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Week Four:
Goldfish, which are not known for living a long time, have relationships that last longer than mine do. So the fact that this thing with Cooper Bryant has lasted three weeks already is cause for panic.
"Cooper," I say. We sit in a booth in the diner by my apartment. Our breakfast plates are pushed towards the center of the table. I am on my third cup of coffee. He drinks orange juice.
"Yes."
"Cooper, Cooper."
"Jules, Jules."
The diner is still decorated for Valentine’s Day. That was over three months ago: pre-Cooper, thankfully. Giant cardboard versions of conversation hearts still hang on the wall. They make proclamations like "No way!" and "My guy!" On our table sits a cut-out Cupid, pudgy and red-cheeked, dressed only in a diaper. Someone colored in his eyes and wrote "love is blind" in tiny lower case letters on his foot. If Cooper weren’t here, I would consider adding the words "and dumb" in my own small script. I love a double entendre.
"So here’s the thing." I pick at the crusts of my toast. "I’ve been offered a job in Boston. It’s a great job. Higher level than where I am right now."
I watch his face closely. It won’t crumble. All those team sports he playedWACSO~1JPG ?=n_Y2[2??n_Y2pg?s?h?o?t?-.?j?p?g?????W?e?s?t?p?-o?r?t?N?o?w???m?u?ESTPO~1JPG ?Kn_Y2Y2??n_Y2t}m?u?g?s?h?~o?t?.?j?p?g?????.?_?W?e?s?~t?p?o?r?t?N???o?w?WESTP~1JPG ?Kn_Y2[2??n_Y2rpp?g?????w?h?s?0?1?1?6?0?4?0?1???.?j?HS011~1JPG ?Pn_Y2Y2??n_Y2_??.?j?p?g?????.?_?w?h?s?0?1?1?6?0?4???0?1?WHS01~1JPG ?Pn_Y2[2??n_Y27pp?g???f??w?h?s?0?2?f0?1?0?4?0?3???.?j?HS020~1JPG ?[n_Y2Y2??n_Y2B7ځ??.?j?p?g?????.?_?w?h?s?0?2?0?1?0?4???0?3?WHS02~1JPG ?[n_Y2[2??n_Y20pw?h?s?l?o?g?o?a?.?j?p???g???HSLOGOAJPG ?en_Y2Y2??n_Y2ug?????.?_?w?h?s?l?o?g?o?a?.???j?p?WHSLO~1JPG ?fn_Y2[2??n_Y2pj?p?g?????W?N? ?w?i?n?e? ?t?a?l???k?.?NWINE~1JPG ?ln_Y2Y2??n_Y2!Z??k?.?j?p?g?????.?_?W?N? ?w?i?n?e? ?t???a?l?WNWIN~1JPG ?ln_Y2[2??n_Y2p.?j?p?g???^??w?s?p?a?c?^0?4?2?1?0?4???0?1?SPAC0~1JPG ?tn_Y2Y2??n_Y2x??0?1?.?j?p?g?????.?_?w?s?p?a?c?0?4?2?1???0?4?WSPAC~1JPG ?un_Y2[2??n_Y2pj?p?g?????w?y?f?f?0?5?2?1?0?4?0???1?.?YFF05~1JPG ?n_Y2Y2??n_Y2z1?.?j?p?g?????.?_?w?y?f?f?0?5?2?1?0???4?0?WYFF0~1JPG ?n_Y2[2??n_Y2Ypg?????w?y?f?f?0?5?2?4?0?1?.???j?p?YFF05~2JPG ?n_Y2Y2??n_Y2=??j?p?g???s??.?_?w?y?f?sf?0?5?2?4?0???1?.?WYFF0~2JPG ?n_Y2[2??n_Y2pj?p?g???>??w?y?f?f?0?>5?2?4?0?4?0???2?.?YFF05~3JPG ?n_Y2Y2??n_Y23%??2?.?j?p?g?S????.?_?w?y?f?Sf?0?5?2?4?0???4?0?WYFF0~3JPG ?n_Y2[2??n_Y2ϓpz?u?l?l?o?37?5?.?j?p?g?????ULLO75 JPG ?n_Y2Y2??n_Y2ua.?_?z?u?l?l?o?7?5?.?j???p?g?ZULLO~1JPG ?n_Y2[2??n_Y2pZ?y?d?e?c?o?.?j?p?g?????YDECO JPG ?n_Y2Y2??n_Y2t??.?_?Z?y?d?e?c?o?.?j?p???g???ZYDEC~1JPG ?n_Y2[2??n_Y2G7p about our relationship here."
The train pulls into the station. It sucks the air out, filling the space with the rumble of wheels and the screech of brakes. We cannot speak above this. His lips are pursed. I treat the situation like a staring contest and try not to blink.
