Losing Me, Finding You (35 page)

Excerpt Included!

1

Rick is a perfectly nice guy.

But not for me.

Rick is the kind of guy you can take home to your family, show off, and know that at the end of the day, he'll be there for you. I'm not into guys like Rick. I should be, but I'm not. I think there's something wrong with me. I need a guy like Rick to put me on the straight and narrow, to help me stop doing the things I shouldn't be doing and start doing the things I should.

Right now, my back is to a wall and I'm kissing the neck of a guy I don't know. My therapist says it's because I have 'daddy' issues. Like that's supposed to mean something to me. How can I have daddy issues when I barely knew the prick? He didn't walk out on me and mom like my therapist thinks. She thinks that because I've never told her the truth. My dad died right in front of my eyes, called out my name seconds before the light went out of his face and left him cold. That's all I remember about him. Other than that, my mind is a blank, a series of shadowy pictures without words. They don't make any fucking sense.

The guy I'm kissing unbuttons his pants. I think about telling him to use a condom, but I just don't feel like it. I'm on the pill anyway. He thrusts into me while I'm watching Rick through a crack in the door. He's drinking punch, not alcohol, and smiling with big, wide teeth in a face that's handsome, but not too handsome. Rick's the kind of guy that your friends compliment you on, tell you he's gorgeous, but they never try to sleep with him. The ones they really want, the dangerous ones, the ones with pasts that burn like fire and melt everything around them … Those are the guys that I always seem to fall for. The one I'm having sex with right now is one of those. I don't even know his name.

“I love you,” the guy says over and over, and I roll my eyes. I've heard it before, a hundred times, and I just don't want to hear it anymore. I pretend to have an orgasm, moaning and groaning and scratching his back, and all the while, I'm watching Rick. We have a date tomorrow night that I think I'm going to cancel. I thought maybe I'd take Rick out, see how chivalrous he really was, but tonight, he's wearing khaki pants and a red sweater. I don't date guys like Rick.

The guy I'm fucking finishes and tells me how great I am. Then he disappears and I don't see him again, not that night or any other. I light a cigarette and leave the room before any of the drunken idiots at the party stumble in and find me there with my panties around my ankles. I step out of them and stuff them in my pocket, aware that my skirt is too short and that my ass is hanging out. I just can't seem to find it in myself to care.

“Hey,” Rick says, intercepting me before I can reach the front door. “We still on for tomorrow night?” He looks me up and down, and I can see that he's curious about my disheveled appearance, my mussy hair and my swollen lips, but he doesn't ask about it. I don't think he even gives it a second thought. Rick doesn't know that girls like me exist. He's heard about them on TV, maybe even masturbates to them, but he doesn't really believe that they exist in this world or any other. I really should keep my date with Rick, go out with him, and grow up.

“I can't,” I say, biting my lip seductively and touching his cashmere sweater with a shaking hand. I don't know why it's shaking, but I don't like it, so I pull it back and let it fall to my side. I blow cigarette smoke in Rick's face which is rude, but that I do anyway. There's a monster inside of me, eating little bits of me everyday, and I can't seem to stop it. It makes me do things I don't want to do, say things I don't want to say. It makes me tell Rick that I've got to study for a test that he really believes I have.

I kiss him on the lips and leave an orange-red stain before I walk out the door and down the front steps. People wave at me as I go by and say they'll see me around, but I don't really know who any of them are, so I avoid their stares and their friendly smiles. It's all fake, just a big load of shit that I can't buy into or I'll die. If I ever believe in something again, and it turns out to be false, then not only will my body crumble beneath me, but so will my soul. I'll disintegrate, disappear into the wind and blow away. I'll be nothing. I'll blank out and the energy of who I was will just go away, melt into the ground and come back as something unimportant, like a dandelion or a caterpillar. I can't find it in my heart to care.

I walk back to the dorms because I don't have a car. My roommate isn't home which doesn't surprise me. She's in love with another girl, one that's straight as an arrow. They have sleepovers in her dorm room and 'practice' kissing one another like they're in high school or something. That's fine with me because it means I have the room all to myself, gives me a chance to be alone. I feel most comfortable that way. When you're alone, there's nobody there to hurt you or let you down. It feels too good to have that guarantee of solitude.

I fall on my back on the bed and try to breathe through the tears that come to me unbidden. I don't want them, never asked for them. I couldn't even tell you what I was crying over or why. I just do. Every night, I lay here and I try to find something in myself to live for. Every night, I fail and wonder if I need a guy like Rick to show me the way. But then, I'm a big girl, and a feminist, too, so why do I think a guy could save my soul?

I never thought to wonder if I was looking at it the wrong way, if maybe it wasn't a guy that I was looking for, just a person. And maybe I didn't need them to save my soul, just to give me the other half of it. Maybe that was it?

2

The next morning I wake up and have to force myself out of bed. It's a weekend which makes things so much worse. On days when I have class, I have a purpose, an obligation that I have to fulfill. On weekends, I just wait around for something to happen. Today, my roommate comes home early looking happier than usual. I wonder if she scored with the other chick, but I hope not. If so, then she's setting herself up for failure because that girl, whose name I don't know, is the type that grows up and looks for a guy like Rick. They get married and have babies and think they're happy because that's what people like Rick and this other girl do. They think they're happy because they don't know any better. I do. Not because I know what it's like to be happy, but because I know what it's like to be miserable. If you live your whole life in the darkness, then you don't have any trouble recognizing the light.

“There's a party at one of the frat houses tonight, do you want to go?”

“Which one?” I ask. Lacey, my roommate, doesn't know because she doesn't give a shit about frat houses. She doesn't give a shit about men at all. I wish I was like her. Maybe if I was into girls, I'd have an easier time falling in love with someone that wasn't a complete piece of shit? But then again, Rick isn't a complete piece of shit, and I don't want to fall in love with him either.

