodka. He turns around and asks, “Want a shot?”

like nothing just happened.

“No …” I softly say. I need to get him out. I need to get out. I walk back down

the stairs, gathering my thoughts and he follows me, meeting me at the front door. He
 16

tries to hug me. I shrug him off. I get another blow across the right cheek. I turn around

and swing open the front door and stumble down the steps, open the front gate, and walk

barefooted onto the cool, damp asphalt.

“Get out!” I scream hoarsely. I can feel wet hatred forming behind my eyelids. He

just stares at me, his eyes only half alert.

I dash back inside, pushing him out of the doorway. I slam the door shut. Bolt it.

Scuttle on all fours back upstairs to my bedroom, lock the door, and sit inside my closet,

hugging my knees to my chest. I don’t know if he knocked or pounded on the door. I

never saw him again after that.

B
The frosty tub, filled with slow-melting, chocolate-chip-cookie-dough ice cream,

rests between my skinny legs that butterfly around the creamy goodness. I am on a

mission to finish off all the Blue Bell from my early birthday/going away party. All

around me, obscure men are moving with quick determination, moving filled boxes out

on a dolly or wrapping furniture in protective coverings before grunting as they haul them

out of the wooden, double doors.

My family is moving from Harlingen, Texas, to Katy, Texas, tomorrow. This will

be the second big uprooting in my life, and I don’t want to leave my home and friends

here. I didn’t want to say goodbye last night to all my girlfriends from school and church,

and I don’t want to say goodbye to Brian today.

Brian has been my buddy since I moved to this cul-de-sac five years ago. We built

bike ramps together out of plywood and lawn chairs; we played Pokémon on our

Gameboys, where he always let me pick all the water types because they were prettier;

we attempted to make concrete out of dirt and grapefruit juice, in order to construct our

palm tree fort; and we pretended to be Hermione and Ron from Harry Potter while

running around outside.

***

I do not remember the words of our goodbye. I do not remember crying. I do not

remember muttering anything profound or saying I would see him again because I had no

power to determine that. I do not remember his leaving, but I do remember the gift he left

17
 18

me. A weighty gold-heart necklace. I thought it was an odd going away present. I thought

it would feel too heavy around my neck.

It was not until years later when I returned and Brian’s mom told me what it

meant. I had been his first crush, his childhood sweetheart, and he had been the first

person outside of my family to show me how important true friendship is and how much

unconditional love lies in that purity.

I still wear that thick, gold-heart necklace whenever it goes with my outfit, and I

remember how beautiful and necessary the presence of unconditional love is in my life.

In all of life.
C
The beach ball with alternating white, yellow, blue, red, and green stripes is

spinning agonizingly slowly in the middle of the high school natatorium. On each white

stripe, I had handwritten in bad block letters one word of the phrase, “Colby, will you go

to Sadie? Chelsea.” I am asking Colby to the Sadie Hawkins Dance. He is a swimmer

who sits behind me in geometry class. His bleached hair from the chlorine, icy blue eyes,

and lanky and tall frame is perfect in my fifteen-year-old mind. I hope he agrees to go

with me.

Second period rolls around and I linger outside of the natatorium, waiting for the

answer. My hair is still wet from my shower after cross-country practice. Please, God, let

him say yes. Then maybe he will kiss me and I will have my first kiss. Maybe he will

become my boyfriend. I stand there begging, praying to the powers above to let

something good happen this year.

***

I wait eagerly on the stairs, ready to go to the mall with Colby. I see his parents

pull in front of my house, and I rush to the kitchen or living room so that it is not so

obvious that I have been waiting for too long for him to arrive.

He is on time.

I get into the backseat of his parent’s suburban, and they both make small talk,

asking me about school and running. I am sick of answering how track season is going by

19
 20

the end of January and outdoor season hasn’t even officially started yet. We pull up

outside of the mall at an entrance my mother and I never go through. I study the cheesy

sculptures outside of this entrance of giant, stretched, stick-figure children playing some

sport like soccer or basketball.

“So do you have any idea what kind of shirt you want to get for the dance?” I ask.

“I don’t really care,” Colby responds, “but maybe we can do something with a

superhero.” I hope he is as excited as I am to be spending some time together outside of

school and without parents around. I wonder, is this my first date?

“A superhero shirt sounds good to me. Which one is your favorite?”

“I really like Spiderman.”

“Let’s do that then. I think there is a store that has a bunch of t-shirts around here

somewhere, but honestly I have no idea where that would be because I don’t come to the

mall very often.”

“Let’s head this way.”

He begins to walk further into the mall. We find our shirts and the mall mission is

complete, but I do not want to go home yet. I don’t want this almost-a-date to end yet.

Maybe he has read my body language and can tell that I didn’t want things to end, or he

might want to continue the afternoon together.

“Do you want to go look around Bass Pro Shop?” Colby asks.

“Yeah … I really like looking at the boats they have. I would love to have a boat

one day.”
 21

We explore all the boats that Bass Pro Shop has open to the public and settle on a

relaxing on a sporty speedboat.

I think it was around an hour, but I don’t have a cell phone yet and I hate wearing

watches so I don’t know for sure. I do know that I talked to him about all sorts of silly

things, and I found myself laughing at his quirks. For being so new at trying to date, I am

completely myself. The goofy girl who laughs at her own jokes, the girl who loves her

family and friends more than anything, the girl who doesn’t care about how she looks,

and the girl who is proud of her nerdiness.

I look back on that innocent, beautiful soul and aspire to retain her traits, but with

more wisdom this time. She was filled with so much love to give to anyone that wanted,

and more people should be like that.

Before I know it, it is time for Colby’s parents to be picking us up to go home, but

he has another idea. He pulls out his small cell phone and pleads with his parents, asking

if we can go to the movies and see We Are Marshall or Freedom Writers. His parents

agree to the extra time, so he hands me the phone to check with my parents. They agree

reluctantly on the stipulation of coming home immediately afterwards.

Nothing happened in the movie. We sat there and watched it intently. We didn’t

hold hands or kiss. I remember watching the movie with fierce attention, pushing all my

extraneous thoughts into the background, hoping with all the power in my tiny body that

it would work. It didn’t.

I don’t even remember which movie we saw, and I wouldn’t have been able to tell

you the plot of the movie if I hadn’t watched both of them after the fact. That wasn’t
 22

important. What was important was that I had finally thrust myself into the game: I was

participating in my life and my feelings, which I had been too nervous and shy to do until

then.

***

The Sadie Hawkins dance was over, and Colby, despite having a horrible cold,

had accompanied me. He had spent the majority of the night blowing his nose and

covering his cough, but he had danced with me, and I felt on top of the world for the first

time in high school. I had a dance date that I actually liked, and I thought he was one of

the cutest boys in school. My mom picked us up and was driving us home, we stopped in

front of Colby’s parents’ house in Cinco Ranch, and I thought I would walk him to the

door since that is what would be done in a reverse situation. Little did I know that this

was the beginning of my feminist tendencies. I wanted him to kiss me, but I also didn’t

want to get sick. I desperately wanted to have my first kiss and know what all the hype

was about, but I settled for a hug and a kiss on the cheek and Colby walked inside.

***

It’s five years later, the hot, Houston summer is in full swing, when Colby texts

me, asking if I want to come over and hangout while we are both in town.

I knock on the front door of the house that has an American flag in the front

window, and I hear a pack of dogs begin barking. I wait patiently three steps back from

the front door. Someone, many years previously, taught me that was polite. Colby opens

the door a crack, preventing the escape of numerous mutts, and I slip in quickly and find
 23

myself in the giant embrace of one of my oldest friends. He picks me up while hugging

me.

“It’s been too long. How have you been? We need to catch up. Want to go sit out

on the porch?” Colby asks slowly. He has never been one to speak quickly.

“It’s so good to see you and yes let’s go catch up.”

I am so excited to see him, but I can see something beneath his eyes. A secret or

news that is scaring him. We sit outside on the dated patio furniture and make small talk.

I know something is coming, but I can’t guess what it is. Did he get a girlfriend finally?

Did he get someone pregnant? Is it good news like finding a job after college? No, his

eyes don’t show extreme excitement. There is dread and anxiety present in his pale eyes.

I try to stop contributing to the conversation as much to allow the opening for whatever

news is about to be delivered.

“So I wanted to talk to you about something, Chelsea, and I hope you understand

… .” I hope it isn’t really bad news. “I don’t really know how to tell you this, but I have

known for a while and struggled with accepting it … that I am gay.”

I can’t say I saw this coming—I had no idea this was going to be the news he

dropped on me—but now I am puzzled as to why it was so hard for him to tell me this.

He has grown into one of my closest friends throughout high school and college, and I

only want the best for him.

“Oh, okay then. Why were you so worried about telling me that?”

“Well, you are a Christian and I didn’t know if you would be okay with it.”
 24

His words cut into my chest. Have I acted like someone who isn’t accepting of

others? Do I judge my friends too harshly? Do they not know that I love them and only

want the best for them? I want them to find the happiness that I desire to find myself in

this life. Has my label of Christian pushed me away from helping him through problems

he has had in his life? I resent that being Christian has labeled me in a way that I don’t

agree with. I believe in love and that I should try my best to love everyone. How could I

not love Colby regardless of his sexuality?

“Colby, I don’t care if you are gay. I just want you to be happy and I’ll love you

no matter what,” I say, trying to reassure him. I hate that he thought I wouldn’t be his

friend after finding out. “Are you happy?”

I watch the relief flood out of his eyes, and it wells up in mine too.

“Would you like to meet my boyfriend Miguel? He’s waiting upstairs,” Colby

asks.

I can’t even attempt to hide the shock on my face.

“Umm, yes,” I stutter. “Of course, I’d like to meet him.”

“Oh good, and my parents should be home soon so we can talk to them about it

too.”
D
London, England

I grab a bottle of Merlot that I stashed in my wardrobe next to my stack of winter

sweaters and walk out of my room. I turn around and manage to run back and catch the

heavy, door covered in peeling cream paint before it latches shut and locks me out, as it

has done numerous times over the past few months. Rummaging through my messy,

white bedspread, my fingers search for the iron key that provides me my safe haven in

this large city of strangers. I miss my family, friends, and most importantly, I miss my

boyfriend X.

X
Noun | \ `eks\
1. A highly heterosexual male practiced in the art of on-and-off-again relationship … for
four years.
2. He thinks inside the box and likes wings while watching sporting events but won’t
drink a beer.
3. The quintessential tall, blond, blued-eyed basketball player; Thor.

I knock loudly on Dan’s door and listen to laughter permeate the dense wood

covered in caked-on layers of glossy, white paint, from my handful of friends in London.

Alyssa greets me with a water glass full of Riesling in her left hand.

“Chelsea! Come in and join the game,” everyone in the room squeals with delight

about the addition to the small party.

25
 26

“What are y’all playing?” I ask, as I walk in and find a place to sit on the floor.

“Kings,” Fish answers enthusiastically. There are four people in the room:

Margaret, Fish, Dan, and Alyssa. Everyone is sitting in a circle, each with a glass filled

with cheap alcohol, and off to the side of the small bedroom there is a line of partially

drunk bottles of wine. All that fills the long, skinny single room in Vandon House is a

twin bed, a small wardrobe, and a sink by the window at the far end. The window is open,

and I can hear the screams of the rich, drunk people at the Zander Bar across the street. I

walk over to the window and stick my head out to catch a glimpse of the men trying to

pick up women as they attempt to leave the bar, and one man manages to coax a woman

into a shiny, black cab with him.

“How do you play?” I ask, as I twist open my bottle of wine, pour myself a large

glass, and sit down between Alyssa and Dan.

***

It’s nearing three in the morning, and there are four empty bottles of wine, lying

on the floor. Fish is the first to leave, followed closely by Alyssa. I begin tidying up the

mess we have made in the room by picking up the deck of cards scattered across the

floor. I am drunk, and it is hard to stand up without the room dancing around me, twisting

and turning in an unpredictably fluid routine. I sit down and lean against the end of Dan’s

bed to right the world.

Dan sits next to me. His legs stretch out over halfway across the room. He is

extremely pale, his legs are what I deem “chicken legs,” and he is at least six-foot-three-

inches tall. He is looking at me with hungry eyes.

 27

I should leave.

“Give me a minute,” I slur, “and I’ll let you have your room back.”

“You can stay,” Dan responds, making eye contact. He is harmless, but I know he

wants something. He moves in quickly towards my face, his shaggy, blond hair falling

over his eyes as his fat lips touch mine. They beg for me to kiss him back. I can’t. I lurch

backwards and tip over onto the floor, as tears begin to drip down my cheeks. Crawling

on all fours at first, then making my way to a standing position, I stumble towards the

window and take a deep breath of frozen air while I grab my room key off the wide

window sill. I stagger rapidly across what is now an obstacle course stretching all of

twelve feet to the entrance of the room.

“Goodnight,” I murmur as I open the door and leave. I want to break open and

sob, but I can’t in this hallway with strangers behind almost every door. I jog down the

stairs and land at my door, forcing the key into the lock and falling inside, landing on my

bed. I split open, my gut, my heart, my skull. How could I be stupid enough to allow

myself to be in a position where I was drunk and alone with a guy I knew likes me? Did I

just cheat on X? I didn’t want Dan to kiss me, though, and I didn’t kiss him back, but

that’s not a good enough excuse. I crossed the line. I am that girl that cannot be trusted or

even trust herself. I have ruined everything. Do I tell X what happened or try to forget it?

I open up my journal and begin to write about my feelings, about what happened.

I need to process this, even though I am still drunk.

Three pages of sloppy cursive later and I sit on my windowsill feeling the sheer

curtains blow against my tear-stained face, holding my journal. I decide that what
 28

happened with Dan is nothing and will remain nothing forever, so I rip the pages out of

my journal and begin to tear them further and further until I can no longer make them any

smaller. I have a small pile of shame in my hands …

I let them flutter down Vandon Street before shutting my window and going to

bed.
E
It is Christmas Eve, and I am sitting in the pew with almost the entire side of my

mother’s family. Four cousins came this year, my two brothers, one aunt and one uncle,

and my parents. It is the last song of the service. The lights go out, and candle light grows

among the congregation. The walls glow a soft gold, flickering as a hundred voices sing

“Silent Night.” This has always been my favorite part of the Christmas Eve service. I am

one of the people who tries to get as much wax to drip down the edges of the candle as I

can during the single song that it is lit. It has been my favorite game to play during

church since I was a little girl. “Christ the Savior is born, Christ the Savior is born” and

the song ends.

Extinguish.

Everyone crowds into the aisles, eager to return to celebrating Christmas with

their families, disregarding the fact that the real celebration just occurred. No one can

move, as old middle-aged acquaintances from high school and college block the exits to

say hello and introduce their families for the third year in a row. Women show off their

husbands and growing children, gushing about the accomplishments of both, while men

stand there awkwardly waiting to go home and have a glass of wine or a beer.

My family is no exception to this ritual. My mother spots an old friend and hustles

her way to her to begin the conversation. Both women begin to wave at their pride to

come and be a part of the flaunting-fest. I slowly make my way to my mother with my

younger brothers in tow. I am careful to not trip on a young child in my suede heals.

29
 30

“Mrs. Westbook, this is my oldest daughter, Chelsea. She is in graduate school at

Abilene Christian University, now studying English. That is Colton, my second, and he is

a freshman working on his pilot’s license while attending Texas Lutheran University.

And this is Reese, my youngest, who is in sixth grade now and he is in the band playing

trombone,” my mom spouts off proudly.

“So what are you planning to do with a Master’s in English?” the short, stout

woman asks me with blonde hair teased within an inch of its life.

“I am actually studying creative writing, so I am hoping to write and do whatever

it takes to pay the bills,” I say, watching confused disappointment spread across Mrs.

Westbrook’s face and continue on to my mother’s face.

“I should introduce you to my son, Ethan. He is at Texas A&M right now, and he

is graduating in May with a degree in Engineering. He has a job already lined up after

graduation, you know? You just must meet him. Wait here,” Mrs. Westbrook states,

before disappearing into the crowd to find her son. Before I can protest she is off amongst

the crowd.

I can’t believe this is happening to me. Women at church are now trying to set me

up, and on Christmas Eve no less. This is madness that I can’t be single for a few months

without it being cause for concern at my age. X dumped me only a few months ago while

I was in the weight room working out. I remember the feeling of listening to him dump

me as I sat there on the bench with two fifteen pound weights in both my hands, trying to

hold it together until I could make it to my closet to cry. I am still recovering from that

shock to my system, I am just not interested in a serious relationship, only casual at this
 31

point, and I have enough of those going right now. I have Matthew and Vincente, but

mainly I am just interested in Matthew at the moment.

Matthew
Noun | Mat·thew | \`ma-(.)thyü\
3. Reconnects with girls after college, and years after a drunken make out,
wanting more.
4. Unskilled in household cleaning, not Mary Poppins.
5. Playboy.

I see the blonde hair bouncing towards my waiting family. Would it be too much

if I tried to make a run for it?

“I found him, but he is talking to some of the children from the church. He

worked at some of the summer camps recently and they just love him, but he will be over

in a minute or two. So are you dating anyone right now?” Mrs. Westbrook asks me. She

couldn’t be any more obvious.

“No ma’am, not really I don’t think,” I say through clenched teeth that might

actually be mistaken as a smile to the desperate mothers in South Texas, trying to marry

off their children before they expire at age twenty-five, but preferably at twenty-two or

twenty-three at the oldest.

“Oh well, my Ethan is single too. Maybe y’all can get together while you are both

in town. I think I see him coming now,” she says excitedly and disregarding my

uncertainly about how single I am. I glance through the crowds of families, trying to

catch a glance of who is about to be forced upon me. I see a short, big guy making his

way in my direction. Blond hair, blue eyes, and he looks like a dump truck and like his
 32

mother. He is not my type. “Ethan, this is Chelsea, Monica’s daughter. She is in graduate

school at Abilene Christian. Chelsea, this is my son I was telling you about.”

I make eye contact with him, hoping I will see the same look of embarrassment

and disinterest in his eye, but I do not. He is smiling, and I actually think I see a real

twinkle in one of his eyes. Oh, shit …

“It’s nice to meet,” Ethan says as he reaches to shake my hand.

“Did you know that Ethan is an internationally ranked weightlifter? And I told

you he has a job lined up after May, right?” Mrs. Westbrook interjects.

Oh … my … God … . Is this really happening right now? This lady is pimping

out her son. I zone out of the conversation that is occurring between our mothers, who are

spouting off our best characteristics to each other. I just want to go home and eat dinner. I

tune back into the conversation just in time to hear the pleasantries of “good evenings”

and “Merry Christmas.”

We haven’t even made it back to my grandmother’s house and I feel my phone

buzz. It is a friend request accompanied by a message:

“Hey, Chelsea, I enjoyed meeting you tonight. How long are you in town for?”

from Ethan.

“I am not really sure yet,” I respond.

“Well, if you’re still around after the Christmas festivities have died down a bit,

I’d love to get lunch with you or something. So you’re interested in creative writing?

Have you published anything?”

 33

I never respond.

My mother gets upset with me for being rude, but she just doesn’t understand that

I just want to be alone for a little while, and if I want anything, it is not serious.
F
It is another typical Friday night. I am a senior in high school, and I have the hot

swimmer/water-polo player sitting to my right with his arm wrapped around me. We

always sit like this. He: in a swimming t-shirt, damp hair faintly smelling of chlorine, and

faded ripped jeans. Me: in clean running clothes and a wet, messy bun. I rest my head on

his firm, tan bicep. Frank is my high-school-sweetheart by definition, I suppose.

“Frank, have you ever seen the movie Dune?” my dad asks.

“No sir,” Frank responds.

“Oh well, it’s about to come on. We should all watch it together.” My dad sits

down on the loveseat across from us. This is why after eight months I have yet to make

out with Frank.

“Dad,” I say, “I think maybe we want to do something else.” My resistance goes

ignored, and we sit through another lame sci-fi film with one of my parents. This is the

reality of what is supposed to be one of the most memorable years of my life.

***

“So Frank, you know I have a dance coming up, the Sadie Hawkins dance, and I

was wondering if you would like to go with me,” I ask. I am so glad that I don’t have to

think of some fancy way to ask him to the dance, since he is my boyfriend.

“When is it again?” Frank asks.

34
 35

“February 7, 2009. That night.”

“I think I have an away swim meet that day, actually.”

“Ohh, okay. Well, if you can’t go, would it be okay if I asked one of my friends to

go with me, like Hugh possibly? I know he has no one to go with yet.”

Hugh
Noun | \ˈhyü\
1. Childhood best friend.
2. Decade-long crush.
3. Disastrous social experiment.

“Uhh, I guess … . I might not have to go to that meet though.”

“Okay, that would be great too.”

Why do I want to go to a dance with someone other than my boyfriend? What is

wrong with me?

***

Five years later, and whenever both Frank and I are back visiting our parents, we

both go out and get a drink. Who am I kidding? We have numerous drinks and have to

wait out going home in order to sober up a bit.

This is just like any of the previous nights, except that we drink more than normal

and are borderline belligerently drunk. I can’t remember who said what.

“Let’s do something crazy.”

“What about going swimming at the beach club?”

 36

“It’s freezing outside though. And what if we get caught?”

“Come on.”

I don’t remember who instigated the ideas of climbing trees and swimming at a

closed pool in the middle of December, but what is an idea quickly becomes a night of

hopping fences, running to the car, and laughing nervously at breaking the rules our

parents never let us when we were younger.

We get back to my house, grab a few beers from the fridge outside, and go

upstairs to the game room. In hushed whispers, we admit to each other some of our

deepest secrets. I am afraid of commitment and have become a player because of it. He

hasn’t dated anyone since me and still doesn’t really know how to make out with anyone.

I begin to feel his fingers creeping slowly across the centimeter of skin showing

between my jeans and shirt.

“What do you think you are doing?” I ask playfully.

“I don’t really know.”

“Well, you can keep doing it if you want.”

The next thing I know Frank is trying to really kiss me for the first time, six years

after we actually dated. I don’t know if he feels a spark, but it is non-existent for me, so I

decide to use this as a teaching opportunity. Between kisses I begin muttering, “Less

tongue, maybe bite the lower lip, or make sure you hold the face occasionally.”

To this day I am not sure why I did it. Was I lonely? No, I was dating a few other

guys at the time. Was I horny? Maybe, or it could have been just the alcohol. Was I
 37

trying to answer another question that I didn’t know I had? Probably. I knew with those

kisses that Frank was never meant to be more than one of my best friends.
G
I walk into the restaurant in downtown Abilene, Texas. There are no patrons there

except he and I. Towering at six-foot-five, he overwhelms me with his sheer height.

Fourteen inches taller than I am. For some reason the fact that he is three inches taller

than the average guy I date seems monumental to me. I sculpt him as a statue in my mind.

Dressed in clean, tan, leather working boots, jeans, and a green-plaid fleece shirt, he is by

far the most attractive man that I have encountered. Smooth pale skin, green eyes, and

blond hair. A masterpiece.

“Are you Chelsea? I am Gus,” he states, with a hint of a northwestern accent.

“Umm, yes … I am Chelsea. It is … umm, really nice to meet you,” I stutter. Of

course, I cannot talk; there is an attractive guy standing one and a half feet away. He pulls

me into a side hug before the host, who looks less than pleased that we interrupted his

peaceful evening, escorts us to the table.