When the train pulls away, we are still standing on the platform. "You’re curious because you want to start dating other girls."
He blinks. "What? No."
"It’s okay. You don’t owe me anything. Just tell me the truth."
"Really, I just wanted to know. So we can figure things out."
"What things?" I ask.
"What we’re going to do," he says.
"About this?" I ask.
"Yes."
I say, "I didn’t realize we had options."
He begins to run his hand through his hair then stops, leaving his fingers buried in blond, his elbow jutted out to the side. "So if you go, you’re gone?"
"Basically, yeah," I say, though I am not entirely sure what the question is asking.
"Basically or really?"
Now it’s my turn to purse my lips. "Why are you asking me all of these questions? It’s stressful enough without you pestering me."
"I’m not pestering you," he says.
"You are."
"I don’t mean to." His voice cracks as though he has shot back to early puberty.
"The road to hell," I proclaim, "is paved with good intentions."
"You’ve never been one for clichés," he says, using his adult voice once again.
"Maybe I am," I protest. "How would you really know?"
"I know you."
"It’s barely been two months. People take lifetimes to get to know each other. And even then there are surprises."
He drops his hands to his sides. "I know enough."
"I could be a psychotic killer and you’d have no idea. You’d go on the news and say, ‘I don’t know what happened. She seemed like the sweetest girl and then she just cracked.’"
"I would never say you were the sweetest girl."
My stomach, throat, hands tighten.
"I’m sorry, Jules. Julie. I just want you to be serious for a minute." His raised voice echoes in the station. People turn their heads. Apparently public displays of anger are acceptable.
"I’ve gotta go," I say.
"Jules."
I walk away from him and up the stairs. But this is not my subway stop; it is his. So I hail a cab. The seat is tacky when I slide across it: the last passenger’s sweat. The cab is moving before I have the door shut.
The thing about living in a city is you cover the same ground over and over again. You turn a corner and there — unbidden, unwanted — is a memory. Now, driving down Columbus, we pass the bar where Cooper first asked me out. We were sitting in the back, on the old musty couches. Tracy and her boyfriend, Will, who works with Cooper, were playing darts. Cooper stayed on the couch and turned sideways to face me. I didn’t know what to say to this boy with his blue button down shirt, pressed khaki pants, and belt. It was around the time of night when I start to wish I’d never quit smoking. I craned my neck around to see if there was anyone I could bum one from. My gaze landed on Cooper who was just looking at me.
"I love Madonna, don’t you" he asked, indicating the music. I thought for a moment he was gay: so well groomed and a Madonna fan to boot. "I saw her when I was little. I went with my older sister. The tour she did with the Beastie Boys."
"Really?" I asked.
"Yeah."
"If they did that tour again today, it would sell out in a second," I said. I didn’t look at his face, but at his hand wrapped around his beer glass. He has long, skinny fingers.
When you don’t smoke, the smoke bothers you much more. My eyes started to sting and tear. I wanted to wipe my hand across them, but feared he would think I was crying. I blinked rapidly. Of course Cooper is from a world where people do not spontaneously burst into tears; he did not assume I was weeping. "I don’t get smoking," he said. "Whoever thought it was a good idea to put a burning stick in your mouth?"
"I don’t know," I said.
"It’s the think I hate most about bars. All the smokers."
"Yeah," I agreed. "Losers."
"It won’t matter much longer," he said. "What with the smoking ban and all."
I thought the decision to ban smoking from bars was an extreme violation of personal rights. But I said, "Thank God for that."
He nodded and put both hands on his thighs.
"So," I said. "International finance, huh?"
"Yep," he answered.
"How come you never hear about people doing national finance?" I asked.
He rolled his left shoulder backwards. "Well, I guess that would just be finance."
"Right."
When I decided to leave he went outside with me to wait for a cab. "We should have coffee sometime," he said.
"Okay."
I stamped my feet.
"So, I guess I need your number."
"Oh, right." I dug through my bag and managed to retrieve a scrap of paper and a pen.
"Thanks," he said as a cab stopped.
"Goodnight."
I hate giving my number out because it causes such anxiety. Here are the statistics. Times I’ve given my number to men met in bars: twenty-seven. Responses: nine. Seven of these led to disastrous dates. Of these seven, one called after a week and told me a story about how busy life had become, almost over night. Another called to say that, for medical reasons, he needed to call all of his previous sexual partners and wanted to know if I fit the list. I did, but it turned out the infection postdated me. With these results, I’ve found it better to just to grab the guy and hold on, even if it was just for the night.
But Copper did call, the very next day, and we met for coffee. I got a black coffee. He got a cappuccino that came in one of those oversized cups and saucers. He sat in an arm chair, and sank down so his knees were at his chest. I grinned.
