The Weekend Pt. 02

You almost say something, and then you don't. Instead, you start driving again and pull into the parking lot of my work. Then you turn off the engine and look at me. You tell me the reason you signed up was so you could get a better job. Something that paid better than the job you had changing oil all day at a shitty car dealership. Something that could pay enough money to take care of the girl you saw carrying a bag of garbage that was almost as big as she was. So she could have something better.

I can feel my eyes stinging when you finish. I fling myself at you, smothering you with kisses while I rain tears. In my overwrought state, I finally say that I love you. I tell you I love you so much and you're making me crazy. You chuckle breathlessly; you ask just how crazy am I? My answer is you need to drive somewhere quick because I don't want to have sex in the parking lot of my work.

You drive past the run-down strip mall and head towards some larger industrial buildings. You park in the darkness of a fenced off lot, one that looks abandoned with a few junkers left to rust. In the very corner, backed in so that your headlights face out, we come to a stop. You take off your shirt while I take off my dress, until I'm completely naked in your car. I don't care anymore if someone sees me. I don't care if I'm being indecent when I ride your lap with my breasts in your hands. I want to make love to the man who sees me for who I am, and I want him to see everything. The man who kisses me all over and tells me I'm beautiful, making me his as I lose myself in his pleasure.

As awkward and uncomfortable as it was in the backseat, it was our paradise. I remember the steamy smell of our bodies, the air thick with our sweat. I remember clinging to you, coming down from the rush of orgasm, and hearing you whisper something. You loved me. I think that's what you said, but I'm too afraid to question it. I just want to believe it. To hear you say the only thing that will get me through this waiting.

*****

I wrote to you every week, and you wrote back, but they dwindle in frequency as time goes by. Your letters are more about your training than about you; you're excited to be almost done. After two months of this, I got the letter that made my heart sink. You are going overseas for deployment. The country didn't matter as much as knowing that wherever it was, it would be far away. And you'll be gone for 12 months. I have no idea how I will endure this, or how we will endure this. My heart says I can wait for you, but my mind is more skeptical. I need to know what you want, I need to talk about this.

I was nearing the finish line with my own schooling, and was looking at apartments with a friend from my class. She was ready to sign the lease after we toured a small complex with a swimming pool, but I was waiting to hear from you. You were supposed to call me, a last goodbye before your flight left early the next morning. It's nearly 9:00 pm when you call. You sound like you've been drinking. There isn't much to tell as you didn't tell me much; you keep snickering and I can hear rowdy male voices partying in the background. The call ends when I say I love you, and you grunt an undecipherable response. Like you don't want someone to overhear you saying it.

I nearly threw my phone across the room. I swear at you and ask why am I such an idiot. My childhood bedroom witnesses my tantrum, and when I'm done weeping and cursing, I realize I need to grow up. You were my adolescent fantasy, and now you've outgrown me. You're leaving me behind to go be a solider, the grown-up version of you. You don't need me pining after you. I can't wait for you anymore, I can't put my plans on hold any longer. It's time to start my own life.

My friend and I sign the lease on the apartment, and together we move into the little poverty pad, as we call it. We both graduate from cosmetology school and get jobs. I'm working full-time at the salon I used to be the receptionist for. I'm saving money to buy a car. I feel self-sufficient. But I still miss you, even though I try not to think about you. I tell myself that you started a new life, and that's what you're focused on. That's what you care about. You don't know how to care about me; you don't know how to do both things.

I tepidly go out with a few guys. Men that have seen me at a bar and really only want one thing. I make out with one of them, a guy cute enough to spark some attraction, but kissing him does nothing for me. His fondling of my breasts awakens longings that my body is hungry for, but I don't want some random man from a bar. I want you. The men are always dismissive when I turn them down at the end of the night. The fondling one calls me a tease and a few other names. After that, I decide to try a dating app. I create a profile, but don't activate it.