This is a blind date, and so far so good. At least I’m interested, even if it is solely

because of his physical appearance. We sit down at a table and I realize how preposterous

I look in comparison to him. I just finished working out merely thirty minutes ago,

hopped in the shower to rinse off, pulled on jeans and a shirt, and did not bother to take

the time to dry or style my hair. Round water stains accompany my stylish look right

above my boobs, drawing attention to the fact that they are clearly two different sizes. I

should have at least put makeup on or taken the time to do something with my hair. I’ll

just throw it up into a messy bun real quick; it’s my go-to hairdo anyway. I order a beer

38
 39

and begin to ask him questions, taking a sip every time he answers, allowing my tongue

to feel the hops glide across it. I am aware that with every gulp the tension in my mind

dissolves and my laughter turns into a constant stream of breathless chuckles bouncing

out of my esophagus. Two pints later and I am exquisitely creating a colorful banter filled

with the stories of my travels and embarrassing moments that has a grown man giggling

uncontrollably. I impress myself with my ability to hook a man of his caliber with my

wit, while looking like an utter slob.

The night suddenly comes to an end when we realize that the restaurant closed

thirty-nine minutes ago. In a hurry, he pays and leads me outside, walking me across the

vacant streets of downtown Abilene, which possess an eerie quality past ten o’clock in

the evening.

“So I had a really nice time, and we should definitely do this again, soon,” Gus

says. Uncertainty hangs in the air, palpable. I think for a moment. Did I have fun, or is it

the booze? I had four beers in one evening, way more than I should have. Am I even okay

to drive? I will be fine; it’s only five minutes away. What about Matthew? I only agreed

to this date because he has been distancing himself over the past few weeks and I am

bored. It’s not like we are official or anything so why can’t I go out with other guys?

Suddenly aware that I have left Gus hanging for a few seconds too long as I’ve debated

with myself internally, I respond in too enthusiastic a tone.

“Yes! I would love that!”

I entangle myself into his firm torso and long arms. He smells good, like soap

and mesquite wood combined in perfect proportions.

 40

***

One week later.

I pull up to The Mill, a warehouse turned into a fashionable bar with gazebos,

complete with fire pits, nestled among a quaint vineyard, which looks as if all the snow

and ice have taken the life out of the shriveled vine-like trees. I glance around the various

groups surrounding the glowing fires and do not see Gus, so I walk inside and see him

standing at the bar, getting a beer and flirting with the barista. This doesn’t surprise me at

all. I have expected him to be a player. I want him to be one. I tap him gently on the

shoulder so that I don’t appear over eager to see him, but for some reason I am actually

ecstatic that he would want to hang out with me again. I have put some effort into getting

ready this time around because I am now fully aware of how gorgeous he is. I am dressed

in my sexy black-leather boots, dark skinny jeans that make my runners ass look

muscular and perky, and a sweater that hugs my tight torso in an artistic shade of

magenta, complete with my black-leather jacket full of attitude. I know I look good. I

know I am now on his level.

In a smooth transition from hitting on the barista to greeting me, Gus locks me

into his embrace, buys me a beer, and generously tips the girl behind the counter, while

flashing that perfect grin of his. I lead the way towards an empty gazebo and take a seat

in the middle next to the fire, similar to the one that is burning inside of me, aching for

something purely physical.

We chat and drink beer after beer of Alaskan White Ale, and before I know it I

am once again quite tipsy, which is contributing to my active storytelling about the
 41

ridiculous adventures I had while travelling in Panama only two months ago and about

how I am thinking about taking a job in Romania this summer. I want to make sure he

knows that this isn’t going to go anywhere. That I don’t want a relationship. That I am

only looking to have fun. I want to laugh. I want to get drunk and dance. I want to do

dirty things to him that I refuse to regret in the morning. I want to live in a way that only I

understand. Without feelings of attachment or vulnerability. I want to feel powerful and

be in control of my emotions.

Realizing that we are once again the only ones left at the establishment as it is

closing down, we make our way out into the muddy parking lot. I skip around, trying to

avoid puddles and Gus follows closely behind. I stand next to the bed of my truck and

casually, or drunkenly, hang onto it, allowing myself to swing left and right, as I listen to

Gus talk about getting together again soon, and possibly having me come out to his new

lake house. I listen as he continues to make small talk about things we can do in the near

future. Finally, I stop swinging and walk towards the driver’s side door. Open it. Place

my purse inside. Turn around and find myself once again enfolded into Gus’s large

frame. He is warm. He holds me for a moment, swaying from side to side, and as I try to

pull away his hand lifts my chin up and he bends down to kiss me. It isn’t the best first

kiss I have had, but it is good. Very neat considering it is the first time our lips are

becoming acquainted with one another. They stumble around for a minute before figuring

out the proper rhythm that works for both of them. A few minutes later, I pull away and

hop into my truck and head home, leaving him standing there wanting more, or at least

that is what I hope I am accomplishing.

***
 42

I have vague directions to head towards Breckenridge, Texas, to Gus’s new lake

house. I have previously agreed with Danielle, my roommate, that I will send her the

address or GPS coordinates of the house when and if I find it. I am really nervous to be

heading to a relative stranger’s house, but I do want to see him again, and I need to get

out of God forsaken Abilene. As I get closer, I can feel myself starting to sweat. Why am

I so nervous? I have seen this guy before. I have even kissed him. Plus, I have my truck

so I can leave whenever I want. Stop sweating, please.

My phone starts to ring; it’s Gus asking where I am. I explain that I am driving on

a bridge over what I assume used to be a lake, but it’s dried up now, leaving behind

scorched, cracked red earth.

“You’re almost here. Just turn left right after the Walmart, then take the first left

after driving for about seven minutes, then a right at the sign for the trailer park. Keep

driving until you spot the brown house with my truck in front. See you soon,” he says

quickly. I am never going to find this place …

Fifteen minutes later, I whiz past a brown house with a navy-almost-purple truck.

Dang it. I missed it. I throw my gear in reverse and back into the dirt driveway. I am an

excellent backwards driver. I sit in my truck a few minutes, letting the air conditioning

blow under my arm pits, making the moisture feel cool and clammy. A few last-minute

adjustments and it’s time to show up with the vibe of effortlessness in every manner of

my being, when on the inside a tumultuous waterfall of emotions is breaking through the

dam I have been maintaining for years. Gus greets me at the front door and ushers me

into the backyard, offering me a beer that he knows I am not keen on. We had talked

about our favorites drinks, and Coors certainly isn’t in my top drinks. We sit down on the
 43

back porch at a dirty table with chairs that are on their last leg, and I stare at the blue

mountains on the beer can, debating in my mind what my plan is. I am drinking and am

an hour away from home. Should I stop after two beers so I can drive home? Or risk

staying the night and everything that will entail? I finish my first beer and go inside for

another. Looks like I’ll be spending the night.

That night he took me to the “Barn and Grill,” which is really just a restaurant that

sells alcohol, but in the belt buckle of the Bible belt you can’t come right out and name

something a bar. Heaven forbid. It is a private restaurant where you have to be a member,

and to be a guest you have to be signed in; at last on the third date, we learn each other’s

last names. After too many beers and the band playing, I want to two-step. I love to

dance, especially when I am drunk. However, Gus is from Minnesota and doesn’t dance

in public, so we head back to his house and I convince him to dance with me in our socks

on the tile floor, swinging and swaying in a drunken state to the boom box blasting

country music. I notice my loud laughter filling the cool air, as he picks me up and

throws me over his shoulder so he can haul me outside to look at the stars. For a guy that

I am trying to have absolutely no emotional connection with, he is making things

exponentially more difficult by pulling out these cards. Dancing, stars, and a hammock,

which we broke, and I am normally a goner.

Gazing at the constellations in the winter air, I nestle myself further into Gus,

wanting his warmth and to be held. I begin to give myself a pep talk about what I will and

will not allow to occur tonight. I will allow myself to finally make out with him; I will

not allow myself to have sex with him. That is my rule. Now that I am comfortable with

my drunken decision to not partake in the tasteless art of drunken sex, I feel a sense of
 44

ease pass over me, and I allow the small talk to turn into a conversation containing, for

the first time, substance.

Once I am sufficiently frozen, we make our way inside and sit down on his denim

sectional. It is almost too comical to sit on. A massive couch that looks like everyone in

the family threw their jeans on it until it became this new monstrous piece of furniture.

As we sit there talking, I continually remind myself that even though I am allowing there

to be a real conversation I cannot allow there to be real feelings, and to prevent those

from developing, I begin kissing him and we don’t stop for hours.

***

It is margarita-and-enchilada night at our apartment, and Danielle and I agreed

that Gus should come over. First, to gain approval by my roomie, and, second, so I can do

what I like to do for anyone I am dating: cook. It seems to be a rite of passage of sorts

that I don’t regard myself as dating someone even casually until I bake him something or

make him dinner. The feminist in me thinks I am old-fashioned, but I really enjoy sharing

food with everyone in my life, especially men. As the saying goes, the way to a man’s

heart is through his stomach, but what if I don’t know if I want his heart and instead only

want his body? After dinner, we all sit down and watch Gone Girl for the first time. And

if I can give anyone any dating advice it would be this: never, and I repeat never, have a

guy you are just barely starting to date watch this movie with you. It reinforces the false

stereotype that all girls are capable of being bat-shit crazy.

I convince Gus to stay the night after the movie ends, and he agrees to spend

another night with me knowing he doesn’t have a chance of having sex with me. For a
 45

girl who just wants a physical relationship, why am I having such a hard time with the

physical aspect of it?

***

I have been seeing Gus for some months now.

I started seeing him because I wanted to get over my fear of physical intimacy,

and yet this is the largest struggle for me. I knew it would be, but I didn’t imagine that it

would be so hard for me to get physical with a guy whom I am so attracted to. I invite

him to hangout before I head to Dallas to work the Rhythm and Blues races this weekend;

I think I am ready to take this final step.

Three loud pounds on the door, Tuxedo stands on the edge of my bed, barking

towards the front of the apartment, and I feel my heart bounce within my chest as I slide

off my antique bed and begin to walk to let Gus in. I want to do this. I need to do this for

myself.

“Hey there, I’m glad to see you,” I say, as I open the door and Gus picks me up

into a hug. I feel so tiny and safe; I love it.

“Good to see you, Smalls.”

He leans in to kiss my nervous lips. I lead him into my bedroom, as I continue to

kiss and push him against the edge of my bed. I haven’t felt this sexy and empowered

since before the night that changed everything with P. I take the plunge and do what I set

out to do.
 46

I found my sexuality that afternoon. I reclaimed a part of myself that I had hidden

away from society and myself for three years.

***

The sunlight glistens through the leaves in the mesquite trees, and the wind

breathes warmth into the air that washes up my legs as I jump onto Gus’s back while he

parades about the backyard listening to me squeal with delight when he spins us around.

His hands grasp where my hamstrings connect to my glutes. His touch delights my body.

I begin to envision a future with him, filled with laughter, grilling, dancing, and sitting

around talking outside while listening to music.

“Come, my lady, come come, my lady, you’re my butterfly, sugar, baby … come,

my lady, come come, my lady, you’re my butterfly, sugar, baby,” Gus sings Crazy

Town’s song to me, as he sets me down on a weathered, wooden lawn chair.

“You’re ridiculous,” I tell him, but my mind drifts towards Sailor Boy.

I am going to go see him in two weeks and I am still seeing Gus. I debate with

myself about the realities of pursuing anything further with either of them. Gus is here

and is incredibly cute and funny, but I have told myself I don’t want to have anything

serious; however, I can see it working maybe. Stop it. You’re moving to Romania in less

than two months. You cannot start anything. But what about Sailor Boy? I have never

even kissed him, but he is the guy I have always dreamed of ending up with.

Adventurous, a world traveler, a water-lover, intelligent, funny, and, most importantly,

willing to go off the beaten path to find his version of happiness. Why did I meet him at
 47

such an inconvenient time? I am leaving. I am going because I need to be alone. I do not

need anyone, but I want Sailor Boy.

I look at Gus and lean in to kiss him. I feel awful that I have used him when he

actually turned out to be a good guy. This is goodbye and I know it, but he doesn’t.
H
My parent’s kitchen counter is speckled with evergreen, charcoal, and forest-

green flecks in the granite-like counters. I stare into the depth of the mixture of colors, as

I sit with my legs crossed on the island in the middle of the kitchen. Hugh is sitting at the

antique, dry, round wooden table on one of the chairs that goes with the old kitchen table

that now sits upstairs. The contrast between antique and nineties furniture is stark; the

tension between the four and a half feet that separate us is blatant.

I struggle to find words. I have so many racing through my head, but none of

them fit together. What do I say to Hugh after last night? How do I approach the hardest

conversation I have ever needed to have with my best friend?

I look back at the counter and stare into it as the unbreakable silence drags on.

***

August 14, 2002

It is my first day at Beck Jr. High, and I walk into the music hallway. I am trying

to remember the layout of the school without pulling out the map they have given all the

sixth graders. Straight past the choir room, a left at the band hall, the next right and

another right, and there it is, the orchestra room. I came a few weeks ago and decided that

I wanted to learn how to play the cello, and today is the day that I get to begin. I open the

door and see eight or nine other small and slightly lost looking sixth graders, like myself,

48
 49

standing at various spots within the room littered with chairs and music stands in a

pattern that makes no sense to me.

I sit down in a chair on the left side of the room and wait for the bell to ring so

class can begin. I shouldn’t be nervous, but I am. What if I am awful at playing the cello?

What if I embarrass myself in front of people that I do not know?

A young boy, short, tan, with spiked, brown hair and a huge grin, seats himself

next to me. He looks over at me and smiles. He is the cutest boy I have ever seen.

“Hi, I’m Hugh,” he says. I am taken aback. The cute boy just spoke to me.

“I am Chelsea,” I say timidly.

“Have you played before?”

“No, never.”

“Cool, me too. I think the bows would make good swords. We can even have bow

fights.”

At that moment I wanted to have bow fights, and do anything I could, with my

newest acquaintance, Hugh.

***

July 4, 2008

Someone hands me glow sticks. Maybe it was my mother, maybe it was one of

the numerous friends I invited, or maybe it was someone who crashed my party.

Nevertheless, I wrap them around my ankles, wrists, and neck and venture out onto the
 50

golf course with a few friends to throw tricks along the fairway. It is all fun and games

until I feel a pop in my wrist. I’m sure it is nothing, so I continue to finish the tumbling

pass without hands. I stick the landing and as I walk off the golf course I cradle my left

wrist in my right hand, so convincing myself that I have only sprained it and that nothing

serious is wrong. I walk into my backyard and am greeted by the sight of dozens of

teenagers jumping in the pool, playing basketball on the driveway, rinsing sand off with

the hose, and congregating near the patio furniture consuming the holiday’s potluck.

This is the first time that I feel popular. It is also one of the last times.

I make my way onto the driveway. I want to talk to Jessica. I want to tell her

something, but I can’t remember what. I look down at my arm, as I enter the brightness of

the flood lights and see angles that shouldn’t exist. Where there should only be one

moving joint there are now multiple. I am in denial. It is just a sprain.

“Jessica,” I call out softly. I sink onto the concrete. I am told I look gray as I sit

there in a heap of my own miserable misfortune. I keep willing my arm to be okay. I am

going to go scuba diving in a few weeks in Grand Cayman. I am fine.

“Chelsea? Are you okay? You don’t look good,” Jessica says. “Hugh, can you

come help me with her.”

“Yeah, what’s up?” Hugh responds.

“I don’t know but she’s pale and … oh God, look at her arm.”

“Ohh, yeah. I got her.”

 51

He picks me up and carries me into the house. I can smell him. The sporty musk

that only reminds me of Hugh. I don’t think I have ever been this close to him before. He

sets me on the couch and sits next to me with his arm around me, giving me pain

medication while my parents get ready to take me to the E.R. Don’t make me go.

My mom tells me that Frank walked out with me, shaking so hard that he almost

dropped his mother’s crockpot filled with queso. Hugh helped me get in the car. Sydney

came with us to the E.R.. Jonathan followed us there with his violin so he could serenade

the waiting room and me while I was getting my arm set.

Hugh stayed behind. He was the only one I wanted there.

***

June 2011

It is a typical day in the summer. I am home from college, working a part-time job

at the YMCA, and Hugh comes over regularly. We go to church on Wednesday nights,

make small bonfires out of leaves and twigs on the weekend, and spend countless hours

binge watching White Collar on Netflix. He is my best friend, and also, my biggest crush

that I have been pining over for nine years now. No matter who I date or break up with,

Hugh is always there and has always been there. I wish I could move myself out of the

friend zone, but I am scared to lose my best friend in the process.

***
 52

May 23, 2012

We are on a road trip in the middle of the night. Hugh thought it would be a good

idea to get out of town, away from the wrath of my parents pissed about my recent trip to

Las Vegas where I lost my phone, wallet, and real ID. Hugh turns his pearly Cadillac off

the main road and begins to follow the truck in front of us down a dirt and gravel road.

I broke up with X in March and have been leaning on Hugh to help me move

through this transition in my life. He has helped me get through the most difficult period

of my life without even realizing it. I was raped a few months ago, and I have been

refusing to admit it to myself or others. Hugh doesn’t know about any of this

We pull into the driveway of a massive farmhouse where our mutual friend Kyle

lives.

“Hey guys, you ready to go out?” Kyle asks excitedly in a thick hick accent. “We

can take out the golf carts and shoot at coyotes and stuff.”

I have been invited to a guys’ weekend. I have never even shot a gun before.

Maybe I shouldn’t have agreed to this.

“Heck yes,” Hugh exclaims.

“Yeah, sure, but I don’t know how to shoot a gun,” I add.

“No problem, Hugh and I will teach you,” Kyle says.

“Okay,” I say reluctantly.

We go riding around shooting at spiders and imaginary coyotes for a few hours

before heading to bed. Hugh and I are both in the bunk room with two sets of bunk beds,
 53

but he lies down on the bed with me, his torso on my legs, trapping me there with his

body weight. I wish he would kiss me. He sits there and rambles on about something or

another, but all I can focus on is how he is touching me, how he is close enough for me to

smell him, and how I want him to hold me. It is like he knew and maybe thirty to thirty-

five minutes later he was fast asleep on my bed cuddled up next to me. I don’t think I

slept at all that night because I was so nervous and excited. I didn’t want the moment to

end, ever.

The sun begins to invade the darkness and draws my dream to a close. Hugh

begins to stir and I pretend to be asleep when he wakes up.

“Good morning, you want to stay here and hang out today?” Hugh asks.

“Yeah, that sounds good. Let me just take care of my shift at work today,” I reply.

We spend the rest of the day four wheeling in the mud, having races that combine

our prowess for running and gymnastics into one obstacle course, and he finishes the day

by squeezing my butt. I think he wants to be more than friends, finally. Now if only he

would kiss me.

***

“Hugh, I am confused about what is going on between us. You kissed me, but

now I hear from your friends that you never see anything happening between us. Please

tell me what’s going on,” I plead.

“Who told you that?” Hugh asks.

 54

“Not that it matters, but Kyle told me last night. I wish you had told me that if

that’s how you felt because then I would have tried not to fall in love with you.”

The words fall out of my mouth and can’t be taken back. I just admitted to my

friend that I am in love with him. This is something that I have found to be true for years,

but now that I said it out loud I question its veracity. Am I in love with Hugh, or am I in

love with the idea of Hugh? I try to hold back the tears. They do not need to spill like my

feelings just did all over the kitchen, making a mess of everything. I want to cry over the

decade-long crush that has just come to fruition and the lack of satisfaction I have

received. I want to cry because I haven’t felt what real love is yet.
I
It is my freshman year in college, and Kjersten, Bonnie, Sarah, and I are on

Wendyhill, the street where all the college students party at Texas Lutheran. This is one

of my first times actually drinking at a college party because I have been in cross-country

or track season. Typically, the party and people move from house to house and meet in

the street. We start at one of the baseball houses and progress through the soccer house,

to another baseball house, a football house, and back to the second baseball house.

I don’t know why, but we are all on a mission to make-out with someone tonight.

We didn’t make a pact or anything, but we all think we have something to prove. Maybe

some of us want to shed our “good girl”, Christian image. Maybe some of us need to feel

wanted, pretty, or sexy. Maybe some of us just desire to do something new. I think I want

all of those things. Looking back on it now, those were the least important things I

needed to be focused on. I wish I could say that that night didn’t start a chain reaction in

my life, where I used boys as Band-Aids. I wish I had known what I do now, but I didn’t

and I got drunk, very drunk. I was irresponsible and didn’t count how many drinks I had

had. I allowed myself to abandon who I was at my core and I didn’t find the girl from

before that night for another six years.

My memory fades as to how Isaac, the tall third baseman that had eyes of

mahogany and hair like tar plastered thick on top of his head, convinced me to go around

the back of the house, but he did. I do remember sitting down on his lap in a lawn chair

near a cold, ash-filled fire pit and shivering. I remember how he cupped my face with his

55
 56

large calloused hands, leading me into a gentle kiss. I remember Issac not pushing me too

far and only wanting to kiss me and talk, while I sat on his lap, absorbing his warmth. He

was nothing but pleasant to me. Nothing but a gentleman, even though I had heard

rumors of worse and would later learn about my friends having very different encounters

with him while I was away, living in London.

Isaac was nothing more to me than my first of many drunken make outs, but for

being the first, he was certainly one of the kindest and most respectful. He gave me hope,

briefly that night, and still does.

J
February14, 2008 9:17 PM

Jonathan leads me out on to the golf course behind my parents’ house. He grabs

my hand and holds it for the first time. We pass through the black metal gate. The bushes

that border the fence scratch at my wrists and ankles. I look at the distant streetlights

reflecting on the lake and hope that something good is about to happen.

Earlier that day I sent a Singing Valentine to Jonathan and stood outside of Mrs.

Sullivan’s classroom, nervous about how he would react. I had never made the first big

move in dating before. I sweated through my pink cupid t-shirt in the two and half

minutes that my friends sang, “Kiss Me.”

Now he is sitting me down on the hill that overlooks the lake and sits adjacent to

the sand pit. He sits in front of me nervously; he cradles a ukulele in his arms.

I think he is about to serenade me. He has done this a few times before. When I

was sick over Christmas he dropped by my parents’ house where he sang and played

“Somewhere over the Rainbow” on the ukulele. He is so different than the other boys I

know at Cinco Ranch High School. He doesn’t care what anyone thinks about him. He

plays violin and the ukulele because he can. He longboards around town, and he has

taught me how to ride on the front of the board with him. He kite-boards and has sent me

flying over the practice football fields on windy days because I weigh too little to not be

57
 58

picked up ten to twelve feet off the ground. He will play with my little brothers, and he

will play board games with me for hours to make me more comfortable in his presence.

He wants to move to Hawaii for college and live on the island. He wants to open up his

own hotel and talks about having me be a baker at this hypothetical resort in Costa Rica.

He talks big and that intrigues me.

He begins playing a song that I don’t recognize.

“Did you write that for me?” I ask.

“Yes, the singing valentine that you sent me inspired me, and I just wanted to ask

you something. Will you be my girlfriend?”

Oh my God. I mean gosh. I can’t believe he is asking me this. I have never had a

boyfriend before. What is this feeling in my stomach? Is this what butterflies feel like?

People talk about experiencing that, but I never have. I think I have butterflies. Will he

kiss me? I lick my lips, hoping they aren’t chapped. I don’t know how to kiss someone.

What if I am bad at it?

“Yes, I would love to be your girlfriend.”

