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I never knew there could be so much ecstasy in fear.
He’s been avoiding me for a week. More than a week. Nine days.
At first I didn’t realize. I was too wrapped up in my brain fog of what-the-heck-happened, and then I went out to brunch with my dad, who wanted to talk about My Future. Only now the conversation was more awkward than ever, because part of me was happily nodding along, thinking, Yes! I’m going to get a great internship this summer, but I also had to contend with the chorus of Internet Asshats saying, Not with your cunt online!
And, meanwhile, the new, completely West-centric part of my brain was busy squeeing, I got stoned and made out with West on the roof—O-M-effing-G.
All of which means that I missed a lot of cues, said weird things, and got frowned at by my dad, who didn’t understand why I’d turned into such a freak.
I drove back to school on Sunday afternoon and sent West a text when I arrived. He wrote back, Cool.
Cool.
Who even says cool?
I don’t know, but I told myself maybe it was good that he didn’t seem too enthused to see me. We probably needed some time apart, a few days to sort through what that … that episode on the roof meant. And since I’d just had a serious talk with my dad, I’ll admit, I figured I could use a little space from West, to think about what I was doing.
Author: Robin York
I watched a lot of TV and bad movies with Bridget. I went to Quinn’s room with Krishna and split two six-packs and laughed at Harold & Kumar.
I didn’t think about what I was doing.
I didn’t go to the bakery, either. I would have on Tuesday night, but West usually texts to ask if he’s going to see me, and he didn’t. So I didn’t. I slept instead. Straight through the night, like a normal person.
I did it again Wednesday night.
Thursday I sent him four texts, but he didn’t answer them.
Friday I sent him a fifth. WTF, West?
He wrote back three hours later. Sorry. Busy.
Saturday, Sunday—nothing. I went to rugby practice and accomplished my first really great tackle. I hung out with Quinn and Bridget after. I asked Quinn if she’d seen West since break, and she said, “Yeah, why?”
No reason.
By Monday, though, all the stuff I didn’t want to think about was making its existence known. I was starting to feel shitty. The Asshat Chorus was getting loud.
You knew when you invited him over, the men said. You knew when you had him bring the weed. You wanted him to fuck you on top of that roof.
Did I? I can’t remember. I can’t decide. Everything seems so murky.
That night, I broke down and told Bridget what had happened, and she got so pissed at West.
“He can’t treat you like that! It’s not right!”
She convinced me to call him. I left an angry voice mail. I texted again, demanding he get in touch with me. Bridget grabbed my phone out of my hand and called him a “fucker,” which I then apologized for, but he still didn’t text me back.
I couldn’t sleep after that. Bridget snored softly in her bunk above me, and I pulled out my phone and wrote: I feel terrible about what happened on the roof.
I feel dirty.
I feel ashamed.
Why aren’t you talking to me?
In the morning, I wished I could take those texts back. Overdramatic much, Caroline?