*****

Some months later, I get a letter from you. It's addressed to my mom's apartment, but surprisingly, she gives it to me. It's nearly 4 pages long, double-sided. The paper is dirty and smells like exhaust. You tell me you're in Afghanistan. You tell me it's hot, that you're always covered in dust. You say how the men make jokes when they walk through minefields. You say you've seen things you can't tell me about. Then you apologize for our last phone call. You were drunk and being stupid. It was killing you to say goodbye to me, so you tried to avoid it. And you only made it worse. You miss my laugh. You miss seeing me smile. It's probably too much to ask, but you would like to have a photo of me. If I am even willing to write you back.

I read the letter over and over. It's the most verbose you've ever been, the most honest. Except I notice that you don't sign it with anything other than your name. No closing of "Love You" or even "Love"; just your name scribbled at the bottom of the last page. I go to sleep debating how I should respond. Still in my thoughts, I dream of you. It's the version of us I want: together at some place we live, a nondescript house, in your arms lounging in bed. I wake up with an ache so deep in my heart, a pain cleaving through my chest. But my head is still unsure, I don't know how long I should wait for you. If I can wait for you.

Ultimately, I write you back. Pleasant and cordial, but I don't profess things. I tell you if you want a photo, you will need to keep writing to me at my new address. And you do. You write of your more mundane on-goings and the hijinks of fellow marines, also trying to be pleasant and cordial. And then you write that you dreamt about me and our "first date at the pier". Technically, our first date was at the coffee shop, our second date was at the pier. But I can understand the mistake because I think you are implying what occurred on our second date. A memory I blush at, even though you are thousands of miles away.

I get two more letters before they stop coming. I've been writing you back, and I sent you a photo with my latest hair color. The last letter I get doesn't mention my letters or photo, and I'm unsure if you've gotten them. It's nearing Thanksgiving when I start having nightmares. Horrible visions of you being hurt, or killed. I wake up shaking and rattled, I go to work unable to focus. I badly screw up a client's hair and have to comp her for the unwanted result.

It's two days before Christmas when I get a call from your brother. I don't recognize his mumbling voice at first. When he says your name, I understand. You've been flown to a hospital in Germany, and once you're stable, you'll be coming back to Walter Reed. I always wondered how he got my phone number until you later explained that you made him promise to call me if anything happened to you.

I'm ready to pack my bags and head to the airport, but the astronomical price of international flights stops me. Then I spend hours on the phone with various people in various levels of military supervision, demanding information. I'm not your wife or next of kin, so there's nothing for me. I rage and cry, angry at all of this, angry at you, and then angrier with myself. I love you. But I can't take this. I can't stand this separation when we aren't even really together. How am I supposed to grieve the boy that wasn't even my boyfriend anymore?

I wait till after the New Year, and call your brother for an update. It turns out he is moving up north to Sacramento for a job. He's selling the house and asks if I want to buy your car, otherwise he's going to donate it to charity if he can't find a buyer. You're barely a mention in these plans, the whole reason I called him. He tells me in his monotone mumble that you will be stateside in two weeks, and you "might not be ready for visitors". I ask why? He won't explain, but tells me if I want anything to come by this weekend.

I withdraw the cash I've saved for purchasing my own meager car, and take the bus to your brother's place. When I get to his house, your brother is selling your bedroom furniture. I ask about your car. He gives me a funny look with his bushy dark eyebrows that I decide is embarrassment. He already sold it. I'm furious at him and demand to know who he sold it to. The blond wife lumbers out with a semi-large belly, hearing my raised voice, and tells your brother she warned him not to sell it. She kept the name of the buyer, some older man from down the block. She thinks he's into old cars, but maybe if I tell him why I want the car, he'll sell it back to me.

The man is nice at first, but he really likes your car. He says it has a "good feel". He wants more money than he even paid for it. I tell him how the real owner in the hospital and he almost died in combat. He falsely sympathizes, but doesn't offer to change the price that I can't possibly afford. I get frustrated and explain the car is really special to you, and to me. Unmoved by this, I then tell him I lost my virginity in this car so if he really wants to keep it, he should probably wipe off the backseat with bleach. The man is shocked and tells me he's sorry, but unless I've got the money, I should leave. I tell him to go fuck himself and I hope he enjoys a cum-stained car. I know you love this story and you love telling it to people, but I still get angry thinking about that old asshole.