Jonathan places the ukulele to his left and moves to sit next to me. I lean into the

left side of him. Boy’s deodorant smells different. He wraps his pale arm around me. I

think he is going to kiss me. I am so nervous. Please, please let me be good at this.

He leans in. Do I pucker my lips, or do I just let them be?

He lingers a centimeter away from my lips. I can smell his breath. It doesn’t smell

bad like I imagine most boys’ does.

 59

I lunge forward. My lips touch his. They are warm and moist. This is not what I

expected.

I lazily allow my lips to stay attached to his. He begins to move his lips. What is

he doing? Am I supposed to do that too?

I leave the kiss awkwardly. I don’t think that went very well, but I want to do it

again. I am too nervous to initiate another kiss until I learn what I am supposed to do. I

will ask Jessica and her mom later. Regardless of the flop of a kiss I just had, I am now a

woman. I have had my first kiss, and I have a boyfriend. This has been the best

Valentine’s Day.

***

February 23, 2008 10:34 PM

I hear a knock on the front door, I peek around the corner of the upstairs wall to

see who is there. I am home alone, and I am not expecting anyone to come over. I see

Jonathan standing under the light on the front porch. The textured glass on the front door

casts him into a shape Picasso would have painted. I skip down the stairs to see why he is

here so late.

“Hey, do you want to come outside and look at the stars?” he asks.

“Okay.” If anyone else asked me this I would think it is strange, but it is Jonathan

so anything goes with him because he is completely unpredictable.

We walk out to the curb, and I sit down. It is chilly outside so I curl my knees into

my chest, fall back onto my back, and turn my gaze up to the sky sprinkled with
 60

constellations. I lose myself in the stars, trying to pick out patterns that might exist or I

am creating with my imagination. Jonathan is talking about something, I am not listening

at first. My mind wanders around before settling with us in the grass of my front yard.

“Chelsea, I think I made a mistake in asking you to be my girlfriend. I got caught

up in the moment, but I think I like someone else more. I shouldn’t have made a choice

until I was sure, and I need to explore this option, but maybe we will work out after.”

Jonathan rambles on.

I am being dumped right now. Do not cry. Not in front of him. He doesn’t deserve

that satisfaction. I continue to lie there zoning in and out of his long explanation. I want

to go for a run. No, I need to go for a run. I wish he would wrap this up so I can go inside

and change to go run. I feel all the excitement and hope that I had felt with this

relationship bleed out into the almost dead crab grass. I am done. This is why I have

avoided dating.

I think I say “I’m fine” or something along those lines, as I stand up and give him

a final hug before walking inside.

I close the front door and peep through the closed blinds, watching Jonathan’s

white Volkswagen Jetta turn around in the street, heading back to his side of town.

I walk upstairs and change into sweatpants and a sweatshirt and decide I should

call someone. Jessica or my mom. I call both.

I don’t remember what I said, but within twenty minutes my parents are back

home, Jessica and her mom are also there. I sit in the fetal position on the cold kitchen

floor and everything I held in around Jonathan spills out onto the green and blue tiles. I
 61

let my heart experience its first heartbreak. I feel every beat let me down and close me off

further from intimate connection.

“I need to go run,” I repeat between tired breaths.

“Sweetie, it’s the middle of the night and cold outside. Why don’t you wait until

morning?” my mom suggests.

“I need to run tonight, please.”

“We can follow her in the car,” my dad suggests.

“That’s fine. Please, just let me run.”

I double knot my running shoes and walk out into the now-freezing air. I can feel

the tears harden on my face into a thin layer of salty ice. I stretch my calves against the

curb and focus on steadying my breathing. I pull my foot behind me and hold it against

my butt, stretching one quad at a time. The engine turns over on my mom’s 2000 Yukon

XL, and I begin running around the loop of my neighborhood.

The cold air infiltrates my esophagus. It tightens. I feel the shock waves travel up

my shins with every step. My arms pump desperately, and my elbows occasionally attack

my obliques. I don’t want to feel disappointed. I don’t want to feel like I am not good

enough so I run until my body can go no faster or farther.

I began to run away from my emotions that night. I ran away from trusting

people. I ran away from letting love into my life. I kept running.
K
Kjersten is cradling the dirty toilet. I am not in the least bit envious of her position

right now.

“I need to throw up, but I can’t make myself,” Kjersten says into the porcelain

bowl.

“I’ll go get you some water,” I say. I let go of her hair and look to Tom to take

over for me.

“I’ll show you where the glasses are,” K adds.

I walk out of the bathroom and into the kitchen, still reminiscing about my make

out with Isaac thirty minutes earlier. I wonder if anything will come from those kisses. I

had never thought of dating him, but I could be open to the idea, potentially. Wait. I am

not supposed to get attached to a drunken make-out buddy.

“Are you hungry?” K asks.

“Actually, yes. I am really hungry,” I answer.

“I will make us sandwiches while you fix her water. The glasses are up to the

right in the cabinet. Is peanut-butter and jelly okay?”

“Yep, that’s fine.”

62
 63

This is a typical bachelor pad. Three or maybe four baseball players live in this

small house on Windyhill. The floor is made out of polished concrete, so that it is easy to

clean from the messes that are inevitably created from drinking games and beer-pong

tournaments. The walls are painted white and accented with scuffs and scratches. The

furniture is cheap, hand-me-down couches and chairs. I see Bonnie and Chris sitting on

one of the couches, cuddled up in one another’s arms. Looks like both Bonnie and I

achieved our mission for the night: to make out with someone.

I fill the water glass and mischievously begin to add extra condiments. A dash or

two, maybe three, of tabasco sauce, a few shakes of pepper, and perhaps a pinch of salt.

Surely, this will instigate her gag reflex. I take the water to her and suppress the impulse

to laugh; she takes her first gulp. K walks in with my sandwich, and he sees her drinking

the water. He turns to leave before erupting with laughter in the living room. I fall out of

the bathroom and can no longer hold in my amusement. K wraps an arm around my

waist. We both try to catch our breath.

I don’t know him well. I know he is on the baseball team, but he doesn’t play very

much. He is tall-ish and a little thick, with blue eyes and dirty-blond hair. Of course, I

think he is kind of cute.

“So are y’all staying the night?” K asks amused. “It looks like your friends are

pretty comfortable.”

“I don’t know yet. Have you seen Sarah Black? I can’t leave without her.”

“Nope, I haven’t seen her in a while now. You can stay here tonight if you want.”

“We’ll see.”
 64

I walk back into the bathroom, after consuming my sandwich and composing

myself, to find that Kjersten has finally vomited, and Tom is helping her get up.

“Do you know where Sarah is?” I ask Kjersten.

She shakes her head no. Shit, it looks like I am staying in this filthy mess of a

house tonight until she returns.

***

“Chels, you can have my bed, and I’ll sleep on the floor,” K says.

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah, of course.”

I lie down on the bed and cautiously slip under the covers. I have never slept in a

boy’s bed before or spent the night in the same room with a guy whom I am not related

to. Calm down, nothing is going to happen.

Time crawls by. I can’t see a clock to watch it stop moving, but I can feel the

seconds elongate in to minutes, minutes in to hours, and eventually pause. I can hear K

breathing too rapidly to be asleep.

“Are you awake?” I ask.

“Yes, I can’t sleep,”

“Neither can I. Are you uncomfortable on the floor?”

“I’ll be fine.”

“You can sleep on the bed if you want.”

 65

“Okay, thanks.”

He lies down on the left side of the bed. The chasm of four inches between us

reminds me of the Grand Canyon. To attempt to cross it would end in catastrophe.

I tell myself that I am fine. He isn’t touching me. Why is there something deep

inside my gut that wants him to? I already made out with one guy tonight. Do not kiss

anyone else. I shift to shake off the thoughts that are preparing to jump off the cliff

between us, leaving me vulnerable to my primal instincts.

He moves and touches me. It tickles. I try not to laugh. I roll over and meet his

dark gaze in the almost black room. His lips move towards mine. Should I kiss him?

Would that make me a slut? I really want to kiss him. He adjusts himself again, brushing

against my back and triggering my laughing reflex, but this time I can’t suppress it. It

softly breaks out of me, and K continues to instigate it by actually using his fingers to

find the marks on my body where the reaction is the strongest. He slowly begins to

massage my torso, instead of poking it with his thick fingers. He leans in and begins to

kiss me. Softly, then desperately. Like he is searching for some answer in my kisses. It

feels good, but wrong.

He pulls back and whispers something.

“What?”

“I have a girlfriend.”

I pull myself further away. I am the other woman. I didn’t even know I was. I am

disgusting. What do I do now? I can’t believe I am the girl I have always detested.
 66

“Let’s keep this between us. Our little secret,” K says.

Out of instinct or some other uncontrollable force, I give him one last kiss and

agree, before rolling over and facing the window with my back to him.

“Goodnight,” I mumble.
L
The music shifts from country music to current hip-hop. I jump off the elevated

wooden oval dance floor, and skip over to the table where all my friends are congregating

between songs. I see all the girls from high school, who I was never really friends with,

jog past, hand in hand, towards the dance floor. We obviously have opposite styles of

dancing: two-stepping, yes; booty dancing, no. My hips can’t handle that kind of

movement after having competitively run for a decade. I pull myself up onto a stool at

our table and notice that there is a man sitting across from me. He must be someone’s

boyfriend that I haven’t met yet.

“Hey, I don’t think I have met you,” I yell across the small table, trying to start a

conversation over the booming music.

“I am Christina’s older brother, Lyman.”

I look him over. He has broad shoulders. I think he might be a swimmer. He has a

bushy brown beard that consumes his face and blue eyes that squint small when he

smiles. He is different than anyone I have ever thought was cute. I have always been set

on the blond-haired, tall, and blue-eyed boys and adamant about never deviating.

***

I sit down at a corner table with my cup of scalding hot tea, and I try not to stare

at the door. Lyman is coming to meet me for coffee. I think this is a first date. A casual

67
 68

coffee date. This will be my first attempt putting myself out there after the fallout with

Hugh and devastating breakup with X. It’s worth a try.

Lyman walks in and sits down at my table.

“You already got a drink?” he asks.

“Yep, what are you going to get?” I ask. Why is that my first line? I am not good

at dating.

“I’m not sure yet, but I will be right back.”

He comes back with a red Starbucks cup, filled with steaming medium-roast

coffee, and he begins to discuss books, life, athletics, food, and what he hopes for the

future, for the next two hours and fourteen minutes. We glance around and notice that the

baristas are beginning to clean the small, rectangular shop.

“I think they are closing. I should head home,” I say.

“Yeah, it didn’t feel like we were here long. Like we just started talking,” Lyman

adds.

“I know, right.”

“Where are you parked?”

“I am right there.” I point out the window. “The silver truck that’s all alone.”

“You drive a truck? That’s awesome.”

“Yeah, I guess it’s pretty cool.”

“Well, let me walk you to your truck … . We should do this again sometime.”
 69

“I would like that. I had a lot of fun talking to you tonight.”

I pull on my navy-blue coat that is missing a button. I hope he doesn’t notice. I

wrap my leopard-print scarf around my neck and brace myself for the cold air that awaits

outside of this warm coffee shop, filled with memories of laughter and deep

conversations from over the years. I stand up and lead the way. Lyman follows me to my

truck. He proceeds to attempt to break the touch boundary. This is my least favorite part.

He goes in for a hug, but as he wraps his broad arms around me, he lifts me off the

ground. This is not normal for a first hug, but I love it. I pick my head up off the crease

between his chest and shoulder, and he catches my lips in a passionate kiss. I was not

expecting this. This is invigorating. I think I may like dating older men, who are more

secure in themselves.

***

The lukewarm water runs down my back, and I am replaying today’s events. We

went to the chili cook-off in Galveston. It should have been fun, and it was mainly, but

now I am unsure. I came into this knowing that Lyman is older than I am, and I am okay

with that aspect of our relationship, but I am not okay with the fact that he is eight years

older and I have accomplished more. He won’t finish college, and I graduated early. He is

working a dead-end job, and I am actively seeking a better opportunity. I fear he will

make me complacent. I fear that I miss X more than I am enjoying spending time with

Lyman. My tears begin to mix with the water. Maybe they are cooling off the shower

because the water is gradually losing its heat. Maybe I have been in here too long,

reflecting on what my life has become and where it is going. Maybe I will reach out to X.

Maybe I will turn off this now cold water and dry off so I can face the day. Maybe.
 70

***

February 14, 2013 6:12 AM

Lyman walks into the YMCA with a cup of Starbucks in his hand and a large

smile across his face.

“Good morning and Happy Valentine’s Day,” he greets.

“Morning, I thought I told you I didn’t celebrate Valentine’s Day?”

“Yeah, but I thought this would be okay.”

I reluctantly take the cup of hot caffeine. He doesn’t realize he just placed the kiss

of death on this relationship. I do not want to do this anymore. I do not want to go to his

friend’s wedding. I want him to grow up, move out of his parents’ house, finish his

degree, and get a better job, but none of that matters. He has to want all of that for

himself. He walks out the door, and I know I have to break up with him, tonight.
M

Ten minutes away and I start to feel the unruly shifting from my stomach to

bowels again. I ran my first marathon the previous morning, the Houston Chevron

Marathon, and was experiencing extreme bowel distress, to put it politely. As I pull into

the empty lot next to his trailer, I text him to make sure he is home. A shooting pain

spreads across my abdomen, and I clutch the steering wheel, digging my fingernails into

the peeling black pleather. The pain subsides. I have only a few minutes to make it to a

bathroom. My eyes peer over the dash, and I see him make his way towards my truck.

His name is Matthew.

I don’t call him Matt or Matty because I’ve never had a good encounter with

them. Matthew doesn’t deserve to be associated with the name Matt.

Matthew is six-foot-one and is built like a brick wall. I like that he is muscular. It

makes me feel even smaller, like I can disappear inside him. He has dark-blue eyes that

you only notice the color of when you are close enough to kiss him, and I have spent

many hours kissing him. His dirty-blond comb-over is a mess, as he pulls on an A&M

sweatshirt. He is an MBA student at Texas A&M; it is one of those qualities I overlook,

as I have a strong distaste for Aggies typically.

71
 72

I have casually dated Matthew for three months now. Him and four other guys. I

think I have a commitment problem.

I left my brownie pan here on accident last weekend. I can’t stay long. I have four

hours to drive and 611 pages to read for two of my classes tomorrow.

As I get out of my truck slowly and hobble towards him he gives me a hug, but no

kiss. Something feels off, but then the pain in my gut strikes again, so I ask if I can use

his restroom and he obliges. I waddle as quickly as my stiff knee and sore muscles will

allow me, up the five stairs and down the hallway to the bathroom.

Sitting on the toilet with my head resting in my hands, my body is purging itself

of who knows what else at this point. I look to the right and notice that there is a good

two inch clearance under the door to the bathroom. Fantastic! He can probably hear

everything. As I turn to rest my head back in my hands, a glint in the trashcan grabs my

attention. My mom always told me that curiosity kills the cat, yet I still decide to take a

closer look. It is a condom wrapper and lying underneath it is a used condom.

It is a Durex wrapper, all shiny and purple, but for some reason my eyes read

Duracell, which reminds me of Energizer Batteries and that stupid bunny continually

beating away at that drum. It is the thought of the battery and the fluffy bunny in all the

commercials that starts to infuriate me. That he has fucked another girl while he is dating

me. I can’t be mad, though, because I am dating or talking to Chris, Vincente, Roberto,

and I’ve been making out with Frank, so why do I feel this rush of heat through my

body?
 73

I keep imagining him beating himself against another girl just like that damn

bunny beats that drum.

I have been in the bathroom an unusual amount of time at this point, so I flush the

toilet, try to forget about what I just saw in the trash, and turn on the faucet to wash my

hands because washing hands is always relaxing. No water. I look frantically at the toilet.

It has barely flushed.

I walk out to the living room and tell Matthew that the sink isn’t working.

“It does that sometimes, give it a few minutes and it should be working again,” he

casually states.

I sink down to the floor mortified, as shivers take over my body and my head

inflates like a plastic bag in a breeze.

There is evidence of my sickly shit in his bathroom.

I think I am going to be sick again.

Who is the girl?

Crap, am I going to puke? God I hope not … not in that toilet, but where else?

When was the last time I talked to Chris? Wow, I think it has been two weeks now.

A series of burps begins making their way up my esophagus. I look up and watch

Matthew typing away on his computer, then quickly switching to scribbling notes down
 74

on a paper, and picking up his book again. He catches me watching him and smiles; he

has a crooked smile.

“How are you feeling? Do you need anything? Water or food?”

“No thanks, I just need to sit for a moment,” I say, as a small burp escapes.

Desperately searching for distraction, I sit on the floor and start stretching, hoping that

will help my sore muscles and maybe even my disgruntled stomach.

He won’t have sex with me—he says he wants to take it slow and do things right

with me—yet he brings another girl home.

Ohh ouch, my hamstring is tight!

Oh my, but what if I am the other woman? Not again.

Hmm … when was the last time I saw Frank? Has it really been a month? Have I

even talked to him recently? I should text him.

I stand up abruptly. A surge of vomit bubbles up in my throat. I swallow it. I

attempt to jog to the bathroom again; I feel it burning the fibers of my vocal cords. Damn

marathon. I sit there shaking as my body continues to reprimand me from punishing it for

four hours and eight minutes yesterday. I am so hungry, but nothing seems to agree with

my body. I avoid looking at the trashcan and focus on the real problem at hand: the lack

of water. The toilet still hasn’t refilled with water, the sink isn’t working, and I am

destroying his bathroom. Silently lowering the lid to hide my sickness, I begin to search

in vain for air freshener. Opening cabinets cautiously, not wanting to find any more
 75

disturbing evidence of his sexual escapades, I peer around deodorant and cleaning

supplies, timidly moving things aside and putting them immediately back in place. I don’t

find anything I can use as air freshener.

My next plan of action is to take a look in the tank; I quietly remove the lid, set it

down gently, and peer inside. Desperately, I begin jiggling various levers, trying to revive

the toilet. I use my fingers as shock pads, hoping to restart the internal plumbing of this

porcelain receptacle. Time passes slowly as my surgical attempts to rectify severe

dehydration fail. After fiddling with the levers in the tank for a few minutes, the

realization hits that my attempts are futile without any water. I pray for water.

Shivers spread across my epidermis, and my muscles grow tense as I limp back

into the living room to collapse onto the couch in the fetal position.

I’m going to be here for longer than anticipated.

After ten minutes, I uncurl myself slowly like a sloth and decide that if I am going

to be sick and emotional I might as well escape into some reading for class. I stiffly move

across the room, a long journey of six feet, grab a book out of my purse, and quickly curl

myself back up into the couch, allowing the pillows to contour around my body. We both

sit there on the couch, reading books for class; the awkward tension is too much to

handle, so my solution is to drift to sleep for a quick cat nap. Bad idea. I wake up even

more nauseous, time has flown by, and it is now after five with four hours to drive.

Stuffing my book in my purse, I let Matthew know that it’s time for me to get back on the

road.
 76

“Let me finish this chapter, then I’ll walk you out,” he says without breaking eye

contact with the page.

He really is so cute when he is being studious.

When was the last time I chatted with Vincente? A week and a half ago, yes.

I think my abs are actually more sore than my legs. Is that from breathing?

Why did I cancel on Roberto two nights ago? Oh my, have I cut off all my flings

and flirtations? When did I decide to do that? I definitely didn’t decide on that.

“Alright, I’m finished. Let me grab your stuff for you. Are you sure there isn’t

anything I can get you? Medicine, water, a snack?” Matthew asks attentively. I finally

seem to have his attention now, and he looks concerned. “Chelsea, you look really pale.

Are you sure you can drive?”

“No, I don’t want anything, but let me check if the water is on real quick.”

I make my way to the bathroom and a pungent odor greets me. Well, this is just

swell. I try the faucet and there is no such luck. Still no water. I am going to have to leave

the toilet unflushed and the bathroom smelling rancid. As this sinks in, I realize this

might be the last time I talk to or see Matthew after he makes this horrid discovery in his

bathroom. I walk out grieving over my unintentional rejection of Frank, Chris, Vincente,

and Roberto, and the impending end of the last semi-relationship I still have in my life.

I cringe, as I teeter down the stairs and make my way to my truck. Matthew is

already there, loading up my forgotten items in the passenger seat. He comes to give me a
 77

hug and just holds me. Well crap, I really like this guy. I stand there for a minute, hidden

in his embrace, allowing him to hold my tired body up, and my left knee gives out as I

push away, causing me to tumble towards the ground. Embarrassed, I try to brush it off

and make my way to the driver’s side and ungracefully climb into my worn leather seat.

Matthew stands there in the door and begins talking to me. Finally.

“I need to start applying for internships for this summer, but I want one that pays

well and is with a company I support. You know what I mean? I also need to find a place

that will do a six-month lease, but I cannot find anything, or roommates. I am not ready

for the semester to start. I need another week to prepare. I have so many emails I need to

respond to or send, there is just so much to do.”

He continues on for fourteen minutes. I sit there listening to him explain all the

things he needs to finish today, and about his anxieties with starting a new semester.

Gosh, I wish he would just kiss me. Would it be bad if I asked for a kiss?

I love listening to him talk, but I wish he wouldn’t worry so much. Doesn’t he

realize that everything is going to work out the way it is supposed to?

“Can I get a kiss goodbye?” The words escape from my mouth; I immediately feel

heat in my cheeks.

Without saying a word, Matthew smiles and leans close to my face, allowing one

arm to wrap me up into half a hug and the other hand to hold my quivering face securely,

as he gives me three soft kisses.

 78

Oh God, I think I could love him.

N
I am lying on my stomach on the chapel lawn at Texas Lutheran University. The

summer night air blows gently across my bare legs while Nate massages the knots in my

back. I can feel the thin, worn, cotton fibers of my John Deere shirt rubbing against my

sore skin.

I began team training at the collegiate level three weeks ago, and it still feels like

my muscles are going to burst out of my skin. My back is a mosaic of knots and new

muscles from the different workouts and increased intensity compared to my lazy

summer training. I started dating Nate a week-and-a-half-ago. I knew him for less than a

handful of days before agreeing to this.

Sharp circles are being dug deep below my shoulder blades. The pain radiates

through my body, growing stronger and stronger until it vanishes as the knots unravel. Is

it crazy that this is the most romantic thing that has happened to me up until this point in

my life? A boy kneading my back.

***

Nate mentioned marriage today. To me. I have only been dating him for a month-

and-a-half or two months. I am not sure. I am bad with calendars. I am not sure that I

want to get married, now, in the future, or even ever, but definitely not now. How do you

break up with someone? It should be done in person, I assume from TV and what has

happened to me. I will do it tomorrow. I should ask Hugh for advice. Plus, it will let him

know that I will be single again, just in case.

79
O
June 18, 2015

I need to get out of Viscri. This village and the seclusion are driving me crazy. I

want to relax, away from all of the struggles that exist here; I need to feel like a normal

twenty-three-year-old girl for one day. Ovidiu offered to be my adventure guide through

Transylvania on one of my days off, so maybe I should text him. After a month and a half

of working non-stop from sun up to the middle of the night, today is my first day off. I

am waking up early to help visitors navigate the town and its tours amidst a major

language barrier. Then I work with the children in the village, trying to teach English and

math. Finally, I end my day in the wee hours of the morning making sure all the

overnight visitors are taken care of and find their way to their beds at the end of the night.

I’m not being paid enough.

