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A is going to leave me. A will never be mine. A will never be able to be a normal part of my life.
Justin is here. Justin loves me. Justin is a part of me. I cannot ignore that.
He is angry, but he is angry because he’s confused, because I’m making him miserable. He knows something is off. He knows me well enough to know that.
He is not making things up. I am really doing this to him.
Which is why I have to stop.
Which is why I have to fix it.
—
He doesn’t seem surprised to find me at his locker at the end of the day.
“I know I’ve been out of it,” I say before he can dismiss me. “I know I haven’t been paying attention a hundred percent. That has nothing to do with you, I swear. And I’m grateful to you for calling me on it, because sometimes I’m so out of it I don’t even realize I’m out of it, you know? But I’m back. I’m here now. I want to know what’s going on with you. I want to be a part of it. I want us to take as much time as we need to get back on track.”
“It’s fine,” he says.
I watch as he puts his books in his locker. The back of his neck taunts me. His shoulders draw me in.
“Do you want to do something?” I ask.
He closes the locker. Turns back to me.
“Sure,” he says. And in his eyes, in his voice—I sense it.
Relief.
—
I ask him where he wants to go.
He says his house.
—
I know makeup sex is supposed to mean making it up to each other after having a fight. But right now I feel like it’s makeup sex because I’m making it all up. I have transformed myself into such a devoted, pretend girl that even I can believe the imitation is real. I know actions speak loudly to Justin, and he is speaking loudly back. I am grateful for the communication, for the way the intensity makes my body feel. But my mind is in another room.
In the heat of it, in the rush of it, he feels safe enough to say, “Don’t leave me.”
And I promise. I recognize how vulnerable he is, and I swear.
—
Afterward, I ask him about his shit day yesterday, and he barely remembers why it was so bad. Just the usual reasons, and the weight of them feeling so usual. He doesn’t mention me with another guy, and I don’t find it underneath his words, either. I think I’m in the clear.
He asks me to stay for dinner. I call my mother, who seems irritated but doesn’t say no. Justin’s mother also seems irritated when she comes home and Justin tells her I’m staying—but that irritation is directed at him, not me. I tell her I don’t have to stay, that I know it’s last-minute, but she says she’s happy to have me here, and that it’s been too long since she’s seen me. When Justin and I first started dating, she treated me like this stray he’d picked up. Now that we’ve been dating awhile, I’ve been upgraded to pet status—part of the family, but not really a member.
Justin’s father likes me more, or at least wants more for me to like him. He manages to come home exactly five minutes before dinner is ready, then acts like he’s at the head of the table even though the table is square. Justin and I are perpendicular, and we answer his father’s questions like it’s a joint interview. Our bland answers about school and homework go unchallenged by his bland responses. I risk asking about Justin’s grandmother, and am told she’s doing as well as can be expected. Everyone tenses up, so I change the subject and compliment the food. Justin’s mom tells me she’s sorry that there won’t be enough for seconds, since she wasn’t planning on cooking for four.
In the beginning, I’d wanted Justin’s house to become my second house, and Justin’s family to become my second family. But I only made it halfway. This makes sense, because Justin barely wants his family for himself. Part of me was disappointed that my second chance at a decent mom fell short. But mostly I decided to claim the absence in Justin’s life. I can remember thinking that if he didn’t feel like he had a family, I would be his family. If he didn’t feel like he had a home, I would make our space together a home. I believed love could do this. I believed this was what love was for.
Now I’m not sure what we have. What kind of family we are. I used to imagine us in the future—getting married, having kids—and then play it backward until it reached us now. But I haven’t done that in a while.
Justin is uncomfortable all through dinner. And I know I am the comfortable part—I know that I am the person at the table who brings him the most happiness, who he feels closest to. When dinner’s over and I’ve helped his mother do the dishes, I find him back in his room, playing a video game. He pauses it when I come in, then pats the space next to him, beckoning me over.
“Sorry to put you through all that,” he says, kissing me.