I buy my plane ticket to Washington DC, and I tell everyone at work that I will be gone for a week. When I get to the hospital, your arms and legs are covered in bandages. The left side of your face is still swollen with bruises and cuts, your left arm is suspended in metal rigging that goes below your skin. Unfortunately, your brother was right. You are not happy to see me. You don't want me to see you like this, even as I cry because I'm so relieved that you are alive. You joke with a hollow chuckle that "you're one of the lucky ones." An explosion blasted your APC into the air. Three members of your unit are dead. I let you tell me as much as you want, I try to just listen. You ask about me, and also listen.

I get you to laugh with the story of your car, and but then you grow quiet when I say how much I loved that old relic. I didn't care if it didn't run anymore or its paint was peeling off. I loved it because of what it meant to me. You swallow away your tears and you tell me how sweet I was to try to buy it back.

The next day I come back as the doctors are discussing your physical therapy. You are eager to get back to active duty; you ask how much longer will it take. I'm confused. You want to go back?

I listen to your explanation: you're not done with your tour, you won't get the upgrade in pay if you don't go back to active duty. But really, you want to go back. You don't want to quit after being knocked down. It's not who you are. And I know this. I've always known this. Something in you needs to prove you can take the punches life has given you. To prove you are better than the squalid neighborhood we were born into.

You can see I'm disappointed. But you also seem confused yourself. You sidestep the obvious question, and make cracks about the men waiting for me back home. I tell you there isn't anyone waiting for me. The doubt is on your face as you glance down at your bandaged arms. You can't believe that I've waited for you, that I would still want you. And something in me agrees. A resentment that has been waiting for you to say something more in those letters, to reassure me no matter how far away you are.

I get ready to leave; to say goodbye for what may be the last time I ever see you. I know you won't say you love me because it's too painful. I can't say it either, but I give you a very long hug before I leave. I whisper into your ear that I miss you. And "you know where to find me", if you ever decide you miss me.

After I get home, we trade texts for a while, but they are cryptically vague. You're doing physical therapy and "getting better". I try to be supportive, I say you can call me anytime. I want you to call me. But you don't. The texts eventually stop and I grieve you all over again. I don't know why I let myself feel this way. We aren't anything anymore. You can barely be yourself, let alone my boyfriend, or anything remotely like it.

I learn through your sister-in-law that you have gone back to Afghanistan. She stayed in contact with me through social media, sending me photos of your baby niece. I think she wants us to be together, that she and I could make you and your brother be a family. I know she means well, and I try to humor her. But I tell her that you don't call me, you don't even write me. She says you're like most boys, you want to run off to chase danger. Really, you want to run from yourself. You want to run away from me.

*****

I activate my profile on the dating app. I'm bombarded with supposed matches and messages. A few of the men seem somewhat normal and attractive. I pick a man with blond hair and clear blue eyes. He looks trustworthy and kind. His profile doesn't brag about things that sound like lies. We go on a coffee date and he makes me laugh. We go on another date and he tells me I have the prettiest smile. He doesn't try to kiss me or make any move until our 3^rd date. I think I can try this, I think I need to see what another man is like. For the first time in my life, I sleep with a man besides you.

He is patient and careful with me; he asks if he's doing what I like or if it feels good. He's so talkative that I'm a little annoyed. I'm not used to the asking and checking. I just want to be connected to someone. The sex is good, it's pleasurable. But it is not you. I try to temper my expectations and we keep seeing each other.

I start working at a new salon, and I start looking for a house. My dating app guy is steadily seeing me. We go on a date every weekend. He takes me on a trip to San Francisco. We post photos together; I introduce him to my mom. He does everything a boyfriend should. I'm the closest thing to happy since you went away.

I find a tiny house just north of my work. Only a 20 minute commute. A nice neighborhood, a good school district. I can barely afford the mortgage, so I start leasing another chair at a second salon. I work six days a week. My new guy asks to help. We could live together, share the cost. He'd sell his condo and move in with me. I tell him I need to think about it.