What if I text him that I want to go somewhere, anywhere, away from this village

of maybe four-hundred Romanians and at least triple that in cows, goats, sheep, chickens,

ducks, pigs, horses, and dogs? Would he think that I am desperate? Would he take that as

coming onto him? Because his divoted face, crooked teeth, and his hair that looks like it

was rinsed in coffee grounds are far from appealing. But, I want to see a paved road and

buy chocolate and tampons at a store. I need to see something familiar and new.

I get on my phone and text;

80
 81

“So guess who is taking a day off??!! What are your plans for today??”

A few minutes later, the phone dings, and Ovidiu floats onto the screen.

“Really? Actually taking a day off? I suppose I will be heading towards Viscri

then ;) ”

“When do you think you will be here? And what are we going to do?”

“Pack a bathing suit and you will see. I’ll be there at 12:30.”

I put down the phone and look around. The bare, white-plaster walls and pale

wooden boards that create the floor and ceiling have been my home, since I arrived in the

middle of a crisp, black night in May. This place has been my safety net during the

hardest transition in my life. I am a tight ropewalker alone, wanting only to survive the

long journey ahead while desperately looking for a way back. Shake it off. Don’t get

emotional today. Today an adventure awaits and that will make all of this sadness and

regret fade, if only for a few days.

This is my first opportunity to get out and go somewhere farther than my two feet

can carry me. Grabbing my dirty, faded, powder-blue Jansport backpack off the hook on

the wall, I begin to stuff inside my water bottle, books, journal, towel, warm clothes, and

a bathing suit. I shuffle into my tiny bathroom, stand on tippy-toes, and look into the

square mirror with a frame painted in a bright, Eastern-European floral design. Now to

braid my hair, so it looks cute no matter how much my frizzy curls want to resist my anti-

frizzing hair products. I walk out of the bathroom and take six steps to the wardrobe, on

the other side of my living quarters, where I flip through my small pile of clothes, pulling

out my short cut-offs, tank top, and sweater. I slide the silky, mint-green Victoria’s Secret
 82

tank over my alabaster skin. I have never been this pale in the summer. Maybe it will be

sunny enough for me to get a little tan today. That is in my top ten things I miss most: the

sun. I dance into my shorts, button them up, and look down, satisfied with my

appearance. I look cute, but not like I am trying too hard. I walk over to my bed and sit

down on the cool, white linens. This is one of the most comfortable and safest places in

this village, on this bed. It is where I hide from the world outside, but can’t seem to hide

from myself.

I sit there thinking. Why is going with this guy, who is a mountain-biker nearing

forty, a good idea? I only met Ovidiu a few weeks ago when I was helping with the

Transylvanian Bear Ultra-Marathon and Marathon and have only briefly encountered him

since. He has a girlfriend, and they have been together for a long time, but I also know

that he doesn’t regard being in a relationship as an obstacle to pursuing other girls. I

know I shouldn’t be hanging out with him, but I am desperate. I need to get out of this

village for a day before I go stir crazy. I need to prove to myself that I do not need Sailor

Boy, or anyone, to be happy and loved.

Sailor Boy

Noun | Sail·or Boy | \’sā-lǝr bōi\

2. Out lost at sea.

I get off the bed, slinging my backpack over my shoulder, and walk out. I take the

heavy metal key and lock the thin door. Sometimes I can’t believe that this is all that

separates me from the wilderness, a piece of wood an inch thick. Only a few weeks ago,
 83

the ducks that live in the garden were brutally attacked by some animal from the forest.

Murder occurred right outside my door, and I hadn’t even closed my window that night.

Everything about this place sets my nerves a light. I jog next door, I am running behind

schedule, to see the kitchen ladies and grab a few thick slices of bread along with some

cream and jam for lunch before Ovidiu arrives.

I look at my American phone anxiously, hoping to get a text from Sailor Boy, all

the while knowing all too well that it is the middle of the night for him. Tossing it in my

backpack, I attempt to bury my longing for Sailor Boy. I place my Romanian phone on

the counter and watch it anxiously while I bite into the delicious spread that Vio makes

every day. The women chatter in Romanian, and chitter as they prank Christina by giving

her coffee with salt, instead of sugar.

 84

***

We pull up in Ruganesti near the fishpond and park on the side of the road. This is

the first time I have seen a body of water since arriving in Viscri. Desperate to feel cool

water on my dry skin, I rush out of the car and walk over to the water’s edge. It has been

too long, now I’m nervous about the one thing in the world that is most comforting to me.

The one thing that helps everything make sense, even if only for a few minutes. This

rippled surface should be easing my mind and fostering clarity, but instead everything

remains opaque.

I set my stuff down in a clearing in the grass and take pictures of this pristine and

lonely pond situated perfectly in a nest of wildly green, rolling hills. There is no one

swimming or even around. The overcast sky breathes a chill into the air, which enhances
 85

my uneasiness. Goose bumps rise up along my shins. I pull my overused copy of The

Lizard’s Tale out of my backpack when Ovidiu walks over after paying for us.

“Do you want to swim? Or do you prefer to sit awhile?” he asks.

I nod towards my book and settle into reading the captivating and poetic language

of Luisa Valenzuela.

Finally, the sun peeks out through the line of depressing clouds and reflects across

the calm surface of the pond.

“We should hurry and go swimming now,” I tell him, as I begin digging through

my heavy backpack for my bathing suit. I put my shoes back on, jog over to the rotting

wood that is the changing room and outhouse, strip down, and tie on my mismatching

bikini red bottoms and black, jeweled top. I can’t help but feel self-conscious about how I

look in a bathing suit. I haven’t seen myself in a full-length mirror since I was in

America, I haven’t weighed myself in months, and for the first time my body feels dense.

I can’t wait to immerse myself in water, to feel weightless, suspended in cool liquid.

I walk out onto the weathered deck and wait to jump off the wooden plank, which

I suppose is a diving board. Walking back and forth along the edge of the pond, I wait

and take pictures of the lake. I am falling through the deck. Ovidiu runs up and wraps me

in his arms while pulling me off the breaking part of the deck. I am relieved that he was

there to help me, but I cringe at being in his arms. I know I came here with him to find

distraction, to speak in English, and to try to forget about Sailor Boy, but the first thought

that pops into my head is how I don’t want him touching my barely clothed body.

I push aside the thought as best as I can.

 86

“Thank you for saving me,” I say, wincing at the way the words fall out of my

mouth and perpetuate the societal belief that a woman needs a man.

“You’re welcome. You look really nice with less clothes on,” Ovidiu replies. His

eyes work their way up and down my body. I wriggle my way out of his arms and throw

a smile his way so that he doesn’t feel completely rejected.

I am so confused. Why did I come here? He has a girlfriend. What was I

expecting to happen? I briskly walk back over to our spot in the grass, put my camera in

my bag, walk to the end of the plank, and stare into the reflection of myself in the water

below. What do I want? Right now, in this moment, and for the rest of my life? I look

into the lost eyes of the woman looking back at me; I do not like what I see. I cannonball

into the water below. Hold breath. Squeeze eyes shut. Don’t scream.

***

The sun is beginning to set, and we pull over on our way back to Viscri in

Saschiz. I have seen the fortress from the road a few times previously and have felt the

urge to go explore it, like every other set of ruins I have ever laid eyes on in my life. As

we begin our ascent up the steep, muddy slope with deep trenches from carts travelling

up and down the hillside, Ovidiu attempts to hold my hand.

I pull away.

“I can climb the hill on my own, thank you,” I say snarkily.

“I was just trying to help you and get a little closer.”

 87

“So tell me about what it was like growing up during Communism,” I say,

diverting the conversation into an area that I know he will talk about. Ovidiu begins

recounting anecdotes about his parents’ waiting in line for food, his family’s business,

and what he wants to do with his life. I listen to his stories and dreams fade, as we climb

higher in the dimming light. We turn a corner on the path, bordered by the forest, and

suddenly we are upon the Cetatea Taraneasca. It is magnificently decaying. The massive

stone structure has been battling the wiles of the wilderness for centuries. I wander ahead

in awe of how small I feel in this enchanting and magical place. I am walking where

fairytales occur. A partially collapsed spiral staircase leads up to the second level, and I

crawl up hesitantly. Peeking my head through what I imagine was a window, I gaze down

at the valley and village below. What did this look like three hundred years ago? The

buildings grow older and the few paved streets turn to mud. The modern mismatched

clothes evaporate and leave traditional white tunics with the village’s embroidered

emblem on the collar. The handful of cars would be replaced with horses and wagons.

The world wouldn’t look very different three hundred years ago from how it does now.

The juxtaposition of life back home and here startles me even now, the poverty

overwhelms me, and the love and acceptance surprises me.

 88

“You are like a goat!” Ovidiu calls up to me from at least fifteen feet below.

“How did you get up there?”

 89

I am jolted back into reality briefly, from the dream I am living in. “There are

stairs inside the tower on the left.”

“What are you doing up here all alone?”

Ovidiu creeps up behind me.

“Oh, just taking a look around. It’s stunning, but we should get going soon. It’s

beginning to get pretty dark, and we still have hike back down.”

“”Then we should head on, but only after I kiss you.”

“Don’t you have a girlfriend?”

“You knew that when you asked to hang out. What did you expect would happen

today? I want to kiss you, and no one has to know.”

I stand there looking up at his weathered face and question myself. I did know he

had a girlfriend, and I still chose to come. Why am I trying to prove something today? I

know better than to behave in this manner.

“I don’t know about that … . I still am unsure about Sailor Boy and what is

happening with that,” I say.

Ovidiu pulls me into him and kisses me. I squirm free from his strong grasp and

start walking quickly down the staircase and out of the fortress. Ovidiu follows closely

behind, asking me to slow down, as I begin to almost break into a jog down the steep

path.

I want to get away. I do not want to feel what I am feeling now, a sense of almost

certainty that I have crossed a moral line that cannot be undone, and that I do like Sailor
 90

Boy more than I had anticipated. Overanalyzing the last minute, I slip and slide down the

muddy hill, only catching myself on a root sticking up from the ground. Pause. Ovidiu

catches up to me and reaches out his hand. I push my way up on my own, steadying

myself while examining my dirty pants and hands to check if I have cut myself. He tries

to take my hand again. I cross my arms into my body. I do not want to be touched. I slip

again in the darkness, but this time Ovidiu seizes my wrist and holds it tightly while he

leads me down towards the village in the twilight.

***

Back in Ovidiu’s car, I plug in my phone and begin playing The National’s song

“England” over the stereo. Windows unrolled and sunroof open, I feel closer to the sky.

Billions of stars and streaks of the Milky Way watch, as I lean my head out of the car

while he slowly drives along the bumpy, dirt road leading from Bunesti to Viscri.

Ovidiu pulls over on top of a hill and gets out.

“Come on, get out and look at the stars,” he commands.

“It’s too cold,” I say, hoping my excuse works.

“No good, I will keep you warm.” He opens my car door. I get out reluctantly; I

could see fine from where I was, and the temperature is dropping quickly. I stand there on

the side of the road; he stands behind me and encases me in his arms. My stomach twists

into a knot as he kisses the back of my neck, and I feel the warmth of tears rolling down

my cheeks. I cannot do this. This is not who I am. My heart is somewhere else. I turn

around towards him, and he kisses me on the lips. A sob escapes.

 91

“I can’t,” I let out. “I am in love with Sailor Boy.”

Ovidiu pulls away slowly. “Does he know that?” he asks.

“No.”
P
The truth?

The truth is ripped apart one fiber at a time,

Shredded like paper,
Tossed in the waste bin,
Enjoying emptying into the flesh.
Depravity stems between masses searching for a conviction.

The truth?

The truth is:

Opportunity presented itself.
My friend.
My friend used my body.
Girl asleep on his friend’s,
My friend’s couch.
No one around to see.
My friend.
My foe
Takes me.
Rapes me.

The lie?

The lie that verdicts protect individuals from further violations caused by society’s
biases.
That time sutures infected wounds.
That incurred molestation is provoked by material neglect and improper coverage.
That it is asked for.

The lie?

The lie is discrediting Columbia girl

Carrying her mattress;
Carrying her pain.

92
 93

The lie that we will not believe her.

Why should we be uncomfortable, when it is Columbia girl’s struggle?

The reality?

The reality is girls in India cannot relieve themselves.

Hunted in the darkness.
A prize once acquired is left to the mercy of a society
Who believes “by force, it never happens.”
There is no rape.

The reality?

The reality is slight touches unhinge horrors;

Unrelenting nightmares torture my existence;
Relationships lay slain in dusty corners.
Violations within every cell invade all encounters.
Vacant thoughts numb the orifice’s ability to repair.
There is no hope in silence.

The reality?

The reality is:

Voices move us to action.
Oppression dims with noise.
Restoration begins in words.
Rape will not define me.

It took me 905 days to talk to someone about what happened to me. I sat there on

the couch that had geometric patterns in soft soothing colors, staring into it, not wanting

to make eye contact with the woman sitting across from me. I didn’t know how this

experience was supposed to go, so I talked about all the things I shouldn’t. All the things

that were supposed to be hidden. I couldn’t help but gaze at the three plastic jewels, pink,

green, and blue, that dangled from the knobs on the cabinets when I was asked to

remember memories hazed by sleep, alcohol, and fear. Society said it was my fault, but I
 94

didn’t want to believe it. I had punished myself in silence, and, day by day, I felt farther

from myself with no trail leading back to the girl who I once was. Silence didn’t work.

It took me 936 days to write this poem. It lived and breathed inside me all that

time, and once I wrote it, my life began to change. I realized I had a voice, even if it was

only barely audible, that I had something to say.

Q
Audrey, Kori, Parker, and I are sitting around a small, black, round, high table in

a dark bar. Music pounds through the walls. Some band is playing at the restaurant next

door, and the sound is bleeding through into the new hip bar in town, Public-Haus. We

are huddled closely, venting about everything from graduate school that is frustrating us.

***

I decided earlier that week to experiment with the online dating site, Tinder. I hear

such hilarious stories about the encounters and people on the site that I decided to see for

myself what it was all about, so I joined and began swiping mainly to the left, rejecting

many men, but I occasionally swiped right to see what would come of it. I swiped right to

Henry and a dozen other men in the Abilene area.

Henry is a dentist for the Dyess Airforce Base, who seems fairly cute and presents

himself as a well-mannered young man, compared to others. He begins asking me about

meeting up, and using my better judgement, I decide to agree to meet him only if others

are around.

***

I look down at the slightly sticky table and see that my phone has received a new

message. It’s from Henry; he wants to meet tonight.

95
 96

“Where are you all? My friend and I can come meet you,” the message says. It

sounds like he might be a little drunk and desperate, but I am with my friends, so I might

as well finish my experiment now.

“We are at Public-Haus. Come meet us,” I reply. I turn back to the conversation at

hand.

Around thirty minutes later, I get a phone call.

“Hey, we can’t get inside. They are at capacity. Come outside.”

“Umm, I think I will stay inside, but it looks like people may be leaving soon.” I

hang up. He is definitely drunk. Maybe this isn’t such a good idea.

“Was that him?” Audrey asks.

“Yeah, he wants me to go outside since they can’t get in,” I explain. “That is not

happening. I am quite comfy where I am.”

“That’s kind of strange that he would ask you to leave,” Parker adds.

“Oh no, that’s not okay,” Kori exclaims.

Nine minutes later, Henry walks in with his muscular Asian friend. They find our

table, and everyone shakes hands at the introductions. Henry’s hand is like a limp fish in

my mine. What kind of handshake is that? I find out his friend’s name is Quon, and he

has an appropriate handshake that is firm and authoritative, in comparison to Henry’s.

They leave to go get drinks from the bar.

“Did anyone else notice how he shook our hands?” Parker asks.
 97

“You know how to pick them, Chelsea,” Kori scoffs.

“Ha ha, y’all are funny. Anyways, it’s just a meeting and an experiment,” I

explain. They are right. I have a knack for picking douche bags, and I already know

Henry isn’t going to be someone whom I will give another chance.

They come back to the table, and Henry stands on my left side while Quon stands

to my right. I am sandwiched between them. I try to make conversation with Henry, but

he is socially awkward, even more than I am, and he is becoming increasingly agitated, as

he drinks more and more. I turn to Quon. “So what do you do?”

“I am a lawyer for the Airforce,” Quon begins. The conversation quickly becomes

an engaging dialogue that moves between economics, law, and graduate school. I forget

that Henry is still standing next to me.

“Do you want me to just leave you two?” Henry quips.

“No, I think I will head home pretty soon,” I say.

“Well, are you going to take him with you?” Henry asks.

“Man, you need to chill,” Quon says.

“No, I am going home alone,” I answer.

I might have unintentionally ignored Henry, but I do not like being spoken to in

such an aggressive manner. I am ready to get out of here and away from him.

“Do you recognize my friend?” Henry asks.

“What are you talking about?”

 98

“Do you recognize him from Tinder?”

“No … .”

“You matched with him too. You matched with both of us, you whore.”

“Henry, I think you’ve had enough to drink,” Quon inserts. “I think it is time for

us to go.”

“I am going to go now,” I add.

“Do you want me to walk me to your car?” Quon asks.

“No, I am more than capable of taking care of myself. I am done here.”

I walk out of the bar and take the long way to my car, so they will not be as

inclined to follow me. Did I just get played? Am I a player? I haven’t been able to fully

commit to a relationship or even dating a single person in a long time. I need to change

this. Whore. I know I am not a whore, but I have come to love the attention that I get

from dating numerous guys at once, and maybe that is not what I should be doing right

now.
R
It is 6:43 PM and I am counting down the minutes until I am off work. I am back

in Houston for Christmas break and have decided to help my boss Raymond at his shop,

Finish Strong, in order to make a little extra cash because I am a broke graduate student.

Seventeen minutes.

The front door opens and a young runner walks through. I can tell he is sore from

training, based on the way he is trying to cover up his hobble towards the back. He

immediately goes to the nutrition wall packed with all sorts of food and electrolytes that

long-distance runners use during races. There is GU, the jellybeans, the gummies, the

waffles, Nuun, and many other brands, which can seem daunting to the newbie.

“Good evening, can I help you find anything in particular?” I ask him.

“Nope, I think I found what I need. Just a few packets of GU for my training run

in the morning, but do y’all have any more of the salted caramel? Those are the best,” he

responds.

“I might have some in the back. I’ll go take a look real quick.” I begin to walk

through what should be the swinging doors, but one is missing. I have always wondered

what happened to it. I see the box I am looking for piled up high next to the ceiling in the

back room, which is stacked high with shoes boxes. It is right above the men’s Saucony

Rider. I can’t reach it on my own, so I turn around searching for where the ladder has

been stashed this time.

99
 100

As I climb up the steps, I can’t help but think that the man standing out by the

cash register is pretty cute for a runner, but I have always avoided runners because I don’t

want to feel the need to compete against them. I don’t want to date anyone that could beat

me in a race. I have two guys on my plate as it is anyway. I grab the box with my dry,

cracked hand, scramble back down the ladder to safety, and walk back out into the store.

“I found another box of salted caramel; do you want a few of those?”

“Actually, yes. I’ll take three of those and these here. Now I won’t have to stop

next week before my Saturday run,” he responds.

“What are you training for?” I begin to ignore my own advice and fall into the

easy pattern of flirting, while I pick myself up and balance on the counter with my arms,

kicking my feet out behind me.

“I am training for the Houston marathon next month,” he replies.

“Cool. I am running that too. How is your training going? Are you training with a

group? What time are you shooting for?” I ask excitedly. He answers all my questions,

and somehow the conversation goes from running to coffee to movies and back to coffee

in fifteen minutes. “Oh my, look at the time. It is time for me to close up,” I say as I

begin to scamper around, doing closing duties. He walks towards the door and I call out

“good luck!”

I am working on closing out the register, counting the cash, when I hear the front

door open again. I am about to say we are closed as I look up, but I see the cute runner

walking towards the counter again.

“I forgot to ask you for your name,” he says nervously.

 101

“It’s Chelsea … Johnson,” I am so puzzled that he came in to ask my name. Is he

going to ask me on a date or not?

“I’m Roberto, it was really nice meeting you. Goodnight,” He says, as he walks

back out the front door. I stand there with a wad of ones in my hand, perplexed at what

just transpired.

***

I sit on my bed and pull my banged-up laptop out of my backpack. I should put it

in a case. I should buy a case for it to protect it before I break this one too. Login …

email, check … blog, check …. bills, check … Facebook, wait, message? Investigate.

“Hey! What’s up? So I should have asked you if you’d like to get coffee while I

was there … but would you like to grab a cup sometime?” this is from Roberto.

Wait, he went to the trouble of finding me on Facebook, among the thousands of

other Chelsea Johnsons on social media. I am intrigued, so I click on his profile and begin

to do a little stalking. I look at his profile picture and immediately notice that I know

some of the people in the picture, and most notably X. How does he know X? He dumped

me only a few months ago and I had never heard about a friend named Roberto. I cannot

go on a date with him. He is friends with X. Or should I go on a date with him because he

is friends with X? Maybe then I can hurt him as much as he has hurt me.

“How do you know X?” I respond, knowing that I could never hurt X like that. I

love him and always will, even if he doesn’t love me back anymore.
S
Yalapa, Mexico

Last night as I lay in a hammock on the roof of my hostel, drinking a beer while

enjoying the sea breeze in Puerto Vallarta, I met a fellow traveler named Rory, who told

me he had heard of a beautiful beach to the south of here. I asked if he knew the name or

how to get there, but in his inebriated state, he couldn’t remember. I decided this morning

to ask the lady that cooks and cleans at the hostel for advice on where to find this

mysterious beach. We spent thirty minutes attempting to have a broken conversation in

Spanish, and I ended up leaving the hostel with a piece of scratch paper with the bus

number I needed to catch, the name of the town to get off in, and the real price of the water

taxi to get me the rest of the way to Yalapa.

I stepped off the water taxi six hours ago accompanied by a local artist, whom I

met during the hour-long boat ride. He gave me a tour of the small fishing village, his

house and artwork, and walked me to the cascada, where he and a friend had had an

unfortunate trip while high off homegrown hallucinogens. My day had already been filled

with ridiculous adventures even before I reached the picturesque beach. I spent the rest of

the day doing what I came here to do: reading, writing, and playing with an adorable beach

dog. The day was my version of perfect.

102
 103

The sun begins to make its journey back into the sea, so I decide it is time to

embark on my voyage back to Puerto Vallarta. I walk over to the populated section of the

beach and arrange for a water taxi back to Boca de Tomatlan. I notice two men sitting on

beach chairs having a drink. Have I just heard them speaking English?

“Umm, cuando … es el siguiente barco?” I say to the man standing next to a boat,

hoping I just asked when the next boat leaves correctly.

“Twenty minutes,” he replies, “sit, have a drink.”

 104

I walk over to a clump of lawn chairs in the thick, granular sand and a small,

Mexican man walks out and gets my order, a passion-fruit margarita. Sitting there fiddling

with my drink between sips and taking photos of a red flower washing up in the waves, I

try to sneak glances at the men to my left. One is a brunette, and he is pale, while the other

is deeply tanned with messy, blond, curly hair. The blond rouses something inside me, so I

try to focus harder on photographing the flower from the perfect angle.