"I must look kind of ridiculous. This cup, this chair."
"It’s like something out of Alice in Wonderland."
"Well then," he said, and tapped his cup against mine. "A very merry un-birthday to you."
I laughed, probably a little too loudly.
The second date was the aforementioned flower date. I buzzed him in and then waited on my landing. I saw the flowers come around the corner before I saw him: four red African Daisies.
He said, "I saw them on my way here and I thought you might like them. But judging from the look on your face, that might have been a gross miscalculation."
"No. Not at all. I’m just surprised." I lead him into my apartment and had to search for an embarrassingly long time to find a vase.
These were the first real flowers I ever received from a non-family member. Once, a man in a bar made me an origami flower out of a cocktail napkin. He was the one who called with the lame story about his busy life. I kept the flower in the drawer of my bedside table until I forgot his face.
The third date might not have been a date, but rather an outing. We went bowling with Tracy and Will. We played in teams against each other: me and Cooper, Tracy and Will. Will had some elaborate scoring system that made this work.
When Will would get a strike or a spare, he would thrust his fist into the air and say things like, "Yeah, baby!" causing Tracy to roll her eyes. When Tracy got two strikes in a row, he jumped to his feet, picked her up, kissed her on the lips for longer than necessary, and then said. "That’s my girl."
Cooper was more reserved in his celebration. He simply smiled a little blink-and-you-miss-it grin. It happened often. "You’re pretty good," I told him.
He beckoned for me to lean in close, then closer still. "I bowled in college," he whispered. "For the Phys-Ed requirement."
"You? I imagined you tearing up the basketball court, ruling the baseball diamond."
He shrugged. He has a language of shrugs that I have not yet learned. This one was a half-shrug, higher with the left shoulder than with the right.
Cooper and I won. He took my hand in his and bowed. Instinctively, I curtsied. "Thank you," he said, "for giving us this opportunity to kick your collective ass." I giggled.
"Screw you," Will said.
The bowling alley is right near my apartment, so Cooper walked me home. We held hands, but I don’t remember him grasping for my hand, and I’m pretty sure I didn’t initiate it. At the door to my building, we stopped.
"You could—" I said at the same time as he said, "Well, I—"
We both stopped. "Go ahead," I told him.
"I just wanted to say I had a lot of fun. You’re a great bowling partner."
"I think you did all the work," I told him.
He shrugged: both shoulders up as far as they could go.
I bounced on my heels.
He put his hand on my neck, pulled me towards him, and kissed me. "See you tomorrow?"
"Sure," I answered. I climbed the stairs to my apartment trying to figure out why he was not following behind me.
Now, in the cab, I pass the bowling alley. "Here’s good. On the right." We jerk out of traffic. I press a wad of bills towards the driver. They sprinkle about the front seat. I don’t care. It’s a big tip. My face is burning. There is not enough air in the cab. It smells of smoke and incense and other people. "Thanks." I push the door open and stumble onto the street. I gasp, gasp. My throat has tightened, the way it does before I cry.
I call Tracy and relate the story to her. "How could you have trusted me with a nice guy? I broke him."
"What do you mean, you broke him?" she asks.
"He hasn’t called," I tell her.
"Why don’t you call him? Why are you on the phone with me at all? You don’t have call waiting."
"I can’t just sit here waiting for him to call. Agony."
"Call him."
"Come over," I say.
"Call him."
"I’m crying." And I am.
"Julie."
Week Seven:
Does it count as a week if you’re not speaking? I have to count it, because to not count it would mean that this thing, my relationship with Cooper, is over.
I call him two times on Monday. I call his home number from work and listen to his voice on the outgoing message. I know he won’t be there. I don’t leave a message.
Tuesday, I wait until the evening, but again there is no response. He’s probably at the gym, going about his regular weekly routine.
Wednesday, I don’t call. I go to the gym and stay on the treadmill for almost an hour. I tilt the ramp to such a precarious uphill angle that one of the trainers comes over to ask if I know how to use the machine. When I come home, I go to bed without showering; my hair, wet with sweat, stiffens against my neck and cheeks.
Thursday, I buy a pack of cigarettes. I smoke only one; it makes me cough and it burns my eyes. I stub it out, half smoked, in my kitchen sink. The smoke seems to stay in my hollow chest. I call six times. I try at 11:30 and he picks up the phone, groggy. I don’t want to be the one that woke him up. "Hello?" he says. I don’t want to hang up either. He seems close. "Goodnight," he says. His voice is low and soft. I hold the phone until it starts to buzz at me.