One day I get a call from an old coworker from my first job, the salon in the strip mall. Our old boss has died of cancer. We chat over old times and commiserate over our shared careers. She asks me about you, whatever happened to the cute boy who kept bringing me gifts. I tell her he went off to be a solider and never came back. She's shocked by my glib sarcasm. I'm shocked too. I still angry, I'm still hurt.

When I get off the phone, I look for you online. Unsurprisingly, you have no social media accounts. I go to your sister-in-law's profile, and she's posted photos from your niece's latest birthday. She just turned one. That means it's been a year since I last saw you.

I move into my new house. The dating app boyfriend sells his place, and moves in with me. The new boyfriend. The only other serious man in my life besides you. I meet his family at the holidays. They have alot of questions for me, his mother gives me the once-over with a tight smile. Everything she says sounds like a back-handed insult. My hair is so... colorful. My outfits are so... bohemian. I could dress like a school teacher but my large breasts imply I am not to be trusted.

Feeling that I should be someone better, that I can prove I'm more than a cheap hair stylist, I go back to school. Online classes through the community college, to get that coveted business degree so I can maybe run my own salon. Maybe work my way into something that won't keep me on my feet 12 hours at a time. My boyfriend is very supportive of this, telling everyone how proud he is of me working and putting myself through school. I wonder how proud of me he was before this.

Then I'm pregnant. Not intended, but not unwanted- at least, for me. My boyfriend isn't thrilled. I can see his worry and his concerns. How will I work, how will I juggle school? I don't really get paid maternity leave when I'm essentially self-employed. But I manage. I throw up in the bathroom at my work and I do homework while I'm waiting to get an ultrasound. My mom wants to throw me a baby shower but I don't have time.

I think of you while I'm being wheeled into the delivery room. I think of your hospital room and how you tried to hide your pain as I'm wracked with agony. I try to push but the baby is breeched; I will need a C-section. As they put me to sleep, I am terrified. I think of you again. I think of what if I die this way? What if you are the one that lives after being blown up on a battlefield and I die in surgery? Would you come to my funeral? Could they find you wherever you are and tell you what happened.

I wake up to see my boyfriend holding my son. I hear him furtively asking the nurse about a paternity test. We have already discussed this. I've already told him I wasn't seeing someone else. But he still doesn't believe me. The seeds of distrust before I've even betrayed him.

Being a mom is the hardest thing I've ever done. I go back to work in three weeks. I'm pumping in between clients, I'm leaking out when someone else's baby cries. My boyfriend is busy with his job and has to be gone for some business trips. My mom comes over to help, but she is more of a well-meaning nuisance than assistance. I cry alone in the bathroom when I'm too exhausted from being up all night with a crying baby.

Your sister-in-law contacts me to say congratulations on the baby. She is coming down to visit her parents and wants to stop in to say hi. I take back all my criticisms of her meek ways when she sweeps in with solid advice and her lack of judgement on my state of household. She stays for a week and is a true godsend while my boyfriend is gone. She tactfully asks about him, and I tactfully ask her about you. The war on terror is still going, and you are still overseas. I get some satisfaction knowing that you had asked her about me. I tell her to share the truth: I'm with someone else, I just had a baby.

The lie is that she, and everyone else, thinks I'm happy. My boyfriend isn't enjoying fatherhood, he's barely tolerating it. He is critical of just about everything I do. Why did I let the baby sleep with me? Didn't I know they don't recommend that? Why don't I try the teething tablets his mom swears by? The little criticisms that chip away at my fragile confidence of being a new mom.

*****

This is the era that seems like a blur. I'm finishing up school, still working at two salons, taking care of my son and taking care of my mom who can't drive anymore because her vision is going. I vaguely have time to worry about you amid desperately trying to toilet-train a toddler so I can get my son into preschool. My boyfriend is distantly affectionate. I'm trying to keep his interest; I'm dieting to lose the baby weight, I'm arranging time away for us to be intimate. I'm so busy trying to do all these things, that I can't realize how unhappy I am.