Lacey shrugs and takes off her sweater, tossing it over her computer chair.

“It's tonight at six, do you want to go?”

“Any party that starts at six is a party that I'm not interested in,” I tell her as I stand up and stretch. Lacey gives me a weird look, and I notice that my skirt's ridden up a bit. I push it down and gather up some clothes. I feel disgusting. I didn't change last night, and I can feel that guy's sweat all over me.

“Come with me, please,” Lacey begs, and I know she's afraid to go alone because her girlfriend might ignore her and run off with some frat boy. It's happened before. “I'll give you twenty bucks.”

“Keep your money,” I tell her as I grab a towel and the basket that holds my shampoo. “I'll go, okay? I'll meet you here tonight.”

“Five thirty,” Lacey says to me with a smile as she brushes a comb through her pretty, blonde hair. “I don't want to be late.” I try not to roll my eyes and tell her that nobody gives a fuck if you're late to a frat party.

“Sure,” I say as I leave the room in a hurry, rushing to get to the bathroom before everyone else does. There's this communal atmosphere that descends over the room when there's more than three girls in the bathroom at one time. I don't understand it, and it makes me uncomfortable. I never join in the conversation and have to use the stall at the very end, the one with the broken faucet, so I don't have to look at them looking at me and wondering what the hell is wrong.

I get to the bathroom just in time and manage to shower, get dressed, and put on makeup before anybody else comes in. When they do, they're all wearing blue and yellow face paint and talking about
the game.
I don't know if it's football or basketball or baseball, but what I do know is that it's an integral part of their lives that I don't understand. I leave as quickly as I can and head back to my room, toss my stuff on the floor next to my bed, and stand there for a very, very long time.

When I spy the book on the desk next to my bed, I feel a sense of relief. Reading. I can get lost in a world and spend days there. Besides, reading a book gives me a goal. It's that sense of purpose that puts a temporary bandage over my uncertainty and lets me waste away the rest of the day without anymore negative thoughts.

Written in the Stars

Jennifer Martinez

Excerpt Included!

fate (ft) n.

1.

a. The supposed force, principle, or power that predetermines events.

b. The inevitable events predestined by this force.

I've never been a believer in “fate.” I grew up with a strong willed mom who instilled in me, from a very young age, that I could do anything I want. Throughout my life what I wanted changed quite a few times. When I was seven, I wanted to be a star soccer player for Team USA. At eleven, I wanted to be an Olympic gymnast. Come high school, an environmental lawyer. I prided myself on never being a girl who needed a guy. I remember in high school I laughed at the girls fussing over prom dates when all I cared about was the lives of the chickens our cafeteria turned into chicken fries.

Sometime between high school and college, my goals changed again. I wanted to be a philanthropic housewife. Marry rich and use his money for the betterment of society. That was my first mistake. I still wanted to be an environmental lawyer, but the long term plan was to find that perfect someone, move into a big house with a white picket fence and have my two point five children. After dropping them off at school, I would go to the museum where I would be a committee member and work on getting art into the inner city.

The problem with this plan was that I now needed a guy, man, whatever. I needed someone who would treat me right and had a good head on his shoulders. Just because I no longer wanted a typical career didn't mean I was going to bend over for just anyone. This is my story to all young women. The story about kissing a few frogs before I found my prince and how I didn't even see it coming.

Chapter 1

Curtis

Curtis was my first hope for my American dream. He was perfect! He was a few years older than me but we worked together at Macy's. I will never forget the first time he talked to me. I was only eighteen and yea, I had totally scoped him out and deemed him out of my reach. He was a perfect Southern gentleman. Thin, but toned with years of hard work etched into the lines on his hands. He has a slight Southern drawl and chestnut brown hair that curled into perfect ringlets at the base of his neck. He was kind and gentle to everyone and to this day, I still don't believe he has a bad bone in his body. I was focused on my Calculus one homework, fighting with the fact that I had to learn the manual steps to the equation when it was easier to press two buttons on my hand painted TI-89 calculator for the right answer. He must have seen my frustration because he walked over and plopped unceremoniously down on the bench to my left. He had an unopened bag of Cheetos in his hand and leaned over my arm to see what was frustrating me.

I was so lost in the light musky scent of his cologne and the fresh lavender smell of those perfect brown curls, I didn't even hear him the first time he asked me what I was having trouble with. It wasn't until those perfect, soul searching brown eyes of his made contact with mine that I even realized he had said something. I finally snapped back to reality and told him about my horrid bout with manual mathematical labor. He chuckled as he scooted a few inches closer to me and said, “Here, let me see if I can help. I love math.” Yep, he just got even more attractive. I tried to stop the flutter of a million butterflies wreaking havoc on my abdomen as I smiled and said, “Thanks. I'm MacKinzie.”

“It's a pleasure to meet you MacKinzie; I'm Curtis.” he replied. He was genuinely kind about it. You could tell he had no ulterior motive but to help rid me of my hate of calculus.

My one hour lunch break flew by with Curtis explaining to me exactly why numbers meant letters and vice versa. This was a teacher I actually enjoyed. I went back to work with my head swimming with exponents, variables and perfect curls. Every day for the next month, he would help me on our lunch breaks and my grade drastically improved. Every once in a while, I would glance over at him while we talked about math, the migration of great whites and stained glass. And I would think for just a second, that I saw a hint of something more in his eyes than just a friendly look; it was a longing. I would spend my nights staring at the ceiling of my studio apartment, hugging a pillow, daydreaming about my calculus Romeo and how one day, he would finally kiss me. And in that moment, I would finally know we were meant to be.