I slurp up the last bit of my drink, and I feel the alcohol begin to hit me. I need to

eat when I get back to Puerto Vallarta. The water taxi ride from Yalapa to Boca de

Tomatlan takes you along the coastline, where mountains densely covered in vivid, green,

foliage plunge straight into the cool, blue waters of the Pacific. The tide swells, the waves

build in size. They crash violently against our boat, soaking the women in front of me,

before finally breaking upon the cliffs. I sit there focusing on the beauty surrounding me,

predominantly on the cliffs. I try to ignore the fact that the two men I’ve seen on the beach

are on the same boat as I, one row behind me and on the left side. I can feel their presence,

and I can't help occasionally calculating times to glance back at the younger, dirty-blond

one while pretending to take a video and photos.

Once the boat docks in Boca de Tomatlan, I quickly scamper off and trip as I try to

hurry away. I don't know why the cute one makes me so excited and nervous.
 105

Boca de Tomatlan, Mexico

I march up the steep, dirt hill to the bus stop at the beginning and end of the tiny

village. I have come to Mexico alone, seeking time to read, write, and just be by myself. I

get on the bus and take a seat next to the window. A few minutes later, the older, brunette

man boards the bus, followed by the blond. They come and sit directly across from me and

introduce themselves. They are brothers; the younger blond is Sailor Boy, and the older
 106

brunette is Graham. After a few minutes of small talk, Sailor Boy invites me to join them

for dinner.

The bus grows increasingly crowded, as it makes its way through numerous small

towns. I can no longer hold a conversation with Sailor Boy and Graham through the wall

of bodies chattering in Spanish. Instead, I look out the window and watch the Los Archos

islands whirl past. Twenty minutes later, the bus stops in Puerto Vallarta, everyone pours

out onto the cobblestone street, and I join Graham and Sailor Boy again. We begin to stroll

towards El Malecon Boardwalk, making small talk. I learn that Graham is in graduate

school and working, and that Sailor Boy is working up in Nuevo Vallarta, teaching sailing.

Now I am even more intrigued by this mysterious seaman.

Puerto Vallarta, Mexico

We decide it is too early to eat, so we begin walking down La Playa de Los

Muertos to watch the sunset. As we reach the cliffs at the end, I show Graham and Sailor

Boy a path through the cliffs to a hidden beach, Amapas. I discovered it while running this

morning.

I put my bag down on the rocks, strip down to my bathing suit, and wade into the

surf. We swim in the rough waters off the deserted beach and watch the sun dip into the

ocean, painting the skies gold.

 107

We make our way to the restaurant that Sailor Boy has recommended, and once we

get there, the aroma of meat and margaritas greets me. I am ravenous. This probably is

because all I have eaten today is cookies. I sit there, shoveling spoonfuls of rice, beans,

and stewed beef into my mouth, as I listen to Graham and Sailor Boy tease one another

and reminisce about their childhood.

“Oh my God, Graham, she is going to out eat you,” Sailor Boy comments,

comparing my nearly clean plate to Graham’s. “Do you always eat that much?”
 108

“Yes, I do work out a lot, so I am normally really hungry,” I say shyly. This has

always been something I am self-conscious of. I even used to hide my lunches in my

backpack in high school, taking out one item at a time in order to avoid being taunted for

how much I eat and still looking like a skeleton.

The waiter places the check on the table, and Sailor Boy reaches for it.

“Let me know,” I say instinctively, “how much I owe for my dinner and drink,”

“You’re good,” Sailor Boy responds.

 109

“No, really I can pay for my own portion.” I am getting frustrated because I hate

when people pay for me when societal rules do not warrant it. Sailor Boy and Graham

begin working out the details of the check amongst themselves, deliberately excluding me

from any of the discussion.

“So now what do you all want to do?” Sailor Boy asks Graham and me.

“Well, we could buy a case of beer and just drink and chill by the ocean. It is

beautiful outside, and it’s my last night on the beach, so that’s what I would do,” I

respond. They both agree wholeheartedly, and we wind our way back down the Malecon

and into the plaza with the Catedral de Guadalajara. Sailor Boy leaps into the air to grab

the ends of low-hanging palm fronds, showing off his moderately adequate “ups,” but

what really grabs my attention is when he grabs one and lands disgusted with a sticky resin

covering his hand. I begin to laugh and try to suppress it. He grows frustrated that it won’t

come off when he begins wiping his hand on the benches and other concrete structures

within the plaza. Soon I can’t hold in my amusement any longer, and it bursts forth into

the salty air and spreads among our trio of sun-crisped misfits. I catch Sailor Boy’s eye

while I am trying to catch my breath. In the darkness, I can tell that they are a soft blue-

green that I instantly adore. Why do I feel so comfortable around this guy that I just

randomly met? Shouldn’t I be hesitant? Why am I thinking this is going to become

something when it clearly cannot because I am moving across the world in two months?

This is just a night I will remember forever, I remind myself, and nothing more.

They let me pick out the case of beer, and this time Graham will not let me pay. I

can’t tell if I am flattered or resentful for the small acts of chivalry being thrust upon me.

Maybe I have been reading too much feminist literature recently and should just cooperate
 110

with their sincere efforts to befriend a stranger they encountered on a beach. I lead the way

back through the plaza and further down the Malecon to find the perfect place to sit and

watch the ocean while drinking my favorite Dos Equis. I walk over to a large concrete

open area right before the bridge that crawls over where the river meets the ocean. There

are benches and a low wall I can sit on, hanging my feet over, getting them as close to the

Pacific as I can.

Anytime I am near the sea, my thoughts untangle, and it is like the mixture of

saltwater and sand has the power to slip into the cracks in my mind and rearrange

everything until it makes sense. Something about Sailor Boy makes sense—it lines up in a

mysterious way that frightens me—so I grab a bottled beer and open it against the wall. I

take a sip, suppressing this new knowledge with alcohol.

They begin talking more and more while I listen to them tell half stories and

interrupt one another, when suddenly there is commotion on the bridge. A fight between

teenagers is breaking out: one is on the ground being kicked repeatedly and another is

having his skull hammered into the pavement. Adrenaline builds in my body, and I want to

stop the fight. I want to help the one that is bleeding from the crown of his head, but I

know I can’t. I am frightened. What if Mexico really is dangerous? I have never felt even

slightly threatened in my years of travelling here. Sailor Boy and Graham stand in front of

me. I have a personal six-foot wall shielding me from seeing any more of the fight and

protecting me from whatever else is about to come. The fight ends, the gangs break apart

running in opposite directions, and Sailor Boy and Graham sandwich me between them as

they escort me to a safer area. How are they so calm after seeing a fight like that?
 111

“I really hope everyone is going to be okay,” I remark. I can feel my eyes on the

verge of bugging out of their sockets. “That was a brutal fight.”

“Yeah … ,” they mutter, solemnly agreeing and taking swigs of their beers.

“So tell us more about yourself, Chelsea,” Graham says, breaking the tension and

regard for strangers’ lives. I begin telling them all about the work I do, the subjects I study

in school, the ideas I have for writing, where I have lived, my running career, and my

upcoming summer job in Romania. I see that I am beginning to intimidate them. Sailor

Boy looks discouraged.

“How old are you,” he inquires, “if you don’t mind me asking?”

“Twenty-four,” I lie.

Why did I just lie to them? I am twenty-three. I should be proud of my

accomplishments up until this point in my life. I have worked hard for everything I have

done and had. Why do I feel the need to belittle myself to make these men I will probably

never see again feel better? The clock strikes three.

“Wow, it is really late. I should head back, and we are out of beer anyways,” I

interject. I begin walking back towards my hostel rapidly, mystified at my ability to be

awake this late after the week I have had.

“We were wondering if you would like to go sailing with us tomorrow. If you don’t

already have plans,” Sailor Boy says.

“Umm, well, my flight back to Mexico City is tomorrow, and I was thinking of

trying to catch an earlier flight so I can hang out with my friend Arturo for another day

before heading back to the US … but I really do love the ocean and boats, so why not?”
 112

“Awesome. Here is my number. Let’s meet up in Nueva Vallarta around eleven?

And can I come up real quick, just to … you know … use the restroom?” Sailor Boy asks.

“Okay, that sounds good since it will give me time to run in the morning. But

unfortunately you can’t come up. House rules you know … goodnight.”

6:45 AM

My alarm goes off, urging me to get up and go for my daily run on the beach

during the sunrise. Suffering from sleep deprivation, I stumble out of my bunk and debate
 113

if I really should go sailing. I have already agreed, but I can always back out. It sounds like

a lot of fun and is a great opportunity, but I barely know these strangers. It is crazy to go

do this. Plus, I am flying back to Mexico City tonight, and I was going to try to hop on an

earlier flight so I could spend time with Arturo. Decisions. Decisions.

I lace up my sneakers. Running helps me think. The ocean makes everything clear.

Certainly, running where the waves meet the sand will help me make the right decision.

I get back to the Oasis Hostel and devour a plate of pancakes smeared with

strawberry preserves; I decide to meet Graham and Sailor Boy for a day of sailing. If worst

comes to worst, I will just swim to shore if they act fishy, but I have a good feeling about

them and today.

***
Banderas Bay

I step off the bus at Paradise Plaza in Nueva Vallarta and see Graham getting off

the back of Sailor Boy's red motorcycle. The sight of two big men on the back of a petite

bike makes deciding to stay and spend the day with them worth it.

As we make our way into the marina, I witness Sailor Boy's instantaneous change

in demeanor. He is exactly where he belongs. On the J80 sailboat, he moves and works

with ease; I can see how passionate he is about sailing and being on the water. I love to

watch people become completely engrossed in their passions and who pursue their

dreams unapologetically. It is inspiring and encouraging to see.

“Do you want to steer?” Sailor Boy asks.

“Yes,” I reply enthusiastically. “I only got to grind two days ago when I helped

out with a regatta team’s practice.” I guess I am trying to sound impressive or like I know

what I am talking about. I went sailing a few days ago, but I know practically nothing
 114

about it, except that it is complicated. I just want him to know I am interested and

grateful for being invited.

Sailor Boy sits down next to me, at a distance that is respectable yet more intimate

than the previous night, and begins to explain sailing.

The day is exquisite, with warm, cerulean skies filled with puffy, white clouds

that I would have made into shapes as a child. I love feeling the rhythm of the boat

against the waves. This is my version of heaven. Graham and Sailor Boy have an

entertaining banter going when, off in the distance, I see a couple of whales breeching.
 115

“Oh my gosh, look,” I squeal, pointing. “They are huge. Do you know what they

are?”

“Humpbacks,” Sailor Boy answers, smiling at me. His smile is captivating. This is

the first time I have ever seen whales in the wild. I sit there watching them, in awe of

their enormous size from afar.

I wish I could pause my life sometimes, when moments so rare and pure occur.

These few minutes where I watch a pod of bumpy, humpback whales breach is one. I

might have spent time going below deck to fetch a camera, but the scene is too wonderful

to leave even for a second. Instead, I sit there transfixed on the horizon that moves and

bubbles with life. I am one of the luckiest people in the world. Whenever I travel, I

encounter the most amazing people and get to experience nature in ways I have only

dreamed of until it magically happens to me—by accident. I inhale the salty air and let

every molecule of my body remember in advance that feeling, that moment, and my

wonderful life.

I smile as I exhale, noticing the numbness I carry towards life since my body was

used float away slowly. I am beginning to feel genuinely happy again.

“Could you put some sunscreen on my back?” I ask Sailor Boy. “I feel like I am

beginning to burn.”

“Of course.” He begins rubbing the sunscreen into my shoulder blades while

massaging them when he leans closer to my ear and whispers, “You know, we just

reached the next level in our relationship.” I feel my heart bounce. No, I don’t want to

feel that much. Shit, I really like him now. No, that is not allowed. You will never see

him again. Stop.

 116

We finish sailing and make our way to La Playa de Las Jarretaderas for happy

hour. They begin lounging in chairs, talking amongst themselves, while I plop down on

my stomach on a beach chair, pull out my journal, and begin writing about the day I have

just experienced.

“Does anyone want to go for one last swim in the ocean with me?” I ask.

“No, I am good,” Sailor Boy says.

“I’ve had enough of saltwater for the day,” Graham replies.

“Alright, fine then, I will just go on my own.”

I begin jogging towards the water and swim out past the break so that I can float

on my back. I want to be able to feel the motion of the waves tonight when I lie down to

go to sleep. That is one of my favorite feelings in the world. I love the rocking swell the

ocean produces. I begin swimming back into shore and allow the riptides to catch me. I

go limp and let them pop me out after spinning me around numerous times within the

current. I know it is dangerous, but the powerful suck that the ocean has, as it yanks you

closer, is intoxicating. Eventually, I drag myself out of the frothy water and head toward

my chair to find a partially melted, frozen pink drink waiting for me.

“Do you want to grab a bite to eat before you have to head to the airport, Chels?”

Sailor Boy asks.

He called me Chels. I love it when people use my nickname, even though it is

such a silly, simple thing. I suddenly remember he asked me a question, and I have been

too busy thinking about how cute everything he does is. “Yes, I would really like that. I

am starving. But is there somewhere I can rinse off and change before we go to dinner

and I get on a plane?”

 117

“Yeah, I’ll show you on our way back up.”

“Ok, perfect.”

I jump into the lukewarm shower and attempt to rub off the sand and sunscreen

with my bare hands. I rinse out my bikini and wring it out the best I can before stuffing it

in my backpack. I have one thing left in my bag to wear that isn’t caked in sand and

sunscreen, a pink-and-white-flowered, flowy dress. I am going to be way overdressed. Oh

well. I slip the light fabric over my tan skin and strap on my yellow leather sandals with a

big flower on the top. At least I will make a good last impression.

I walk out of the bathroom and see Sailor Boy attempting to teach Graham how to

drive his motorcycle. He keeps stalling every ten feet on the wide sidewalk. I can’t help

but snicker at his mechanical ineptitude. As I walk closer, I can feel Sailor Boy’s eyes on

me. I catch his gaze and hold it. There is something here, and it scares me.

“Let’s start walking, it might take him a while to get to where we are eating at this

rate,” Sailor Boy says, as he moves to begin leaving behind his brother. I don’t object

because this way I get to talk to him alone for a little while. However, I don’t know what

I am going to talk about.

“Wait, do you see the sky? It’s magenta. I bet it looks beautiful from the beach.

Here, watch my backpack. I will be right back,” I say, as I toss my bag to the ground

while grabbing my phone. I begin sprinting down the concrete path, lined with neatly

trimmed grass and tall palm trees rustling in the breeze, towards the beach. My dress

floats behind me as my stride opens up, and my shoes clack against the ground with each

step. My lungs fill with air, and life rushes into every cell. I can’t contain the joy

overflowing within me any longer. Today has been so divinely perfect.

 118

I am more alive in that moment than I have been in three years. Looking back on

it, I can see the shades of depression and self-loathing falling away with each stride I take

towards the beach. I finally begin to run towards myself, getting closer to who I am at my

core with each light step.

I run back to where I left Sailor Boy standing with my bag. He is looking at me

like I am an anomaly.
 119

“I got my picture, so let’s see if we can beat your brother to the restaurant still,” I

say, as I sling my backpack over a shoulder. I don’t care if he likes me anymore. I don’t

care if anyone does. It doesn’t matter what Gus or Westyn think of me from back home; I

have begun to find what I came here to find: myself.

I rush through dinner, anxious to make my flight. I am cutting it really close.

“Would you help me carry my bags?” I ask Sailor Boy, “and find a cab?” I want

to get one more chance to talk to him alone before I leave, even if it means compromising

my ability to take care of myself. I think he is the most unashamedly unique person I

have ever encountered.

“Sure,” he answers, as he stands up to help me gather my things. I am actually

extremely flustered because I am so worried I will miss my flight. I begin to make forced

small talk, which I have always detested, and my last attempt to converse with this man

who intrigues me so much is failing.

“I had such a fantastic day,” I say. “I wish I didn’t have to leave.” I can’t believe

this is all that I can come up with to say. What has happened to the girl who can create

wonderful conversations, the girl who loves to work with words? Where have all of my

words gone? I try desperately to allow my eyes to tell him that I think he is wonderful, to

never change who he is because someone who is unapologetically himself is rare, to

never give up on his dreams, and to know that he inspires me.

I don’t know if any of that comes across, but I hope it does.

He puts my stuff in a cab and gives me a hug. A hug that lingers. Maybe, just

maybe, he likes me too.

 120

I arrive at the airport on time to catch my flight, and my mind is still lingering on

that last hug and conversation with Sailor Boy. I decide to text him.

“Thanks so much for everything these past two days. It was really great getting to

know you and your brother. I made my flight btw.”

It is my version of saying goodbye.

***

Abilene, Texas

When I left Mexico, I fully intended for that to be goodbye, but Sailor Boy had

other plans. We began texting a bit about sharing pictures from our time in Mexico with

one another, but soon it grew into a fun cyber-friendship where we had deeper

conversations.

Over the next month, Sailor Boy invited me down to Mexico numerous times, all

of which I took as a joke because it would be certifiably nuts to go visit someone I had

met only once. However, after his reassurance that he was serious, I realized it wasn't an

empty invitation, and even though it sounded crazy, it didn't feel that way.

So, a month and a half later, I am standing in the airport on my way back to

Mexico with a backpack full of books, clothes, and Gus in my back pocket if it all goes

wrong. I must have lost my damn mind.

***

Puerto Vallarta, Mexico

I am standing in the women’s restroom at the airport, trying to will myself to stop

nervously sweating and to sober up. I’ve drunk numerous Barcadi and Cokes on the flight

over to quiet my anxiety. I say a quick prayer and walk out to meet Sailor Boy.
 121

He is standing there in a button-down shirt and khakis, leaning up against the bar,

sipping on a coffee. I feel weak.

He greets me with a stiff hug that is too impersonal for someone who just flew to

another country to see him. Essentially, this is the beginning of a four-day-long first date,

and it is either going to go really well or horribly wrong.

Bucerias, Mexico

After a bus ride filled with awkward babbling, we begin walking up the hilly

cobblestone and dirt street towards his apartment in Bucerias. I need to loosen up. Just

relax, he is being a gentleman. Stop being so awkward.

“I like your motorcycle helmets. I think the yellow is prettier though,” I say. Is

that really my best attempt at having a normal conversation? I am hopeless.

“I don’t have a yellow helmet. I have a red one and a green one,” he says,

puzzled. It dawns on me that, based on his answer, he may in fact be colorblind.

“Are you colorblind?”

“No.”

“I think you might be. Hold on, do you have WiFi? I am going to find a test

online.”

“Yeah … but I really don’t think that is necessary. The helmet is clearly green.

Something is probably wrong with your eyes.”

“Here take this test,” I hand him my phone. Five minutes later, I confirm my

assumption that he is indeed partially colorblind. I feel the tension leave my body. I crack

up at discovering this about him while he putters around the kitchen in denial.
 122

***

We walk towards the beach; Sailor Boy has a plastic bag filled with fish, bonita,

he caught. It is our first date, a candlelit dinner by the ocean. My toes wriggle in the sand,

and I finally open up about the things that make me who I am. I tell him all about my

love of pickles and old books. We have a mutual love of pickles. I don’t think I have ever

met anyone so different yet similar to me. All our long-term goals align, but our interests

vary in complementary ways. In the distance, I begin to see paper lanterns lift off into the

warm night air and float out over Banderas Bay. It looks like stars are dancing around the

stratosphere. I have always wanted to release a wish on a paper lantern, and I wonder

where those wishes go. Do the lanterns engulf them in flame? Do they drown in some

body of water? Is there a place that has an accumulation of lost lanterns, singed and damp

still carrying long—lost wishes?

“Do you want one, Chels?”

“No, it’s okay. I just think they are very pretty.”

“We’ll get one,” he says. “What color do you want?”

“I like the orange one. It is one of my favorite colors.”

“I know.”

Mentally, I keep pinching myself. This is real. Yes, you are living in a fairytale

moment. Embrace it, but be careful. Don’t get your hopes up.

“Are you ready to go? Maybe we can stop by a few bars and grab a few drinks,

maybe even play a game of pool,” Sailor Boy says, pulling me back into the magical

reality I am living in.

 123

“Sure, that sounds like a lot of fun. I love playing pool,” I respond, “but I don’t

know if I am any good; I haven’t played in a while.”

We drink a few beers at the Drunken Duck before heading upstairs to his friend’s

apartment to chat, waiting for the pool tables to open up. His friend has an adorable boxer

named Toby. I immediately sit on the sandy floor and ignore his friend smoking a joint

and talking to Sailor Boy so that I can give the skinny dog some love. I am giggling, as

Toby covers me in slobbery kisses.

“Do you want some?” the stranger asks, extending the joint in my direction.

“No thanks.” I look to Sailor Boy to see if he is going to take it. That would be a

deal breaker for me. He doesn’t, but I almost wish he did because then I would have an

excuse not to continue further into this thing that scares me.

“You ready to go?” Sailor Boy asks. I nod yes. Toby licks my shoulder and neck.

After winning and losing a game of pool against some locals, we begin walking

back up to his place. Once we walk in, he hands me the lantern wrapped in cellophane.

“Can you put it together?” he asks.

I am taken aback. “Umm … yes, I think so.” Is this a test of some sort? He has a

sly smile. I know he likes working with his hands to build and fix things, but I don’t

possess much of that trait. I begin trying to follow the directions written in some Asian-

looking language, and finally I am able to construct it.

“Good work. Let’s head up to the roof to see if it will fly,” he says. I resent him

slightly for doubting that I could construct a paper lantern and that it might not fly. Jesus,

please let it fly.

 124

According to tradition, you are supposed to make a wish on the lantern and watch

it until it disappears so that your wish will come true.

As we stand there on the edge of the roof, I hold the fragile prayer while he lights

the candle. We stand there for a few minutes silently, holding it as the hot air fills it. I

know what my wish is going to be. I actually have two. I wish this trip to be amazing and

that all our travels end safely, and I wish Sailor Boy to kiss me at some point this long

weekend. If he does kiss me, I hope it’s good. I do not want another awful first kiss like

when I returned from Mexico a month ago. The warm light finally begins to float over
 125

the roofs of Bucerias and out over the Pacific. We watch the lantern grow smaller in

silence. I can’t stand the silence. It makes me nervous. I keep glancing at the dirt lot a

few floors down and back up at the sky again to see hope flickering in the distance. It

would only take one step to end this silence … . God, I have morbid thoughts sometimes.

I look up again.

“I can’t see it anymore.”

“I still can,” he says.

Silence.

“I can still see it.”

The waiting is killing me. Why can’t he have poor eyesight like me and finish his

wish already? Listening to the wind in the palm trees, I squint into the darkness and the

abyss over the ocean that has swallowed our lantern and my wishes. Maybe I shouldn’t

have made two on one lantern. That is technically against the rules.

“And it’s gone,” Sailor Boy says, turning to me and pulling me into a close hug.

This is the first time he has held me, and I don’t want him to let go. One of his hands

glides up my spine, over my shoulder blade, and holds my chin. His rough, strong hand

lifts my face so that our eyes meet, as his thumb caresses my cheek. His other hand

comes to meet the other side of my face. I close my eyes as he leans in to kiss me. Hope

fills me. This is how it is supposed to feel. I open my eyes and look into the softness of

his features. There is no way that a better embrace, a better feeling, exists in this world.

He stops kissing for a second.

“Thank God,” the words escape before I can contain them. I am embarrassed that

I just said that out loud.

 126

“Were you worried?”

“Yes, maybe … I just wanted there to be a spark.”

“Well, is there?”

I glance up at the stars and thank God for answering my prayers before closing

my eyes and breathing in another kiss.

