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if you dated someone,” she admits.
Her words take me by surprise, and as I mull them over, something shifts in my reasoning. I guess I saw that from the beginning of the small almost-catfight that she was annoyed I was with Nora, but for some reason I thought she was more upset because I’d lied to her about what I was doing tonight. That she would feel weird at seeing me with someone—even though I’m really not with anyone—wasn’t the first thing on my mind, given everything. She broke up with me over six months ago and has barely given me the time of day since.
Part of me wants to shout at her, Where’s the logic in that!? but another part reminds me that she must feel that she’s justified in some way. I do my best to try to see it from her side before I say anything or react because I know that if I do speak right now, my words will do more damage than good. Especially if I’m only thinking of my point of view. Of myself. Still, I’m mad, too. She thinks after six months that she can yell at me for dating someone who I’m not even dating? I want to tell her that, tell her that she’s wrong—and I’m right—and I’m pissed, too! But that’s the problem with this type of quick anger: discharging it would make me feel better for a few moments, but then I’ll feel like crap after. Anger doesn’t often offer a solution, it only creates more problems.
Still, part of me wants to say something. I take a big drink of water instead.
I know anger.
The type of anger that I know isn’t some small thing that pops up when you see your ex of six months hanging out with someone else. My experience with anger isn’t getting pissed off because your neighbor drove his car into yours. The anger that I know cuts at you when you’re watching your best friend get his eye split open because his dad heard someone down at the bar whispering about him looking at another boy just a beat too long.
The anger that I know seeps inside of you and turns you into lava, burning slowly as it rolls down the hills and covers the town. It’s when your friend’s bruises are in the shape of knuckles and you can’t do shit about it without causing more destruction.
When you’ve been host to that type of anger, it’s very, very hard to fly off the handle over small things. I’ve never been one to add fuel to a fire. I’ve been the water, extinguishing the flames, the salve to heal the burns.
Little problems come and go, and I have always avoided confrontation at all costs, but sometimes things become too much to bear or too big to ignore. I’m terrible at fighting, I can’t keep an argument going to save my life. My mom always said I was born with a gift: an enormous amount of empathy. And that it could quickly become a fault instead of a virtue.
I can’t help it . . . I can’t stand to see other people suffer, even if holding back causes suffering to me.
I’m struggling to understand Dakota’s anger when she finally breaks the silence.
“I’m not saying you can’t date,” she says.
I sit down on the arm of the couch farther away from her.
“Just not so soon. I’m not ready for you to date,” she adds, and takes a long drink of water.
Soon?It’s been six months.
I can tell by her expression that Dakota’s completely serious, and I don’t know if I should call her out on it, or just let it blow over. She’s pretty drunk, and I know how stressed she’s been lately with her academy and all. I’m smart enough to pick and choose my battles, and I don’t feel strongly enough about this one to let it snowball into a full-fledged war.
What she’s asking of me isn’t remotely fair, and I’m frustrated by how easily I’ve let myself slide into this passive role again. I’m enabling her . . . but is it really that bad? We are communicating. No one is yelling. No one is losing their cool. I want to keep this going. If she’s handing out secrets, I’ll take a few.
“And when will you be ready for me to date?” I ask softly.
She sits up straight, immediately defensive. I knew she would be. I stare at her, my eyes telling her that there’s nothing to be upset about, we’re only talking. No judging here.
Her shoulders relax.
“I don’t know. I haven’t really thought about it.” She shrugs. “I assumed it would take you longer to get over me.”
“Get over you?” I ask, worried for this woman’s sanity. What would have given her the assumption that I could get over her? My kiss with Nora? It’s not like this girl before me even gave me a choice about getting over her.