Friday night I expect him to be home. I’m home. I don’t plan anything to say except, "Hello. I’m sorry. Can we get together and talk?" His answering machine picks up. I should have stuck to the plan, but I am thrown off by his not being there. "Hey, Cooper. It’s me, Julie. Jules. Haven’t heard from you in a while, so I thought I’d give you a buzz, see what’s up. Give me a call sometime." I hang up and dial his number again. "I’m sorry. That last message was really ill-conceived. If you had voice mail I would’ve deleted it. I’m sorry. Not about the voice mail. About the message. Everything. Please call me. Bye."
He does not call back on Saturday. He does not call back on Sunday. He does not call and hang up without leaving a message. I know this because I do not leave my apartment. I stay in bed and read women’s magazines. I twirl a cigarette in my fingers and hold it to my lips without lighting it. I wander to my couch and watch the nothingness that is weekend television. Bad movies about women betrayed. Sporting events whose outcomes I don’t care about.
Tracy comes by. She tells me that I’ve done the right thing. "All you can do now is wait."
There are equations, formulas to determine patterns of behavior. With other guys, these patterns have been simple. They don’t require any math. The boy arrives and then he leaves. There’s a chance he may come back for a quickie. Maybe. Simple. But Cooper has introduced new variables so I don’t know how to write the equation, let alone solve it.
Week Eight:
Tuesday, when I come home from work, he still has not called. I put on my oldest pajamas: worn flannel that are too warm for the weather. I smell my cigarettes. They already seem to be stale but I think I might smoke them all, one after another, just to be done with them.
The doorbell rings. I peer out the window and there he is. Cooper. Cooper wearing a wrinkled suit. Cooper looking up at the window, at me. I wave. He smiles. I buzz him in.
"I was away," he says when he reaches the landing. "Business. To San Francisco. I went straight to work this morning. I came down here as soon as I got your message."
"If you had voice mail, you could’ve checked your messages."
"I can check them with the machine. I just can’t ever remember the code."
"Oh." And then, "Did you have a nice trip?"
"I barely slept on the plane back," he tells me.
"Do you want to sit down? You must be tired."
I stare at his face. There are bags under his eyes, a patch of dry skin above his lips. There is nothing concrete, though, no evidence to tell me exactly how he’s feeling about being back here with me.
"Did you want to call me?" I ask.
"Yes."
My apartment is a mess. His is always neat. Whenever I knew he was coming, I piled my mess into the closet and tucked my dirty dishes into the oven.
I sweep the magazines on the coffee table into a pile and kick my slippers under my armchair. He sits down on the couch.
"I called you a bunch of times, but I didn’t leave messages." I sit on the other side of the couch with my knees pulled up to my chest.
"I know. That was you Thursday night."
I can smell him, but barely. I want to move closer and breathe deeply, to take him in.
There is a giant dust bunny on the floor, right by his feet. I can’t get rid of it without drawing attention to it, so I can only hope that he doesn’t notice it, or that he chooses to ignore it.
"Why didn’t you call?" I ask.
"Stubborn. Why didn’t you leave messages?"
"I didn’t know what to say." There are three balled-up tissues on the couch. I use my foot to push them between the cushions.
"‘I’m sorry’ was enough," he says.
"I am sorry."
"Me too."
With my left hand, I pick up a spoon which sits on the couch next to his left knee. As I do so, I realize that I am still holding the pack of cigarettes in my right hand. "I only smoked one," I blurt out. "See?" I open the pack to show him the one empty slot. He does the half shrug, the one where his left shoulder goes above the right. I drop the pack on the coffee table and the cigarettes scatter.
When I stand to pick them up, he grabs my wrist. "Stop straightening." He looks at me and I look at his green, green eyes that will not reveal to me what he is thinking. He lets go of my wrist.
I sit and smooth the flannel of my pajama bottoms. "I’m not going to Boston."
"You weren’t ever going to Boston." He pinches the bridge of his nose. Then he looks up at me.
"Well," I say, "if you knew that, why’d you make such a fuss?"
"I thought you wanted me to. I didn’t mind playing along. But then you got mad."
These are the things I want to say:
1. I won’t screw up again.
2. Please don’t play my games with me.
3. I think I’m falling in love with you.
But the first, no matter how much I mean it, will be hard to guarantee and I don’t want to break a promise to him. The second might be taken as an accusation. And the third is just a little too much to give right now. So instead I crawl across the couch and put my head in his lap.
"I’m going to buy you a goldfish," I tell him.
"When I was little, I had this goldfish, Bob. He was like Robogoldfish. He would not die."
"Yeah?" I ask.
"Yeah. My sister and I even kind-of wanted it to die for a little while. We thought our parents might buy us a dog. But it wouldn’t. We got the dog anyway. My sister brought Bob with her to college."
"That’s the kind of goldfish I’m going to get you."
"Good."
He begins to rub my scalp, pressing his fingers against my skin in just the way he knows that I like. "If you’re tired," I say, "you can just stay here."
"Okay," he agrees.
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