***

The sun begins to peek through the windows in Sailor Boy’s apartment. I still

haven’t fallen asleep because I am replaying our magical date and late-night

conversation. I look over at him still sleeping deeply, so I slink off the bed, lie down on

the couch, and pull out some homework. I might as well be productive if I am going to be

awake. It is nearing the end of the semester, so I have deadlines for final papers quickly

approaching. I am reading, highlighting, and making notes in the margins of potential

sources for my research papers when around ten he begins to stir. I catch him opening his

eyes, while he lies on his stomach with one arm hanging off the bed. He looks at me,

puzzled about what on earth I could be doing.

“Good morning,” he croaks, “how long have you been up?”

“I told you I wake up early.”

We pack up our stuff for a day out on the ocean, and as we walk out, he hands me

the red helmet. At least we can agree on the color of that one. I am going to ride on the

back of a motorcycle for the first time on a real road. My mother would kill me if she

knew I was doing this. Actually my mother would kill me if she knew I was in Mexico

right now. I probably should tell her before I leave the country to go gallivanting around
 127

with a guy I just met, on a first date touring the state of Guadalajara. It would be a

common courtesy for most daughters to practice.

I nervously climb on the back of the bike and wrap my arms tightly around him. I

don’t want him to know I am scared. The red motorcycle lurches forward, and we are on

our way to the marina for a day of sailing.

***

“So do you want to try to learn how to drive it?” Sailor Boy asks, as we are

walking past his bike, after spending a few hours out sailing.

“Yeah … sure,” I stutter. He puts away the spinnaker and walks the bike out

towards the open sidewalk where he attempted to teach Graham how to drive it only a

month ago. I have to do better than Graham. I bury my fears and hop on the bike. I can do

this. Whatever you do, don’t crash. I work the bike into first gear, then second. This is a

lot more fun than I anticipated. I love the feeling of controlling the bike and experiencing,

firsthand, the power it holds. I continue to make small loops on the sidewalk and in the

parking lot while I get the hang of it. I want to go faster now. First gear, second, now

third. I feel the hot air whipping past me as I begin to drive around the resort, smiling at

the guests who look at me with jealousy. I turn around and ride back to find Sailor Boy

waiting for me.

“You can have your bike back now. I am ready to go to the beach.” I have made a

deal with him before coming back down to visit that it is imperative that I go to the beach

and swim in the ocean for at least a little bit. I jump on the back of the bike and instead of

grasping the grab rail I confidently clasp my hands together, feeling his rib cage move in
 128

and out with each breath he takes. I am feeling more confident now, not only in riding the

bike around Mexico but also in allowing myself to open up and be vulnerable again.

After going for a swim, where we play tag in the water and I almost lose my

bandeau top, we sit on the beach in Bucerias, sipping on warm beer and talking.

“Would you take a picture of me standing in front of the water, please?” I chime.

“Sure.”

He begins to smile like he knows something I don’t while he is getting ready to

take the picture. I strike my typical pose with my hands in the air and a big smile. I

suddenly am struck hard in the back of my legs. I fall backwards. I am swallowed in a

rogue wave. I emerge from the sea, coughing saltwater. Sailor Boy is bent double and

hysterically laughing. I can’t help but smile while still sputtering. Who am I kidding? I

am a huge klutz and always have been. He would have seen this side of me at some point,

so better sooner rather than later.

“Well, on that note … are you ready to head back?” I ask.

“That’s fine,” he says still laughing. “Do you want to drive us back?” I

contemplate this. This could be my opportunity to redeem myself from that last

unfortunate event. I have never been one to try to impress males, but I think this would be

sexy.

“Sure, I can do that.” I climb onto the front of the bike in my wet bikini. It slides

around on the leather seat. This might make things more difficult. Sailor Boy hops on the

back and wraps one arm around me.

 129

“You ready?”

“Oh yes, I have got this. But could you help me start it again? I just can’t get it to

turn over on my own.”

“Yep,” he says, as he kick starts the engine for me.

“Here we go.” The motorcycle lurches forward, and I begin to turn it towards the

main road. It moves too fast. I’m losing control. Its front tire hits the four-foot-tall sea

wall and burns its rubber into the concrete, decorating it. I leave my semi-permanent

mark on the popular beach town. Out of incorrect instinct, my hand locks on the throttle,

continuing to rev the engine until Sailor Boy kills it for me. I have just crashed his

motorcycle. Into a wall. In a bikini. In downtown Bucerias. Everyone is staring at me, as

he picks up me and the bike and makes sure we are both okay. I notice an old man

perched two feet to the left on top of the wall. I look away and ignore him as he begins to

chuckle in Spanish at me. I want to get out of here.

“Is the bike okay?” I ask hesitantly.

“It’s fine. Do you want to try again?”

“Oh no, I think you should drive.”

***

We are on the midnight bus heading to Guadalajara for the rest of the weekend. I

curl up in my window seat. I don’t know if it is acceptable to snuggle up to Sailor Boy

yet. I want to though. I want to be close to him, but I don’t want to get too attached

because I am leaving for Romania in a month.

 130

I wake up to Sailor Boy guiding me into the hotel La Fe. My eyes slowly focus on

my surroundings. There are bronze statues in the lobby, silver poetry scripted on the

walls, and large paintings strategically placed and lit. Am I in a museum or a hotel?

Where has Sailor Boy brought me?

“Do you like it?” he asks, as we walk upstairs into our room.

“It is perfect. Did you see the poetry on the walls? And, oh my … is that an air

conditioner?”

I am overwhelmed by how idyllic this place is, how perfect he is. I think I have

entered my version of a fairytale.

I turn the air conditioner on high and collapse on the bed. The lack of sleep from

the past few days is catching up to me. I burrow into the soft comforter. Sailor Boy holds

me close, and I drift off to sleep. I dream of kissing him. I study every detail of his being.

He is over six-feet-tall and around two-hundred pounds. He isn’t overly groomed.

Instead, he is a sun-weathered and salt-washed masculine, allowing the hair on his chest

and back to grow, with stubble across his face, and curly hair that is a little wild. He

looks like his lifestyle. However, he is obsessive about cleaning his ears daily. I have

always loved learning the little things about people, the things that make them tick.

I wake up to the sun shining through the small window and the feel of Sailor

Boy’s arm heavily weighted across my torso. This is how it should feel. Everything

inside me is cheering that I have found it, and I try to quiet my crowded mind with the

healthy dose of reality. I move to Romania in a month. He moves to San Diego in a few

weeks. We are going to be on opposite sides of the world. It won’t work … . But, what if
 131

it does? I smile and wriggle out from under the covers. Goosebumps cover my skin as the

cold air hits me.

***

Guadalajara, Mexico

We spend the day exploring Guadalajara, side by side. We marvel at the stained

glass spire in the Expiatorio Templo. I spin around within the Teatro Degollado, feeling

tiny, surrounded by the rich, red, velvet chairs that have heard the Guadalajara

Philharmonic play thousands of times. In La Biblioteca de Universidad de Guadalajara, I

search for books I am reading in my Latin American Literature class while Sailor Boy

experiences my love for books and the world manifest itself in simple moments. We

strain our necks, staring at the ceilings and walls of the Hospicio Cabanas, where Orosco

had painted world-famous frescos that move with you. I share my passion for Latin

American art under the fiery dome, discussing the possibility of visiting Frida Kahlo’s

house one day in Mexico City. We steal kisses in vacant gardens. I beat him in an air

hockey tournament in a street arcade filled with teenagers and win another kiss. He buys

me a replacement pair of TOMS in the iconic San Yonys market, which reminds me of a

parking garage filled with tents. I introduce him to the wonder of Horchata. We learn that

we both like to travel: getting lost, wandering aimlessly, and allowing talking and silence

to intermingle in perfect harmony.

132
133
 134

***

Tequila, Mexico

I am surfing through the radio channels, searching for the perfect station of my

favorite Spanish music, turning up the volume so that we can hear it over the wind

blowing in from the warm fields filled with agave plants. We are on our way to spend the

day in Tequila, Mexico, the home of my favorite alcohol.

Inside the Jose Cuervo plant, I hold a glass of reserve-aged tequila, slowly sipping

on it, trying to taste all the notes and flavors. I look at Sailor Boy and can’t help but

smile. I don’t want to admit it to myself yet, but I have a serious problem. I think I have

met the man of my dreams at the wrong time in my life, but like my mother and

grandmother always say, what is meant to be will be. God, please let this be meant to be.

Please let this work out because I have accidently let my heart go and it’s too late to get it

back now. God, keep me safe and protect my heart.

I stretch the hair net over my short curls and hold in my laughter as Sailor Boy

puts his on. I have to get a picture of him with this on. He looks so ridiculous. Like he’s

read my mind, he starts to strike goofy poses, holding a piece of cooked agave. Shit, I

could really love him one day. I can no longer suppress my giggles amongst the quiet

chatter of our elderly tour group.

The group moves ahead, and Sailor Boy grabs my hand, holding me back. He

embraces my face in his hands and kisses me among the barrels of aging tequila. It might

not be romantic to some, but this is my dream. I burn inside like liquor that hits the back

of your throat.
 135

“We need to catch up with the rest of the group,” I say, as I begin to jog towards

the stairs they’ve just ascended.

“Wait,” he suggests, “let’s sign one of the barrels. Do you have a pen?”

“Do I have a pen?” I snicker. “I always have something to write with. A trait a

writer develops quickly. Let’s sign this one.” We crouch down and sign our names next

to one another. It feels permanent now. We are beginning to feel real.

***

Puerto Vallarta, Mexico

I am in my short hot-pink tight t-shirt dress with my army backpack on the floor

between our feet. I am standing on my tiptoes, letting him kiss me over and over again. I

need to go through security and fly back to Abilene, to return to my real life; he needs to
 136

go to work. I don’t want to stop kissing him because then I may never see him again. My

heart is opening up and falling apart with each beat. I wish I knew if this last kiss was the

beginning or the end.

***

Dallas, Texas

I can’t believe he is standing there, in the rain, in this gravel parking lot. He has

driven to see me for one last long weekend before I move to Romania and he moves to

San Diego. He is really here, smiling at me through the window of my truck.

“Hey! Welcome to Texas,” I squeal, throwing myself into his embrace and

quickly kissing him. Pinch me. He is here. I can feel his heart beating inside his shirt. He

is on my turf, in Texas.

With each kiss I give him, any remaining walls wash away. I know I should be

more careful, but sinking into us comes naturally. I am falling for him in a way I never

knew was possible. It is unconditional and all consuming. It is a permanent love that is

engraining itself into every cell of my being and synapse in my mind.

***

Viscri, Romania
 137

I am sitting on the back porch of Viscri 125, and I am both excited for and

dreading my return to the US in a week. I am ready to see everyone I have missed these

past months, but I am scared that I won’t be able to keep some of the progress I have

made. I do not want to slide back into old, bad habits of self-loathing.

I listen to the birds singing to the wind that rustles in the leaves of the trees. The

barn cat comes and slinks onto my lap, curling up between my legs, crisscrossed on the

weatherworn, wooden bench. The ducks quack up the slight slope leading from the creek
 138

to the garden so that they can feast on slugs before the morning dew burns off in the

summer sun. I open up my laptop and use my only connection to the world I left three

months ago, the Wi-Fi next door to where I live. No one in America is awake at this time

of day due to the time change, so I begin to search for flights.

Abilene to San Diego. A long weekend trip to take, once I get back to see Sailor

Boy, to kiss Sailor Boy again, to love Sailor Boy again, and, most importantly, to tell him

that I am in love with him. We will go sailing, and I will continue to learn from him. We

will laugh and talk for hours near the ocean and in a city, two aspects of civilization that I

have missed dearly this summer. We might even go to Tijuana because it is becoming

habit or tradition for us to make a trip to Mexico every time we are together. Mexico is a

part of our story, and it influences us by making us more passionate and alive. We will

make plans for me to visit his family in St. Louis for Thanksgiving and mine in

Kingsville over Christmas. We will discuss my moving to California after I graduate in

May. We will become real. We will be together in the same country for the first time. We

will get to really love one another after waiting for months. I will support his dreams of

sailing and creating his own pickle company, and he will support my love of writing and

teaching.

I wish that is what had happened.

Instead, I receive a video call after work; I grab a beer and sit down. I know it is

going to be bad news just based on the tone and body language on the other end. I brace

myself. It starts off like the typical way these things end. It’s not you, it’s me. You didn’t

do anything wrong. But then it turns. I begin to hear words that don’t make sense. I never
 139

had any feelings for you. I wanted to, but I think I am a sociopath. I need to get help, but

I don’t really want to.

Time is frozen. I can’t comprehend that the past eight months have been an act, a

lie. I really felt everything, but he did not. I still really feel everything. I listen to him talk,

trying to explain how it got this far. “I didn’t want to hurt you.” I feel sick. I am still

completely in love with him. I surprise myself when I start to pray for him to find healing

and peace, while he is destroying what I thought would be my future. I want him to be

able one day to feel the love I’ve given him and hold for him. I should be reacting with

anger, and I would have in the past, but instead I continue to pray for him to be able to

experience the majesty of loving another person with every fiber of his being. I pray that

he finds love and knows love for anything in his life.

I feel as if my heart is being forced into a box ten times smaller than it needs to

be. My love is unwanted and left unused. We say goodbye. Maybe one day we will be

friends when he can feel and I have found a way to move on. I know in that moment that

my love has been real despite Sailor Boy’s playing the part of a man falling in love. I

know that I will never stop loving him.

Looking back on it now, I still do not know what overcame me in that last hour I

spent talking to Sailor Boy. Some force far greater than I took over and let love flow

through me when I should have screamed in anger. Even now, when I write letters that I

never send to him, this feeling overcomes and takes over me, filling me with compassion

that feels foreign under these circumstances. It is this oddity that makes me believe that

what I felt was true love. The kind that cannot be broken by anything in this world.
 140

Some of my friends and family worry about the love I carry for Sailor Boy. They

say he doesn’t deserve it. But what harm comes from putting a little more love in the

world every day?

T
Jason Aldean’s new song “Big Green Tractor” shakes the room. I am standing on

the edge of the dance floor, bobbing to the beat. The smell of sweat, spilled beer, and

cigarettes hangs in the smoky air. Hundreds of college students fringe the perimeter of

the large, salted, wooden dancefloor. It is the typical Wednesday night, and half of Texas

Lutheran University’s student body is congregated at Cowboy’s Dancehall in San

Antonio; the song enters its final verse, and I begin to search around me for anyone to

dance with during the next song.

My friends and I have it worked out.

Rule 1: Girls cannot stand in a circle if they want to be asked to dance. That is too

intimidating to a single male. Instead, the desired formation is a curved line facing

towards the dancefloor.

Rule 2: Stationary dancing and mouthing or singing the words is also appropriate

in the situation if you want to attract male attention. It is necessary to look like

you are having fun even before they ask you to dance.

Rule 3: You may either show off your legs or your arms and cleavage, but you

cannot show both. This is important to distinguish you from the sluts working the

edge of the dance floor. You want them to know you are just here to dance, not

hookup.

141
 142

Rule 4: Never turn down a dance, because you never know who is watching.

Unless, of course it is an extreme case of a stalker or someone too drunk to stand.

The next song starts, “Sideways,” by Dirks Bentley, and boys pick girls off the

edge, spinning them onto the dancefloor. I wait patiently, swaying back and forth while

humming. I think the pitcher of rum and coke I chugged on the twenty-five minute car

ride here is beginning to wear off. I watch as my friends sip on drinks and get steadily

more intoxicated while I sober up. Things work with our group this way. I am the

youngest so I get drunk before, sober up while dancing, and drive everyone home at the

end of the night. They drive me there, get drunk off cheap drinks, and I drag them out of

strangers’ arms at closing.

I catch Bumblebee walking through the crowd. Don’t look this way. Look this

way. No, don’t look this way. I have been admiring the six-foot-three blond baseball

player since I stepped into the weight room during pre-season cross-country training a

semester ago. I would try not to watch him lift weights. Instead, I attempted to be

invisible in the weight room, hiding from the embarrassment of how weak my upper

body is. I noticed that he drove a yellow truck with black stripes and a bumblebee

insignia on the back of the bed. Henceforth, his code name was Bumblebee, in order to

further mask my crush on an unattainable upper-classman.

“Wanna dance?” I hear to the side. I look at the hand outstretched. Am I

dreaming? Am I really that drunk? I thought I was getting sober. I look over and see

Bumblebee smiling at me with his perfectly plump lips and dimples.

I nod yes.
 143

There are no words. I am a mute.

We dance and he begins to talk about something, maybe it is baseball related. I

can’t comprehend what is happening fully at this point.

“So how is your track season going? You did really good in cross-country last

semester,” Bumblebee says.

“You know who I am?”

“Yes, I think everyone at school does.”

I continue dancing, bewildered. He knows who I am. He has noticed me before

tonight. The song ends before I want it to. I wish that maybe he will ask to continue

dancing, but instead he hugs me and thanks me for the dance.

I walk off defeated and ecstatic. In a delusional state, I attempt to click my heels

in victory of having been noticed by the cutest boy at school. I didn’t think about the

floor being salted.

I wish I could say that Bumblebee didn’t see me leap. I wish he and the rest of the

baseball team hadn’t seen me bust my ass on the salty floor misted in alcohol. I wish my

economics professor hadn’t pointed out the bruise and cut the next morning, which

instigated the retelling of the story by a classmate.

U
I park outside Armando’s Mexican Restaurant and look down at my outfit. All

good. I am about to go on a blind date with Uberto. My friends swear that I will instantly

like him. He loves to visit art museums, has gotten his degree in architecture, and has

recently moved back to Houston. He has neatly cut blond hair, ice-blue eyes, and is a few

inches taller than I am. Besides being on the short side, he sounds like the perfect person

for me.

It’s strange to be going on a date with someone new. I need to shake off the

nerves I have been carrying around all day. Maybe it’s because I am still seeing Anthony,

but I feel like something isn’t right with us.

Anthony
Noun | An·tho·ny | \`an(t-thǝ-nē\

5. Mexican chef of Italian food.

6. Unsuccessful salesman.

Verb
1. Breaks boundaries between employees.
2. Abusive.

We have been seeing each other for months, and he resists real commitment yet is

growing increasingly possessive. It wasn’t until a week ago when he fell asleep while I

was admitted into the ER and the nurses couldn’t wake him that it began to hit me. He

isn’t there for me when I need him, and I do not want to need him anymore. So now here

144
 145

I am, walking across a dark parking lot laced with puddles, looking to meet a new

someone, who might be able to care more than Anthony does.

The entrance of the restaurant is cast in a melancholy yellow light, and the sounds

of loud, chattering, tipsy Houstonians escape every time the doors open. Maybe I

shouldn’t be here. I feel weak and overwhelmed by the thought of the crowd inside. A

young man sitting on a bench outside of the restaurant stands up as I walk closer. I think

that is him. Dirty, blond hair and, yes, a giant, perfectly whitened and straightened smile.

“Hi, are you Uberto?” I ask hesitantly.

“Yes, and you’re Chelsea?” he responds with a Spanish accent, as he stands to

give me a greeting hug.

“Yes, thanks for coming.”

“Let’s go inside before it begins to rain again.” He ushers me through the doors

into the dimly lit room that is too loud for me. “A table for two.”

He is certainly cute and pulling off that preppy look I never go for, in a sweater

and borderline skinny jeans. He really is only a few inches taller than I am; I am used to

dating guys over six-foot, but I need to try new things every once in a while. Shoot,

maybe the short ones are nicer.

“Let’s sit at the bar while we wait. Do you want anything to drink?” Uberto asks.

“Oh no, I can’t. I got out of the hospital a few days ago, and I am still on some

medicine that I can’t have alcohol with.”

“What happened?”
 146

“I have kidney stones.”

“So you’ll be fine then. Excuse me, ma’am, could I have one margarita?”

“Do y’all want anything else?” the bartender asks.

“No, that’s all,” he replies.

I don’t know what to say to him. I don’t feel great, and now I am beginning to feel

claustrophobic. Why did I let my friends talk me into this? I glance around the restaurant

and begin to notice that every painting or decoration that they have is car themed. The

ceiling is made of old license plates hammered into place, bending around beams and

corners. The walls are covered in a collage of picture frames with different antique,

classic cars, like the ones I imagine are still being driven around Cuba. I hear him trying

to talk to me over the crowd, but everyone around us is speaking loudly. The couple to

the right of us is having an intense discussion about something they heard at church or in

Bible study.

I miss having deep conversations with someone. I want to be able to be like that

couple one day, conversing about topics like religion, politics, economics, the books we

are reading, and different cultures. I think good conversation is beginning to become the

most attractive aspect of any prospective guy I want to date, and I don’t think Anthony

can fulfill that need of mine. I miss school and learning, so I need to have someone

challenge my intelligence. The couple’s buzzer goes off, and they make their way to the

hostess stand.

Uberto leans closer to me. “Don’t you think Christians are so silly?”
 147

Did I just hear him correctly? I glance down at my chest and see the small, silver

cross necklace hanging just below my collarbone.

“Excuse me?” I ask, hoping I had just misunderstood what he said. He leans in

closer and talks into my ear.

“Christians, don’t you think they are ridiculous?”

I’ve definitely heard him correctly the first time, and the second version is even

worse. Who in their right mind would say something like this on a first date? Maybe it is

a cultural difference. He isn’t from around here, but still.

“Umm, no. I don’t think so,” I reply. How does a one respond to a question like

that in a loud restaurant? I look at his margarita and there is still plenty left in his drink,

so he shouldn’t be drunk or anything. I want to leave. I have nothing to say to him

anymore. I was already uncomfortable being here, but now I am dreading having to stay

longer. Our buzzer lights up and shakes in his lap.

“Ahh, time to eat,” he says, as he hops off his stool and briskly walks towards the

hostess.

If I just walk out now will it be that bad? I wish I had planned a friend calling me

to bail me out of this date. What if I just hide in the bathroom for a little while until he

leaves?

“Follow me this way,” the hostess says. Ugh, I am stuck. Shoot me now. I know it

has been a while since I have gone to church, and sometimes I don’t act or behave as I
 148

was taught good Christians are supposed to act. But I still believe, and this is a deal

breaker that I didn’t even know I had, until a few moments ago.

We are seated at a table in the back room. The walls are cheerfully painted and

covered in more photographs and paintings of old cars, the ceiling is gleaming with

aluminum, and the décor is the only good part of this blind date. I remind myself that I

only have to get through dinner then I never have to talk to him again. Be polite until

dinner is over.

“So Uberto, what do you think of the pictures of the cars on the wall? Which one

is your favorite? I like the blue one over there, see it?”
V
Bouquet, Panama

Jessica and I enter the hostel, Spanish by the River; she walks ahead to check in,

and my eyes rest on the hammock on the porch. The morning fog is cool on my clammy

skin, so I pull my old track sweatshirt on over my sleepy hair and crooked glasses, as I

fall into the blue-and-green-striped hammock. I will just sit here while she signs us in,

just for a minute or two.

“Chelsea, I need your passport number,” Jessica informs me, as I clumsily

awaken from my brief, deep sleep.

“I’ll go give it to them in just a minute,” I respond to my best friend, who is

already walking back towards the office. I attempt to reach for my army-issued backpack

without removing my rear from the hammock, but I fail miserably and am ejected onto

the terra-cotta tile floor. I straighten my glasses and look up, peering through the

windows in the main living room. I see the silhouette of a young man. Instantly, I

remember that, while traveling across the tropical climate of Panama, I haven’t showered

or brushed my teeth in over twenty-four hours. I grab my backpack and scamper into the

office, carrying my passport and dignity in hand.

