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I also wonder about being his type, person-wise. What does that mean, really? Where does that get us?
Shut up, I tell myself. A nice guy tries to be friendly with me and I immediately think, Why bother? There is something seriously wrong with me. The reason to bother is because he’s a nice guy.
I hit reply, but I don’t know what to write. I feel I need to make an excuse for not writing to him first; I’m sure the piece of paper with his email address on it is still in my pocket. I also want to sound like someone who gets this kind of email all the time.
It’s weird, because the Rhiannon who comes out in what I write doesn’t sound like I normally sound.
She sounds like she’s really enjoying herself.
Nathan!
I’m so glad you emailed, because I lost the slip of paper that I wrote your email on. It was wonderful talking and dancing with you, too. How dare the police break us up! You’re my type, person-wise, too. Even if you don’t believe in relationships that last longer than a year. (I’m not saying you’re wrong, btw. Jury’s still out.)
I never thought I’d say this, but I hope Steve has another party soon. If only so you can bear witness to its evil.
Love,
Rhiannon
I don’t know why I write “Love” like that. It’s just what I always write. Everything else seems cold.
But now I’m worried I sound too eager. Not eager in the same way I’m eager with Justin. Just eager for…whatever’s next.
As soon as I hit send, the emptiness returns. I’m back into the day I was having. Maybe this is what alone really is—finding out how tiny your world is, and not knowing how to get anywhere else.
I go on Facebook. I read Gawker. I watch some music on YouTube, including the Fun. song from the day with Justin, the one Nathan sang back to me. I feel stupid doing that. I know Nathan wouldn’t find it stupid. Somehow I know that. And I know Justin would find it stupid. I asked him once if he thought we had a song. I mean, most couples have a song. But he said he had no idea, and that he didn’t even understand why we’d want one, anyway.
I’d told myself he was right. We didn’t need one. Every song could be ours.
But now I want one. It’s not enough that every song can make me think of him.
I want one, just one, that will make him think of me.
Chapter Six
The hangover hangs over Monday as well.
It’s like his personality has spoiled from lack of use. He’s in school, but he still thinks he’s in bed. I can’t take it personally that he’s not happy to see me, because he’s not happy to see any of us. He won’t say more than two words in any sentence, and after a few minutes I decide to leave him alone.
A lot of our Mondays are like this.
Our Monday at the beach seems like much longer than a week ago.
What is wrong with me?
—
“How was your weekend?” Rebecca asks when I get to third period.
“How wasn’t my weekend?” I reply.
“What does that mean?”
“I don’t know. I just mean that not much happened.”
“How was the party?”
“It was fine. I danced with Steve’s gay cousin. Justin got shitfaced. The cops came.”
