30 Guys in 30 Days (18 page)

“In the lobby,” he said. “We missed it when we came in. And it’s Hershey’s, not that second-rate generic brand that you hate. I made sure to double check.”

“That’s awfully conscientious of you,” Gabe said, sniffing.

“Sean, have you met Gabe?” I asked, turning from one to the other like a
deranged social coordinator. What the hell was wrong with me? I was introducing a friend to my boyfriend. No big. “Gabe Flynn, Sean Brightman. Gabe is the arts editor—”

“Right, for the
Chronicle!”
Sean finished, excited. “Man, I
love
your column!”

“Yeah, thanks.”

Sean threw an arm over my shoulder and gave it a squeeze. “Claudia is always saying how she owes the whole journalism thing to you. That’s really cool.”

“Well, uh, Claudia’s a great writer,” Gabe mumbled.

The room felt thick and hot, and Gabe’s face was growing red and sweaty. Meanwhile, Sean still had his arm wrapped around me, hugging away happily. Was the punch spiked? I set it down on the table.

“You know,” Gabe said, echoing my thoughts, “I think—I’m getting kind of hot.”

“Probably the leather,” Sean suggested rather pragmatically, pointing at Gabe’s pants.

“Yeah, uh, I think I’m gonna get some punch.” He ran his fingers through his
hair, only to shower himself in the spray-on bleached-blond effect he’d somehow managed.

“But the punch is right here,” Sean pointed out mildly.

“Right. I meant some fresh air. That’s what I need,” Gabe said. He reached to run his fingers through his hair again, then remembered the spray. He dropped his hand to his side awkwardly. “I’ll see you in a few?”

“Sure,” Sean said, still with the pleasant smile. “We’ll be here!”

But we didn’t see him again for the rest of the night.

I never did get to the bottom of Gabe’s behavior at the party. Maybe he
was
suffering from heat exhaustion. Who knew? I mean, the kid was working part-time in addition to his responsibilities at the paper. Not to mention his actual classes. I had no idea what courses he was taking other than pop culture, or how he was doing in them. Or maybe he had some form of low-level bipolar disorder. I mean, how well did I really know him, after all?

Not very. Not very well at all. And meanwhile, a month into our relationship and Sean and I were still going strong. Just yesterday he had used the
B
word for the very first time. As in:

“No, let me get this.”

“Why, Sean, you shouldn’t—”

“Claudia, will you let your boyfriend pay for your fries, please?”

Which was, of course, enough to shut me up.

The other thing I never got to the bottom of was my strange mood on the night of the West Hall Halloween party. But I decided to chalk it up to free-floating PMS or something. I mean, everything was cool with Sean. Charlie and Ellen both approved. I was writing for the paper, I was passing comp sci, and all in all, life was good.

So why was I so hung up on Gabe’s personality issue?

I wasn’t, I decided. I wasn’t at all. I was 120 percent over Gabe—had been since the night at the roller disco. Had been since “target practice” began. Sean was the one.

But there was something I hadn’t told anyone. Something so insignificant that I couldn’t imagine telling anyone; it almost didn’t even bear mentioning. Silly, even. I had no idea why I was still thinking about it.

See, Sunday night, the night after the West Hall Halloween party, had been my one-month anniversary with Sean. And I was pleased to discover that, on the subject of anniversaries, he was almost as much of a girly-girl as I was. He insisted that we return to the site of our first date: the sushi restaurant he loved over in the theater district. It was perfect. We took a private booth, kicked our shoes off, and cozied up, playing footsie inside the well. We shared edamame and drank sake like it was going out of style. There were toasts aplenty, to first semesters, to first encounters, to lost Internet connections….

Where was the bad?

After dinner, Sean walked me home. I had an early meeting with a study group on Sunday, but I promised him I’d come by as soon as it was over. He was totally understanding and didn’t pressure me at all to come back to his dorm. We stood outside
of the front door to my dorm, arms circling each other’s waists.

“Thanks so much for tonight,” I said.

“Anytime,” he said. “And I hope there will be lots of other times in our future. Anniversary times,” he said, reaching out and smoothing an errant strand of hair from my face.