Ruby, the receptionist at the hostel, leads Jessica and me through the small house,

showing us the four rooms and one bathroom, while giving us the run-down of the house

rules. We enter our room, and I look longingly at the set of bunk beds. I faintly hear Ruby

explain that we almost have the place to ourselves because there is only one other guest.

149
 150

My focus is solely on mustering enough energy to pull myself up onto the top bunk and

collapse into whatever is waiting for me. I try to direct my attention back to Ruby.

“The other guest is actually going on a tour this afternoon with cliff diving and

volcanic hot springs, and if you all want to join I can call to see if there is room.”

Jessica looks at me and I shrug; I am beginning to smell myself and my previous

concern with getting in bed has shifted to rinsing off in the shower, brushing my teeth,

and then taking a nap.

“They aren’t leaving until two, so you would have time to sleep for four or five

hours,” Ruby says, trying to convince us to go.

“What do you think?” Jessica asks me.

“That’s fine. I’ve never seen volcanic hot springs,” I answer, looking back and

forth between Jessica and Ruby, as I allow the frame of our temporary bedroom door to

prop me up.

***

Intrigue in the Shadow of Volcán Barú

I sit on a wet carpeted seat in a four-wheel-drive

church van by the open window, focused diligently
on the surroundings. I try to take in the smell
of money emanating from fields dominated
by vacas. I attempt to watch the clouds
blow over the volcanos dense in vegetation
on the horizon. I want to listen to the others
converse about their not-so-glamorous lives
back home or to the reggae-ton on the radio.

Instead, I notice you.

Black short curls.
Honey-tanned skin.
Eyes like rusted copper.
 151

Full lips I want to kiss.

A smile filled with imperfectly
aligned teeth, exuding kindness.
A tongue that carries four
languages spoken in a thick
Portuguese accent.
A mind that questions,
challenges economics
and social conformity.

You unarm me against myself,

capture my full attention silently
by catching my glances and holding
them, carefully without blinking.

Jumping in the Cangilones de Gualaca,

We hold hands, count down

Tres
Dos
Uno
Throw ourselves off a cliff,
plunge into the cool current,
and swim through a curving
canyon where slick rocks shadow
the sun. I watch children cling and clamor
up the speckled grey, granite walls,
some slip and splash into the water;
Echoes of laughter reverberate
in the canyon as our smiling eyes meet.

My bare feet dangle over the edge

swinging; the sun melts the goose bumps
from my skinny legs. You bite off
the bottle cap and pass me a warm Balboa.
Sips of beer and Spanish flow back
and forth between single travelers.
 152

***

It is Panamanian Independence Day, and I have summited Vulcan Barú at sunrise

this morning with Jessica and Vincente. To celebrate the holiday and our accomplishment

of hiking up a volcano in the middle of the night to watch the sunrise over the Caribbean

and the Pacific Ocean, we’ve decided to go out for dinner and dancing with our new

friend JB, whom we met while cliff diving and soaking in the volcanic hot springs.

The night begins to get going when my old and new friends order me an orgasmo

while I am in the bathroom, and before I realize it, Jessica is dragging me onto the floor

for some salsa dancing. I feel stiff from exhaustion and climbing. My hips struggle to

sway back and forth. I want to feel sexy, but my body refuses to cooperate. JB and

Vincente begin dancing poorly, and I cannot stop looking into Vincente’s metallic, mint
 153

eyes. There is something about him that mesmerizes me, sucks me in, and makes me

want to know more about his life. The life of a working nomad, who moves yearly to

different parts of the world to explore, learn, and work. It inspires me to do more and be

more.

We shuffle through the crowded streets of Panamanians waving flags and

cheering. Music is blaring in the streets, produced from the stereos in the trunks of parked

cars and marching bands parading through the streets; the whole scene is contagious

madness.

“Do you want to have a shot?” Vincente asks our group. We all nod and duck into

a dingy street bar and take two successive shots of Patron.

I don’t remember how it happens, partially because when I begin to consume

tequila my memory fills with gaps, but at one minute I am dancing, the next minute I am

making out with Vincente, and later I’m sneaking off to the bathroom to take shots out of

a flask with some Canadian girls.

***

I am not sure if I actually liked Vincente during my trip to Panama or if that

developed later when we continued to talk about life, politics, travel, and books, but that

night the girl who I had been in my early years of college reemerged, and I had missed

her and her outlook on life. I had forgotten how to be carefree and to live fully in the

moment. I had forgotten how to have fun. I was beginning to realize that, while I liked

having men in my life, I didn’t need them. I saw a glimpse of that girl those days in

Panama, and that made me even more determined to find her, regardless of where in the
 154

world that would take me. I was starting to slow down and finally stop running from

myself.

Budapest, Hungary
Air France Flight #1694
May 14, 2015
Paris (CDG) to Budapest (BUD)
Depart: 8:45 PM
Arrival: 10:55 PM

I haven’t seen Vincente since we met in Bouquet, Panama, six months ago, and

now I’ve just landed in Budapest, where I will be staying with him for the next few days

before I move to Romania for the summer. I check my phone when I get off the plane; he

has sent me numerous messages reassuring me and answering my many questions. I am

so nervous to see him. He is a question mark in my mind, and he is the only one

remaining. My army-green bag emerges from behind the shrouded baggage area, and I

lug it off the conveyor belt. How am I going to get this on and off a train by myself in a

few days? I thought I had under-packed, but it feels like the opposite. I can rearrange my

bags so that I will be able to make it out to the curb.

I hail a cab at midnight.

Thank goodness, the cab driver speaks a little English, so from the back seat I

vent my frustrations and fears to the middle-aged, Hungarian man. By the time we make

it into Vincente’s neighborhood, the cab driver is worrying with me about traveling

across the world and staying with an acquaintance before moving to Romania. As he

pulls over, he is trying to tell me something that I can’t quite understand, maybe a

warning or advice, but I see Vincente standing there in the darkness, wearing a faded
 155

orange tee shirt and jeans. Nervous energy rushes through my veins, my blood boils and

ices in the span of mere seconds, and I feel the sexual tension that was there in Panama

begin to overflow. I get out of the cab and he gently squeezes me. He smells the same,

like he was cutting a lemon a few hours ago.

“It is good to see you. How was your flight? Are you hungry?” While grabbing

my largest suitcase and lugging it up three flights of granite stairs to his apartment, his

questions greet me with an air of interest and concern.

“It was good, just a long day of traveling, but I got to see Paris and eat delicious

food, which was amazing,” I respond.

“Are you still hungry?” Vincente ask.

“Yeah. Do you have anything to eat?”

“I have some cookies, I think. They are from Portugal. My mom sent a suitcase of

goodies from home after I went and visited them a few weeks ago.”

He walks over to a brown suitcase in the corner that is piled on top of two other.

That is his life all packaged in a few suitcases that move every year. I look at my two

bags and realize how very similar we are. Are we both running from something whenever

we travel? Or are we searching for something that we can’t even know yet?

“Do you want some?” Vincente asks.

“Sure, why not. So where am I sleeping?”

“You may have my bed, and I will sleep on the floor.”

“Are you positive? I don’t mind sleeping on the floor. It’s your place and I’m just

grateful you’re letting me stay here.”

 156

I say that, but I am secretly hoping he will still let me have the bed because I am

so tired and my body is sore.

“Yes, please,” he responds, as he hands me a sleeve of cookies. I sit down on the

firm bed and wrap the comforter around my shoulders. I talk about everything and

nothing until four in the morning, when jet lag and exhaustion finally creep up on me and

overcome my fear of my unknown relationship with Vincente. I don’t need another one

of those relationships. I already have one with Sailor Boy.

I wake up and check my phone. There are dozens of messages from old friends

and family telling me something has happened. That I need to get online and see for

myself. That there are rumors floating around. That someone has died. Jet-lagged and

confused, I try to make sense of the all the information, all of the sadness, and all of the

loss. I am alone in a foreign country with only a mere acquaintance, who is asleep on the

floor, and my world is crumbling. I have left behind everything I know to move to an

Eastern European village for three months. I left behind a new love for this adventure that

I had planned before he entered my life. I left because I wanted to be alone, and I am

realizing that I felt this urge to leave and be alone when what I really want is to have love

in my life.

Vincente begins to stir and looks up to me sitting on the bed, curled in a ball

around the glowing screen of my phone in the dark chasm of his bedroom.

“Are you ok?” he asks.

“One of my friends died. I’m going to go back to bed. I’ll see you after work.”

“Alright,” he says, slowly getting out of bed. “I will meet you here after I get off

work at five,” and he leaves the room and lets me rest.

 157

I cannot even cry, only sleep.

***

It is my last day in Budapest with Vincente, and we have done everything today.

We’ve eaten Hungarian food, visited Buda’s Castle, Hero’s Square, and the Thermal

Baths. We’ve walked and watched the singing and dancing fountains on Margaret Island

for two hours while we lay in the cool grass where I worked relentlessly at leaving only

the veins of leaves behind. We’ve wandered around a festival and climbed around a

castle, and now we are at a club with some of his friends, taking shots of tequila and

dancing in an ancient building. The pink and purple neon lights bounce along the stone

walls, and I feel the alcohol tingling in my limbs. Vincente comes up behind me and

begins to dance. I feel his hands on my waist that steer me around to face him. He bends

down and begins to gently kiss me … and then more forcibly. I kiss him back and allow

myself to feel something—everything—again.

I break away and make my way up a stairwell. What have I done? Why did I kiss

him? Did I like it? Yes and no … I need to talk to Sailor Boy. I miss him and it’s only

been a few days. I think I might love him.

I return to the dance floor. “Vincente, I need to go. My train leaves soon,” I say,

struggling to hold myself upright. The room is too smoky.

My emotions were all over the place that night. I was high on the need to live life

to the fullest one-minute and burying myself in self-loathing, doubt, and fear the next.

Too much had happened since I arrived, for me to be able to comprehend. That week

changed everything. I left everything I knew, I lost things I wasn’t supposed to lose at
 158

this point in my life, and I didn’t know how to I was supposed to move on. That night

was the beginning of the break that ended up saving me.

We fall out of the club, and he wraps an arm around me as we begin to stumble

down the streets, laughing about nothing and everything at the same time. Once back at

Vincente’s apartment, he helps me gather my bags and lug them the fifteen-minute walk

to Keleti Station and aboard my train, which will take me on the final leg of my journey

to Viscri, Romania. He leaves me with a kiss on the lips, as I collapse on the bench. I am

exhausted mentally, physically, and emotionally. Maybe I really do need to be alone, so I

can stop messing everything up and hurting everyone close to me and myself.

The train lurches forward, and I lie down on the worn, blue-velvet bench and curl

into the fetal position. I clutch my American phone, my lifeline, clinging to people three

thousand miles away. What do I need? What do I want? I am about to find out this

summer, but I know one thing for sure: I hope Sailor Boy is in that future with me.
W
March 7, 2015

I am working the Rhythm and Blues Half Marathon and 5K in Dallas, Texas, and

my boss has me come in from graduate school for the weekend to help run the event.

Race weekends are all work and no play typically, but my roommate Danielle is from

Dallas, and she has other plans for me. She convinces me to hang out with her best friend

Saturday night before the race so I won’t be in my hotel room all night alone. After hours

of working packet pick-up and running countless last-minute errands for my boss, it is

time for my weary self to go out on the town with a friend of a friend.

I walk out of the hotel, exiting the marble-floored lobby and see a white truck

waiting with Danielle’s high school best friend, Westyn, waiting for me. He has a shy

smile spreading across his cleanly shaven face.

I pull myself up into the truck and lie back in the seat, allowing myself to sit for

the first time that day. He begins to drive cautiously through the confusing mess of Dallas

highways and tollways towards a mystery restaurant for dinner. He is talking to me, and I

am mechanically going through the motions of holding a conversation while

simultaneously going through the checklist of things left to do before the race. I allow

myself to daydream about how in twenty-four hours I will be in one of the largest cities

in the world on crowded highways like this one. I am not present in the discussion that I

159
 160

am having with this stranger. I cannot focus or engage anything. All I want to do is get

away and finish working this race. I want to explore the vibrant streets of Mexico City

with my best friend and then jet off to the magnificent beaches of Puerto Vallarta for

some alone time. I just want to be alone. I want quiet. I want books and journals and

peace. I want nothing to do with my current life. I need to escape. The lights slowly stop

blurring together, and I realize we have arrived somewhere. I step out, as the valet gets in

the driver’s side; he looks at me, waiting for me to close the door, and I just stare at him,

lost in my head and the world I feel I have been dropped into.

I follow Westyn across the street and into a dim restaurant. I notice he is wearing

cowboy boots. They tap softly against the pavement. We sit down and as I look around

the restaurant, it strikes me as somewhere people go on dates. There is greenery

everywhere and fountains. The atmosphere is quaint and intimate in an ethereal manner. I

look down at the beer menu, and I am lost in the ample selection; I glance back up,

asking him for a suggestion, and notice how kind his face is for the first time. I need to

pay attention to him.

***

I stumble out of the restaurant, not drunk off alcohol but instead laughter. I

haven’t actually laughed like this in … I can’t remember how long.

“So do you want to go play Top Golf?” Westyn asks excitedly. I don’t want to

stop laughing. I don’t want to go back to my hotel room. I am feeling lighter.

“Yes! But I will warn you I am very competitive, so I hope you are ready,” I

snicker. I can’t even take myself seriously right now. Is this delirium or is it Westyn?
 161

***

We are waiting to play Top Golf and passing the time by playing a few rounds of

mini golf. After a clear victory on the first course, I suggest that we even the playing field

by setting ridiculous parameters on the next round.

It is hole nine, and he has his head on the top of his club and is spinning around it

like kids do with baseball bats. Spinning and spinning around while I count slowly to

thirty. As I count, I begin to recall the evening’s conversations and think about my

decisions this past week. I love to laugh and Westyn and I have so much in common, but

I slept with Gus only a few days ago. I needed to feel something. I chose him to make me

feel, which he can do physically, but I’m not sure about intellectually.

Gus
Noun | \-ˈgəs\
4. Hercules.
5. Boomerang fuck buddy.
6. Fallback.

“Thirty,” I squeal. Westyn stumbles, as he tries to hit the ball. I can hardly breathe

because I am laughing so hard. Do not pee yourself. You need to breathe.

“Your turn. Let’s see you do better,” Westyn says, while still laughing at his poor

performance.

“I certainly will do better.”

I step on the AstroTurf and place my neon-orange ball on the ground, take a half

step back, and position my club securely on the ground, mentally preparing myself to not
 162

get dizzy. I begin to spin around, laugh harder, and forget to breathe again. This is my

life: everything is whirling around me and I don’t know where I am. I don’t know where I

belong. I can’t wait until tomorrow to be gone. I can’t wait until May when I leave for

Romania. I don’t belong anywhere yet. Will I belong—ever?

“Stop!” Westyn yells.

I hit the ball, unable to see what is ahead of me.

“Did I just do that?” I ask Westyn.

“There is no way you pulled that off.” He begins to walk towards the hole. “That

is impossible.”

“I did it, didn’t I? I got another hole in one.” I bounce up and down doing my

victory dance.

***

It’s 1:45 AM and Westyn and I reluctantly say goodbye with an awkward hug

across the median in his truck outside of my hotel. I need to be up in less than three

hours. I hop down out of the truck, turn around, and wave while smiling about the

evening and the guy who provided me with joy.

Was that a date? I thought this was just someone to hang out with while I was in

town and didn’t know anyone. Did Danielle set me up? That felt like a date. He paid for

everything, even when I offered. I really can’t remember the last time I laughed that hard.

Gus used to make me giggle like that, but he doesn’t anymore. Now all he wants is more
 163

focused on the physical, and I thought that’s what I wanted too. I need to go to sleep. I

need to go to Mexico. I need to be alone. I need to get away from men.

***

March 15, 2015

I finally find my car in the parking garage at DFW International Airport. I am

exhausted from traveling and the lack of sleep of the past few days, but I am still on a

high from my most recent trip to Mexico. Twenty-four hours ago, I was getting off a bus

in Nueva Vallarta to go sailing with Sailor Boy and his brother. I had been living in a

dream this past week, and coming back to reality is depressing. I see Westyn’s name float

onto the screen of my phone. He wants to meet for coffee or tea before my drive back to

Abilene. A week ago, I had so much fun with him, but now I feel completely different. I

am confused. Do I have a crush on Sailor Boy? Do I have feelings for Gus? Do I like

Westyn like that? I agree to meet him somewhere for food and caffeine since I am

exhausted and hungry.

I pull up and suddenly feel a knot in my stomach. Am I nervous? No, there is no

reason to be nervous. I slide out of my truck and see him waiting for me by the entrance.

He slips his arms around me.

“Good morning, how was your trip? I can’t wait to hear all about it.”

We sit down in a booth and I let the stories of my adventures in Mexico City,

Puerto Vallarta, Yalapa, and sailing spill out. The stories of my travels energize me more

than the pot of tea I am consuming at a rapid pace. I didn’t realize it at the time, but he
 164

continually rubbed a section of his cheek that he had missed shaving that morning the

entire time I carried on.

Soon enough the meal is over and I know I need to head back to Abilene, so like

the gentleman Westyn is, he walks me to my truck and continues to talk to me, as I sit in

my cracked-leather seat. Conversation is drawing to a close, so it naturally ends with a

hug, but then wait—is that a kiss … on half of my mouth? Is it meant for my lips or

cheek? I feel the heat rise into my face. I grow embarrassed for misreading the sign or

signal. Westyn is red. He tries to recover from the worst first-kiss award he just won by

planting a second peck on my lips.

He walks away.

I close my car door, put the key in ignition, and turn. What just happened? That

was not what I pictured was going to happen and certainly not how a kiss with him would

feel. I pull out of the parking lot, thankful that I have received a little clarity.

***

March 19, 2015

I go to the front office of my apartment complex and pick up a mysterious

package. It is a box full of goodies from Westyn. Chips and salsa, tea, candy, and a love

letter. My head spins like it did on the mini-golf course. This is too much, too fast. I can’t

handle this. There is Gus. There is Sailor Boy. There is Westyn. All of them are

completely different. Gus is hot. Sailor Boy is dangerous. Westyn is a sweetheart. I have

to make a decision. I am leaving in two months for Romania. I eliminate Westyn. I

choose me in that moment and will decide the rest later.

X
I get off the plane in Austin. I have just spent the past twenty-one hours traveling

back to Texas after living in London for half a year. I am so excited to be coming back

home. I get to see my family, friends, and I get to see him. I begin to make my way to

baggage claim in a daze induced by jet-lag and sleep deprivation. Getting on the escalator

heading downstairs, I rest my hand on the moving handrail and notice that it travels faster

than the automated stairs, which tugs my right arm away from my body and pulls me off

balance.

***

June 29, 2010

I have an hour to get rid of the chlorinated smell that is seeping out of all my

pores. I am so nervous. I haven’t been on a date in almost a year, and he is so cute and

nice.

The doorbell rings, and I frantically race down the stairs to beat my parents to the

door. Grabbing my purse, I slip out to meet him on the step, and we exchange an

awkward half-hug. He walks me to the truck and opens the passenger door for me, as I

climb into his banged up, white, petite Toyota. I nervously wedge myself as far as I can

in between the seat and the door, like I am trying to escape from the guy sitting two feet

165
 166

to my left that makes me so nervous and giggly. I am not good at making small talk, so I

start spouting off random facts:

“Did you know that all babies are born colorblind? And that tigers have striped

fur and skin? I also heard that months that begin on a Sunday always have a Friday the

13th. Isn’t that neat?” I say in quick succession, as I stare at the eye patch swinging from

the rearview mirror.

We pull up to the mini golf course next to the batting cages. I hope we are playing

mini golf. I don’t want to embarrass myself by attempting to swing a bat and hit a ball.

Thank goodness, he is heading towards mini golf. I pick out the neon-orange golf ball

and a short club.

“Ladies first,” X says.

I look at him, half-relieved that he is a gentleman and half annoyed that I am

going to have to play first and be the Guina pig.

The entire time he stands close to me. Too close. My heart beats out of my chest

when he lightly touches my shoulders after every turn. He adds up the scores and I win. I

hope he didn’t let me win.

The next part of the date he has planned is getting gas. A superb addition to any

date, where I quickly learn that we both enjoy the smell of gasoline. My stomach begins

to grumble. In all the excitement and chaos of trying to get ready in time, figuring out the

perfect cute-yet-casual outfit that was a touch sexy but in a modest manner, I forgot to eat
 167

anything for dinner. X gets back in the car and hears my stomach enter into our

conversation. That is saying something since he is partially deaf. He drives to Sonic and I

cram myself back into the ledge between the seat and the door of the truck once again,

putting as much space between us as possible. I don’t know why, but he makes me so

nervous.

“Can you order me a kid’s meal, grilled cheese with cheese tater-tots and a green-

apple Dr. Pepper, please?” I ask.

“A green apple what?!” he asks, a look of disgust spreading across his face.

“A green apple Dr. Pepper; it’s really good actually.”

“I think I will let you order that for yourself,” he says, as the look of disgust fades

into amusement. “You might have to lean closer for them to be able to hear you though.”

I lean across the gray bench-seat of his truck and order my meal and drink, being

careful to not actually touch him in the process. I try to hold a semi-normal dialogue

while waiting for my food, but all that comes out is random nonsense and nervous

chuckles.

“So you know pirates weren’t commonly seen wearing eye patches, it was

actually more common for blacksmiths to wear them in order to protect one eye from

sparks. Soldiers and sailors also wore them if they lost an eye in battle. Well, I guess that

would make the pirate connection … sailors and pirates!”

What am I even talking about? He is staring at me. He probably thinks I am crazy.

 168

It’s still relatively early in the evening, so I suggest that we go for a walk because,

despite being a nervous wreck, I am not ready to go home yet. X drives us to the country

club by my house, and we get out and begin walking along the pathways. The grass has

been recently trimmed. Piles of grass shards, moist with Houston summer humidity,

cover the concrete, and the smell of suburban perfection permeates the air. We chat about

superheroes until we reach a bend in the path, and I hear the sound of water pressure

surging from the earth and the ticking begin as the sprinklers come on ahead of us. As we

turn around to make our way back to the truck, he slips my hand into his.

“Wait! You like me?” I question. I am utterly confused that he could like me after

I haven’t been able to say anything coherent, intelligent, or funny the entire evening.

He laughs, “Yes, of course I do.”

I feel the heat building in my cheeks and spreading across my chest. Why am I

reacting like this? I have held hands before. He keeps talking and it is all going in one ear

and out the other, but suddenly he stops under a light post and pulls me close into him,

leans down, and kisses me eagerly.

May 20, 2011

Today I was reminded why I love him so much. We were riding in the car back

from lunch and he began doing these goofy dance moves. I love that he can just be so

silly around me and make me laugh. He always tries to make me smile whenever I am

feeling sad about leaving him for London.

 169

June 14, 2010

I have four screaming three-year-old children splashing me with their feet in the

shallow end of the YMCA pool, so I begin telling my story about how Nemo lives in the

pool and they should get in the water to meet him, when I notice the lifeguard sitting next

to my class. He is extremely tan and has mirrored knock-off Ray Bans blocking my view

of his eyes, which I later discover are my favorite color, a gray-blue color that mimics the

hue of the ocean with stormy, swelling waves. His shaggy summer blonde hair skims the

top of his sunglass frames. How have I never noticed him before? Is he new? He is super

cute.