“Me too,” I agreed, sighing happily. “I’m sorry I have to cut our night short.”

“Not a problem, sweetie. You’ll just have to come by first thing tomorrow when you’re done studying.”

“Of course, I said I would. We’re meeting so early, you’ll definitely still be in bed by the time I’m done. I’ll bring coffee and bagels.”

He took my face in both hands. “I can’t wait.” He leaned forward and kissed me on the forehead. “Be good, Bee,” he said.

And then he left.

It was a cute moment. Sweet, even. Endearing. What with the forehead kiss and all. And yet, for some reason, that tiny, insignificant phrase left me with a nagging feeling in the pit of my stomach. I couldn’t figure out why. So there were two things on
my mind: my boyfriend’s term of endearment, and Gabe’s abrupt shift in personality. Neither one really should have caused me so much angst. But they both did. Were still. And I couldn’t put my finger on why.

The whole thing was driving me crazy.

By Thursday I wasn’t feeling any better. In fact, the small nagging feeling gnawing at the lining of my stomach had progressed to a fullblown preoccupation that was interfering with just about all of my basic day-to-day tasks. That morning, I had e-mailed my bio assignment to my history professor, and vice versa, and had nearly brushed my teeth with Charlies hair gel that night. When I finally climbed into bed, I lay, eyes wide open, contemplating the ceiling for what felt like hours.

“Be good, Bee.”

Sean had said that, and had kissed me on the forehead, every time we’d parted company since Saturday. And for some
reason it was grating on me like nails on a chalkboard. Meanwhile, Gabe and I were studiously avoiding each other in pop culture, and I hadn’t been down to the paper once since turning in the West Hall piece.

I glanced at the clock: 1:02. Great. I could only imagine how much fun my morning classes were going to be. But sleep wasn’t coming anytime soon, so there was no point in lying in bed. I hauled myself up and padded over to my computer. Fortunately, Charlie was out on some Anu-related errand, so I didn’t have to worry about disturbing her. I opened my e-mail in-box and began sifting through and cleaning it out. The task felt tidy and productive, a means of sorting out my emotional clutter as much as anything else.

I hadn’t done an e-mail purge since school had started nearly two months ago. I don’t know what I’d been expecting to find. I skimmed through e-mails from Ellen bitching about Daria’s mood swings and the need for better organic produce down at Bryn Mawr. I noticed with some guilt that I hadn’t written to my parents nearly as often as I’d meant to.

And suddenly, there it was, in big block letters. And old e-mail from Drew. His first to me at school. Seeing Drew’s name and address pop up on my screen hit me like a sucker punch. I was winded. Knowing full well that this verged on Very Bad Idea territory, I opened up the e-mail.

Hi, Bee—

All moved in. Completely exhausted. Wondering if consuming the contents of an entire six-pack of beer on my own was such a fabulous idea.

Never a good idea. I was now in a position to speak authoritatively on the subject.

College! Crazy, right? I can hardly believe four years have passed since we first met. I know I’ve said it before, but I am so thankful that you found me and, uh,
encouraged
(let’s be honest here—forced) me to join the newspaper. And then, you know,
encouraged
me to ask you out.

I’m feeling a little nostalgic, my dear.

Bee good, Bee (hardy har har) and have an excellent first day. Keep in touch, but
don’t feel like you
have
to write me back ASAP. I get the independence thing.

He was right; even sober, the nostalgia factor was high. But that wasn’t what struck me. I paused, and reread the last paragraph:

“Bee good, Bee.”

The same exact phrase that Sean had taken to uttering every time we parted company.

Eerie coincidence? Not necessarily. I could tick off at least five friends and acquaintances who had at some point bastardized my middle initial into some permutation of “Bee” as a nickname. But there was something about the fact that Sean’s pet name for me paralleled Drew’s pet name for me, something deeply unnerving. Obviously, I could talk to Sean. I could let him know that when he called me “Bee” it dredged up weird associations. I was sure he wouldn’t be offended, and that he’d have no problem finding me another sickeningly sweet nickname. But with a sinking feeling, I began to mentally catalog the various other ways in which Drew and Sean
overlapped. I couldn’t help myself. And, unfortunately, it was easy to come up with a bunch of examples.

Both were cute in a very accessible, meet-the-parents sort of way; not too jock-y, not too alt-y, not too nerdy. Both were disarmingly friendly and warm. Both were considerate almost to a fault, if there was such a thing.

Both were comfortable.

But hadn’t I broken up with Drew to break
out
of my comfort zone?

By the fourth year with Drew we were pretty much operating on autopilot. The butterflies were gone. And while I suppose in any relationship the initial passion eventually dies down, I’d hope that it wouldn’t have to disappear completely. Halfway through senior year, seeing Drew walk into a classroom just wasn’t sending my heart rate into high gear anymore, and that was how I knew: After four years, we were done.

Was the same true of me and Sean after only four weeks?

I gazed over the screen of my laptop and out the window, pensive. The fact of the matter was that while I adored spending
time with Sean, physical contact with him was pleasant rather than over-the-top, out-of-control electric. In other words, a lot like the warm, familiar, friendly sex I had with Drew. And the things I liked best about Sean’s personality were the things I’d always loved about Drew. Not to mention, we spent time doing a lot of the same things that Drew and I had done when we were together.

Had I, in my weakened and vulnerable state as suddenly single (not to mention, a freshman), gone and cloned my last relationship?

I didn’t want to think so. Because if that was true, then where were Sean and I headed? But the fact of the matter was that when Sean walked into the room, I experienced a pleasant buzz. That wasn’t love, I knew. That wasn’t even excitement. Excitement was feeling like you were going to explode out of your skin just from standing next to someone for a fraction of a second.

It was the feeling I got when Gabe was around.

I knew Gabe was a lost cause. He’d
been awkward and moody with me basically since the day we’d met. And besides, his girlfriend was a bona fide goddess. It was actually her nickname, for chrissake. There was no competing with that. But whether or not Gabe was available, I couldn’t keep lying to myself. I couldn’t pretend that Sean and I were falling in love. I owed him honesty.

And I owed myself even more.

The door burst open, and Charlie swept in. She stopped, sensing my mood. “What’s going on?”

“I have to go to class,” I told her, standing up and gathering my bag, wallet, and keys. “But, I just …” I sighed. “I think I have to break up with Sean.”

11/4, 10:14 a.m.

from: [email protected]

to: [email protected]

re: breaking news

I think I have to break up with Sean.

No, I know I have to break up with Sean.

I know I told you that he was wonderful and that I adored him. This is still true. But another truism is that I’m afraid I got involved
for the wrong reasons: comfort, familiarity, stability. All great things, but they need to go hand in hand with honest-to-goodness passion, don’t you think?

Well, I do.

And, unfortunately, being around Sean just doesn’t make me dizzy in the same way that being around Gabe does.

Gabe may be off-limits, I know, but the thing is that just knowing that I have the capacity to feel the way I do about him makes me reluctant to settle for feeling anything less. I deserve to feel dizzy (well, you know what I mean). And Sean deserves someone who feels dizzy about him.

So that’s that. We’re supposed to meet up for coffee after class. I guess I’ll tell him then.

Wish me luck.

—xx

11/4, 11:56 a.m.

from: [email protected]

to: [email protected]

re: Sadness!

Claud, my heart is breaking for you! I’m sorry that it’s not going to work out for you
and Sean, but it sounds like you’ve really thought things through and that it’s for the best. I think it’s very brave of you to hold out for the real deal and I just know that, in the long run, you’ll find someone who will make you so dizzy, you’re practically sick to your stomach (in a good way).

I met Sean outside of Brew and Gold after my comp sci lab. I could tell he’d just woken up. He had that sleep-confused look on his face, and his hair was half-brushed. It was pretty cute, and made my job just that much more difficult. After we bought our coffees, he gestured to one of the couches, but I suggested instead that we walk over to the library roof. It was a clear, crisp day and I thought the view would be nice.

We trudged up Memorial Steps and past the academic quad, down toward the library. I couldn’t help but notice that Sean hadn’t bothered to try to hold my hand. I wondered if he could sense that something was up.

As we settled ourselves against the railing of the roof, my question was answered. “So,” he began, setting his coffee cup down. “What’s on your mind?”