July 26, 2010

I frantically scribble a note on an AutoCheck receipt I found in my truck:

I have fallen for you fast and hard and it’s hard for me to say how I feel

out loud, and easier for me to communicate through writing.

I love you in the most inexplicable way. I don’t know how you’ve done it,

but you have given me hope to trust myself, you, and most importantly,

us.

I have already wanted to say it a hundred times, and it has frustrated me to

no end these past few days. I hope you have a good shift and night

studying biology, and know that I not only love you, but I’m completely

and irrevocably in love with you.

 170

Love,

Chelsea

I tuck it behind your windshield wiper before you get off work and leave the scene

quickly.

February 7, 2015

I’m sitting alone in Mackenzie Park on the dry grass next to the lake filled with

noisy geese, staring at the grass and watching the ants crawl throughout the natural maze.

I imagine it is like expansive fields of wheat to them at this time of year. The last time I

was sitting here with X, it was in August a few weeks before I moved to London. The

grass was so green and supple then.

We would lie for hours in the grass under the trees heavy with leaves that shaded

us from the intense summer sun three and a half years ago. The breeze blew over our

damp skin, as we picked at fallen leaves, leaving only the veins. I babbled to X about

nonsense and snickered endlessly when he would tickle my right side and lean in for a

soft kiss. He was the first to discover that by tickling me and giving me a kiss he can

make me stop overthinking everything. I ripped blades of grass slowly in half then would

toss them into the lake, enamored by the beauty I was surrounded with. I watched them

slowly float in circles on top of the water, as I listened to him make plans for our future.

In that moment, we are perfect.

I feel tears dripping into onto my lap, and I slowly pull my mind out of memory.
 171

My love for X is endless.

June 23, 2011

Why are we always bickering? How come everything I say or anything I do leads

to an argument or fight? If he wants to dump me then fine. Do it, but don’t drag it out. I

apologized and I feel bad about what I said, but still he stays mad. Doesn’t he know that

we are wasting precious time? Three more weeks together—that’s all we have—and all

he wants to do is argue and fight. All I want is to spend quality time together in these last

moments. Apparently, that’s not going to happen though. It makes me sick to my

stomach thinking this could really be the end. My going to London and being selfish once

again is going to lead me to being alone. This sucks.

October 8, 2010
 172

March 11, 2011

Tonight is the night. We have talked extensively about taking the next step in our

relationship, so it going to happen. I make sure to wear my cutest underwear, the pale

pink and white pinstripe bikini bottoms with a little shear chiffon pink fabric holding

together the sides, and the delicate pale, pink bra with tiny rosette sewn where the double

string straps meet the cups. We pull into the parking lot behind the Auto Check across the
 173

street from my church and climb into the backseat. I am tense yet sure of myself and my

decision to give myself to him because I have never loved anyone as deeply as X.

October 2010

I emerge from my dorm shower, skin red and puffy from the scalding water I have

allowed to wash away my tears for the past forty-five minutes. X had neglected to tell me

the whole truth about his past relationships. A knock at the door startles me, and I walk to

open it, wrapped in a white towel that’s monogramed, with my name in black script and

TLU in harsh black and yellow bold letters. Sarah Brown, my teammate from the cross

country and track team and subsequently my best friend, comes in and immediately gives

me a huge hug, disregarding the fact that my hair is leaving wet spots on her tee-shirt.

July 22, 2010

It is dark and the TV lights up the room with flashing blue lights, but I could care

less about what he decides we should watch. I want to be enveloped in his embrace, as he

lies there wrapping me up into his arms. I can’t stop laughing. All of a sudden, all the

noise seems to die down and I hear X whisper, “I love you Chelsea.” I am silent, but a

warmth flows throughout my body.

***

My feet stumble upon exiting the escalator, as I try to find my footing on the

solid, stationary ground. I drag my black-and-white, houndstooth carry-on after me. It has
 174

to weigh at least sixty pounds, as it is filled completely with old, delicious smelling

books.

I spent my weekends while living in London, digging through stacks and scouring

bookshelves in quaint bookstores for some of my favorite novels and books of poetry in

different sections of the city. It was my attempt to grasp something that I loved while

living and working in a foreign place. The past few months apart were excruciatingly

painful due to unreliable internet and a major time change. I felt lost without X there by

my side or the ability to talk to him regularly. I learned to love where I come from and

appreciate other cultures in those months, but most importantly, I began to love myself

while discovering who I really am.

I glance around searching for him; he is where I have grounded myself in Texas,

and I need to regain my sense of belonging after being gone for so long. I just need to be

held by him, to feel his embrace. I need his full lips to reassure me that I belong here by

touching mine. I need him and I cannot see him.

***

February 28, 2012

I know what I have to do to be happy again. What I need to do for X to be happy

again, but I don’t want to hurt him. I can feel the vomit travelling up my esophagus. I

swallow it down further into my gut each time. I know I am about to break every promise

I ever made.

I wish he would hurry up and get here so this can be over with. Or maybe I hope

he never comes at all.

 175

December 31, 2011

Nothing is the same anymore. We do not click anymore. He no longer carries the

familiar scent of being freshly showered with a slight smell of hair gel, his kisses don’t

taste as fresh, his eyes have lost the brightness they carried underneath their stormy color,

and he has gotten so skinny from running that now we are two sets of bones clinking

against one another in awkward embraces. How did this happen to us? Why do I not

know him anymore?

March 9, 2012

It’s the first Friday of Spring Break, and I am at the YMCA lifeguarding until

9:00 PM with Jon. I haven’t talked to Jon much previously, but now he is sitting here

next to me and the empty pool in a lawn chair listening to me go on and on about why I

have to break up with X. Bobbing his head up and down and sporadically throwing in

grunts of approval or acknowledgement. I finally make up my mind that I will do it

tonight when he gets home.

In my right hand covered in new scabs on the palm from where I ate track two

days ago my phone is constantly vibrating. X’s name floats on the screen then disappears

for brief intervals between his frantic text messages. He must know something is wrong

when I neglect to respond.

 176

I’m on break from this lifeless shift, so I leave Jon by the pool and sneak my

phone into the family changing room.

“Mom?” I ask the phone even though I know it is her.

“Yea, what’s wrong? Why are you calling when you’re at work?” she asks

without pausing.

“I just don’t know how to do it, Mom. I don’t know how to break up with him

when I still love him, but I know it’s not right. I feel like a horrible person because he did

nothing wrong.” My throat is being constricted by some foreign animal, some foreign

emotion that scares me.

My mother continues to reassure me that I am doing what is right and that she will

be there to support me, but all I can think about is the constant other call I can feel as it

tries to break through my resistance and will itself to be answered against my will. I

cannot do this at work.

I pull up to my parents’ house after getting off work, and I slump through the

front door, emotionally drained and dreading the conversation that will soon follow. My

mom and dad are waiting for me in the kitchen. I sit on the counter while they walk

around the island, asking me if I am one-hundred-percent sure that this is what I want to

do. My dad makes mumbled comments about how he never liked him anyway, and my

mom tops that with recounting times when he talked down to me. Their conversations are

spinning around the room with me in the center. Why didn’t anyone tell me about all

these concerns they had about him earlier? It has been almost two years now. I don’t

want to turn my phone back on. I am scared. I feel sick. I am going to throw up. I hop off
 177

the counter, scamper out the backdoor, and hunch over into the yard; dry heaves wrack

my body. I rest my forehead on the soft grass, letting my tears run down the blades into

the damp soil. Why am I doing this? Because I am not happy. Because I cannot make him

happy anymore.

December 29, 2012

I haven’t seen him in months, and there he is standing talking to my friends, his

friends, our friends. I don’t know what to do. Do I smile and wave like a lunatic? Do I

just ignore him? I don’t want to ignore him; I miss him. I miss the hugs and kisses. I miss

his knowing exactly how my mind works so I don’t have to explain it. I miss being able

to be myself around someone else. Oh God. He’s just looked over here. I wish there was

somewhere to hide.

February 14, 2013

There is a knock on the door. Everyone at my house is asleep. I walk downstairs

and see his silhouette darkening the glass in the door. Why is he here? Why am I so

excited that he is here? I am dating Lyman right now. I open the door five inches and

peer out into the shadows, and I can make out the stubble on his chin.

“Can I come in for a minute?” his deep voice utters, disarming me.

“Yea … I guess.” Why do I want to just be held by him again and kiss him? I am

stronger than this. I don’t need him. “So what’s up?”

 178

He doesn’t answer, and instead pulls me into an embrace. The hug that used to

ground me to this earth. The energy that made me want to stay put for the first time in my

life that made me feel safe. That feeling was back. Where had it gone a year ago? I look

up at his face still ten inches above me, and I have a desire to kiss him. My hands travel

up his back and around his neck until I can hold his face and pull him down to me again.

“I still am in love with you,” I whisper, as I kiss his lips softly, brushing against the rough

new beard.

August 22, 2013

Anna drives me up to X’s parent’s house and parks on the other side of the street

and waits in the car, turning up the volume on popular hip-hop music. I step out and

begin to feel myself shaking. I am about to break him again. I am going to break his heart

and my heart.

“You have twenty-five minutes then I am leaving you,” Anna yells from the car.

I hate her in that moment. Doesn’t she realize how hard this is?

He comes out the front door and gives me a hug, as I cross the barrier marking the

difference between the yard and the porch. The barrier between us being a couple and

being alone. I can feel a heaviness weighing me down, and it becomes difficult to move

and breathe.

I don’t want to hurt him, but we aren’t working. Our schedules are completely

opposite. We never talk. We never see one another. I don’t want to be touched by him
 179

anymore. I don’t want anyone to touch me anymore. I never feel safe. It’s all nightmares

and he tries to help, but he can’t. I need to work through this on my own now.

“I can’t do this anymore. I don’t know how to make you happy if I can’t have you

touch me. I need space to figure out what has happened to me. I need to get help. Plus,

we’re both so busy with our new jobs. We never see each other. It’s just everything is

adding up and we just aren’t working anymore,” I list without any emotion entering my

voice.

“I don’t want this. We can figure this out. Just stop. Please stop. You don’t mean

this. I don’t need to touch you. I can wait until you figure it out, just please don’t leave

me again.”

His words crush me under the weight of my guilt for not telling him one of the

final reasons why this had to happen. That Anthony kissed me, and I didn’t pull away.

I don’t remember what’s after that, but I walk away without hugging him. I make

it to the car before I feel myself break open. I open the door and slump down into the

passenger seat, putting my head between my knees, as all the guilt for hurting him again

and betraying his trust comes rushing out. I turn off my phone for the next week.

***

At the bottom of the escalator my dry, irritated eyes search for anyone familiar. I

thought he was picking me up, but maybe someone else is. My heart begins to sink when

the reunion I have been imagining in my head for three months fades into a distant almost

memory. I trudge towards the baggage carousel to wait for my luggage, the suitcase that

has supported me for the past six months and that’s when I hear it.
 180

“Chelsea!”

I turn around and see him standing at the bottom of the escalator.

Did I walk past him? How did I not see him?

I walk into his loving arms, searching for the comfort I have been longing for

since I left for London. The comfort is not in him anymore. It’s in me, and I am free.
Y
Curled up on Kjersten’s bed, dreams of my past life in England float throughout

the transparent vision of sleepy-haze. Kjersten lies next to me. She has been one of my

closest companions throughout my years at Texas Lutheran University, and she lets me

stay over when nightmares plague me night after night. She will lay me down on her

couch downstairs with a blanket and put on Disney’s “Beauty and the Beast” when I

can’t breathe between sobs. She drinks and dances on bars with me when I need chemical

and musical releases from the suffocation I feel from my past. Last night was one of

those. I needed to find the answer to a question I had been asking myself for two-and-a-

half-years, and she is making sure that I am safe.

***

During our first year of college, I met Yenne in our freshman experience class

that was supposed to help prepare us for college. I was the overachieving student athlete

making straight A’s and earning the term of star cross-country runner and best freshman

ass from the football team. Yenne was struggling to make the grades so that he could play

baseball in the spring. I was strongly encouraged to help my fellow classmates that were

struggling in school. I was pushed to help Yenne by my professor and the coaches on

campus. I didn’t hurt that I also found him cute in his baseball hats, UT tee-shirts, and

ripped up sneakers. He looked like a bad boy who might be a surfer with his unkempt,

181
 182

curly brown hair that faded to blond at the ends. However, I was the good girl who didn’t

know how to approach a guy like that.

***

“Hey, so I was told that we should study together … . You know, to help each

other out since we are both student athletes and stuff,” I say. I can feel myself sweating

through my old, thin running tee-shirt from a cross-country race at Rice University.

“Oh yeah, well, that sounds good. When do you wanna study? When is there a

test or paper due soon?” he responds. He adjusts the hat on his head and looks around the

nearly empty classroom. The look on his face makes me wonder if he has ever been one

of the last to leave a classroom before.

“We have a test in a week and a half, but we also have a paper due in three weeks,

I believe.”

“We can study the night before the test then. Plenty of time.”

“I think we should start studying sooner than that. There is a lot of material on

this test, and I want, or I mean I need to do really good on this one,” I say, lying about the

state of my grades.

“Oh alright, so when should we start studying then?”

“How about tomorrow afternoon or evening? Whenever you get done with

practice and dinner.”

“Yeah, that’ll work. I don’t think I’ve ever studied for anything that early before.”

***
 183

It has been two-and-a-half-years since we started studying together, since we

became fast friends, since I had a huge crush on him, and it has been a year-and-a-half

since he dropped out of school.

I have stayed in touch with him periodically since then, during which I have

moved across the pond, dated X, and moved on. Or I thought I had. But after X and I

broke up, I have always this lingering question of a crush. What if we had dated? We

both knew we liked each other, but the timing was always wrong. What if?

I decided a few months ago that I would answer all these questions about

unfulfilled friendships, relationships that I was too scared to enter into, and relationships I

was too scared to let go of. I was giving myself time to answer all these questions, so I

invited Yenne to come hangout. I wanted to know why I still had lingering feelings and if

they were substantive.

***

Yenne arrives at Kjersten’s apartment late Friday night. She has suggested that we

hang out at her place because she is worried about my recently increased reckless

behavior. There is a knock on the door, and he stands there with a large beard that is

untrimmed, a trucker hat, and messy clothing hanging off his body. He has changed

dramatically since the last time I saw him; he is now one of those guys that looks

borderline homeless. I immediately know there is nothing left there. My question is

answered before he walks in the door.

He plops on the single chair in the living room, and I notice he is only carrying a

handle of whiskey with him. He has driven an hour and a half and has only brought
 184

liquor. He unties the top of the crushed purple-black velvet pouch and allows it to slide to

the floor next to his limp left arm. Is he already drunk? This is not the person I used to

know. He looks vaguely similar, but he used to have potential. He was smart but he had

never had to use it and wasn’t used to the challenge. I feel my heart ache at seeing

someone fall so far. He begins taking swigs, while Kjersten and I sit on the couch

opposite of him, observing the train wreck that just walked into the living room.

“Do y’all want some?” he asks.

“No, I am alright, but thanks,” I say.

“I gave up alcohol until Spring Break,” Kjersten responds.

Kjersten and I make eye contact. What do we do now? We can’t let him leave and

drive; he’s drunk. However, we don’t want him here either. We sit there nodding at his

stories, as he continues to take swig after swig of the bitter nectar. Eventually, his right

hand falls, and the bottle softly thumps onto the floor, slowly spilling its contents. I

silently dive to retrieve it and its cap. I screw it on and put it back in the pouch, setting it

on the floor next to him. Kjersten and I tiptoe our way up the stairs, bypassing the one

that creaks, and lie on her bed.

“What the hell just happened?” I ask.

“He just literally got shit-faced and passed out drunk on his own. He has a serious

problem,” Kjersten responds.

“Let’s just go to sleep. I am exhausted.”

***
 185

The morning light begins to creep in the window, and I resist waking up because I

am having good dreams for once. I am safe. Last night was weird, but it is over and my

last question has been answered. I feel relief that I have a clean slate ahead of me. I roll

over and curl into a pillow, snuggling it into my core.

“Morning!” a male voice booms. A heavy weight lands on me.

I jerk out and am on guard. My hands clench into tiny fists, and I open my eyes,

ready to fight the intruder who has just attacked me.

It is Yenne lying on top of Kjersten and me. I forgot he was still here in the midst

of a good night’s sleep. I can smell the alcohol on his breath. Has he been drinking again

since we left him downstairs last night? I slither out from under his body weight and

make my way downstairs for a glass of water, only to find the bottle open and almost

finished on the floor.

Z
Tuxedo, my black-and-brown brindle Pitbull is sprawled out on the middle of the

suede sofa. My legs are draped over him, as I lie squished onto a third of the small couch,

reluctantly reading Sapphire’s novel, Push, for my American Literature class. This book

hits too close to home. It takes me to places in my mind that I avoid. I can’t read about

rape. I’ve only just begun talking and writing about my own experience. I feel my phone

buzz on my leg. My roommate, Danielle, has texted me.

“Hey, just a heads up. The guy we played beer pong against at the Halloween

party just asked me if you were seeing anyone …”

Who did we play beer pong against? There was a tall man in a creepy outfit and a

short awkward guy too.

I respond, “Which one was it?”

“The really tall one that had the white painted face and the black mask.”

Hmm, I gave up dating a few months ago after everything went down with the

Sailor Boy debacle. I don’t think I am interested in dating anyone yet, but maybe I should

try to get back out there. I’ll see if he even asks.

“Are you going to come by the Halloween festival tonight? You should bring

Tux!” Danielle texts back.

Do I really want to get dressed to go out? And get Tux dressed up? Do I even

have time to go with all my schoolwork? I guess I should take a break, so I will be more

186
 187

productive later. I just don’t care about being social with anyone anymore. I’m terrified

of getting hurt by anyone now. I think if I did I would fall apart fully, disappearing into

the winds of Abilene. Maybe that’s dramatic, but I know deep down that I am still in love

with Sailor Boy and shouldn’t drag anyone else into my mess. Nevertheless, I pry myself

off the couch cushions to get ready for the Halloween festival, burying my desire to

remain secluded. I feel my phone buzz in my pocket. I pull it out and see a Facebook

message from Zach.

“Hey, how is it going? Could I take you on a date this Saturday (outside, park,

casual)?”

I put my phone away, grab Tuxedo, and walk out the door.

***

It’s Tuesday evening, and I stare into my mirror with turquoise trim and question

everything. Does my outfit look casual yet cute? Do my hair and makeup look

effortlessly put together? I wonder if we will hit it off. How much longer until he arrives?

Do I have anything in my teeth? How is my breath? I wonder where he is going to take

me? Okay, don’t get too excited, just relax, it is only a first date. One last check … all

good.

“Tux, please stop barking. Calm down, sweet boy,” I say, as I pet him goodbye. I

open the front door, and I am greeted by Zach, a six-foot-five pharmacy student.

“You ready to go?” Zach asks. “You look really nice tonight.”

“Thank you.”
 188

I already am beginning to feel awkward. I never know how to acknowledge and

accept compliments, especially about my looks.

“So how was your day at work? You work at CVS, right?”

“It was alright. Glad to be off work and with you now though,” Zach says with an

air of fake lightness.

He smiles, and I notice that his teeth are a shade of yellow. It is a paler yellow,

but still his dental hygiene is questionable. We walk to the car, and I sink down into the

passenger seat, observing that Zach’s head full of messy chestnut hair nearly hits the roof

of the car. He slumps forward to avoid this, creating a humpback. This vehicle really is

too small for him.

As we pull into downtown Abilene, I look around at all the beige brick buildings

for the first time during daylight. I have lived here for over a year, and I haven’t gotten

out much. I have been so focused on getting out of here, traveling, and making the grades

in graduate school. I notice that Zach is ushering me into Monks Coffee Shop. I eagerly

walk up to the counter and ponder over which tea to order: the jasmine green tea or jade-

citrus, mint, green tea. Everything about this date feels unnatural, not in the nervous way,

but instead in the absolute lack of chemistry. Be open minded, I tell myself. You need to

give this guy a fair chance. I know you are hurt and still in love with Sailor Boy, but none

of that is Zach’s fault. Be nice.

We walk around downtown and we talk about things that are forgettable. I keep

trying to sip on my tea, but I keep burning my tongue every time. Why won’t the tea cool

off? Oh, what did he just say? Focus on him. Focus on trying to have fun.
 189

***

I open the door to Chili’s, and he walks in ahead of me. I feel chivalrous. The

hostess seats us one table away from the entrance. I take the seat facing away from the

door. I do not want anyone I know to walk in and see me. I do not want to answer any

questions.

“Do you know what you want to eat?” Zach asks. I snap out of my own head and

study him. Why are his teeth such an odd shade of yellow?

“Yes, I’ll get the pizza since it’s the only thing without meat, and if you want, we

can get chips and salsa to start. I love salsa.”

“Then we will do that. I think I am going to get a burger.”

We order the food, and I try to keep a semblance of natural conversation going,

but I know it is too soon for me to try to start dating. All I want to do is go home and curl

up in my bed with Tuxedo. I need to cry. No, I have used enough tears already on this

heartbreak. I pray that God will help me figure out how to make this pain go away. I pray

that God will take all the love I have boiling over inside of me for a person who doesn’t

care about me. I pray while I sit at the Mexican-tile table that seats six, when only two

seats are taken, and watch Zach take medicine for a medical condition he has that

impedes his digestion of food.

I nod my way through dinner, not even finishing my food. The combination of

Zach’s yellow teeth, the detailed account of his medical issues, and the realization that I

will never fall out of love with Sailor Boy makes my appetite disappear.
 190

Zach drives me back to my apartment and asks if he can meet Tuxedo, since he

has heard me talk about him and heard him bark.

I let him in, and I sit in the corner of the sofa while Zach tries to bond with my

dog; it is his last hope of making a good enough impression for a second date, a second

chance. I feel myself smile and choke up a laugh or two to help ease the situation.

Standing by the door in the shadowed hallway, I listen to him tell me how he had

a great time and would like to do this again sometime. He leans in. I brace myself for a

kiss I am not ready for. His lips touch mine, and I will myself not to cry. He pulls away,

and I half smile at him. Straw, that’s the shade his teeth are.

“Thank you, tonight was fun.” I wish I could believe my words. Maybe I can

convince myself. I close the door behind him. I know I just gave him hope when there is

none for him. I am not ready to love again, not yet.

 REFERENCES

Booth, Wayne. Introduction. The Company We Keep: An Ethics of Fiction. Rpt. ed.

Berkely: U of California P., 1990. 3-22. Print.

Goff, Bob. Love Does. Nashville: Thomas Nelson, 2012. Print.

Isaacs, Susan E. Angry Conversations with God. New York: Faith Words, 2009. Print.

L’Engle, Madeleine. Walking on Water: Reflections on Faith and Art. Rpt. ed. New

York: North Point, 1995. Print.

O’Connor, Flannery. Mystery and Manners: Occasional Prose. Ed. Sally and Robert

Fitzgerald. New York: Farrar, Strauss and Giroux, 1969. (“The Nature and Aim of

Fiction,” 63-86).

Steiner, George. Real Presences: Is There Anything in What We Say? Boston: Faber and

Faber, 1989. Excerpts.

Strayed, Cheryl. Wild. New York: Vintage Books, 2013. Print.

Tolstoy, Leo. What Is Art? New York: Penguin, 1995.

191