Graduates in Wonderland (13 page)

Inevitably, these introspective admissions conclude when he throws back a few more pints. In a determined manner, he takes my hands and looks at me with pleading eyes. He tries to lean in to kiss me, but it feels more like he's thrusting his face forward and my lips are the target. I'm hyperaware of his clammy hands. His nervous eyes are begging me to love him back. And I know that my heart is racing for a different reason from his: sheer fear.

I always break his gaze and then, embarrassed, he drops my hands, drinks a few more pints, and eventually drapes an arm over me as he tells me about how much his sister is going to love me, and how much fun we'll have on our lovely drives (again,
lovely
) across the English countryside, and with each pint, he becomes more and more confident that we are already together and that we have a future filled with laughter and sunshine, and probably, I imagine, sexual romps on wild moors.

I am fine with sunshine and laughter, but my body seems ambivalent about the sex part. The truth is that I've started something that I'm not prepared to finish. I don't want someone to beg me to love him. I want the George who hangs off the chandelier, but I get the guy with pleading eyes and clammy hands. I can't be romantic with him because his insecurity turns me off and I don't feel attracted to him. And if I'm not his girlfriend, it's too late for me to just be his friend.

What's it called when you've suddenly found yourself with a boyfriend straight off your Master List, but with whom you have no intention of sleeping?

False advertising.

But, he lets me see him every day. This is such a simple thing, but I don't think I've ever had this with a man before. Men I've dated in the past were always elusive or busy or too scared to give away too much, but George gives me this.

Still, I can't dwell on this anymore right now. Astrid can't take much more of it either. She says I need to make up my mind and let George know, sooner rather than later. I know she's right.

But in the grand scheme of life, the important thing is you're
actually
alive and so am I! You survived a car crash! New York City almost took you out, and you survived! In time, you will cross streets like a pro again. You'll be able to give an all-­star thumbs-­up. You'll be left with a tiny silver scar across your forehead that will make a great story when you meet Parisians.

Let me know how you're doing now.

Love,

Jess

P.S. I'm glad you're alive.

MARCH 21

Jess to Rachel

Are you alive?? No reply all week? You're in danger of breaking our pact! I know you're having trouble typing. Just type back one letter so I know you're okay!

Love,

Jess

MARCH 22

Rachel to Jess

Q

APRIL 3

Jess to Rachel

Q is a dignified choice.

Are you still off work, lying in your pajamas, recovering? Sort of the best thing ever, if you take away the trauma, broken thumb, bruised ribs, and face scar, right? Am I right?

To distract you: Maybe you'll be seeing me sooner than expected and all this George nonsense will be moot. My days in Beijing could be numbered because of a recent crackdown on foreigners working illegally here. My work visa is supposedly being processed, but I had to get a temporary one for now.

In case you ever need to know, if you urgently need a visa to stay in Beijing, text a woman named Joy whom you meet at the McDonald's on Second Ring Road, because everyone knows where that is. You'll hand her a wad of cash. She'll take your passport. Then a runner will head to Mongolia and get a new visa in your passport.

I just got back from the exchange and now I'm looking over my shoulder all the time, feeling like a criminal, although I actually have no idea if this is illegal or not. Better not to ask.

I hope you, your forehead, your rib, your thumb, and your scrapes are healing as if aided by a phoenix's teardrops.

Love,

Jess

APRIL 10

Rachel to Jess

I just want you to know that I love you so much that against my doctor's orders, I have removed my ACE bandage and am now typing very slowly.

Before anything else, I just have to say: If you don't want to have sex with George, then his impression of Jude Law was definitely lacking and not worth the sexual frustration you are inflicting upon him.

Stitches on my face came out yesterday. It looks like I fell asleep with a spiral notebook under my eyebrow—­it's raw but the doctor thinks that my scar will only be about an inch long from my eyebrow to my forehead.

Twice a week, I go to physical therapy for my hand, where I sit on a bench and twiddle my thumb. Literally. Just move it back and forth. Stretch it a little sideways. I can feel other people there questioning my presence out of the corners of their eyes. But still. My thumb does hurt. I never knew how important it was! Do you know how many times we use our thumbs each day? Like, say, try buttoning your jeans. Every morning, I visit Rosabelle's room and she fastens me up.

I've had a lot to think about during my time off to recover from my injuries. In a weird way, hitting the pavement somehow stifled my constant anxiety. I didn't realize this until I started going back to work and noticed that I care less about what the person next to me on the subway thinks of me, or if everyone at work loves me, or if I have to wait thirty minutes for the next bus. I don't care if Buster is taking too long in the shower (although I still don't want to think about what he's doing in there).

It's not like I've reached some higher plane. Even I'm not naive enough to believe that. But I am still here and, instead of anxious musings, I'm finally telling myself: “Wake up!” When Rosabelle and I walk through Central Park and the wind rushes through the trees, I think to myself, “You don't want to miss this.”

This philosophizing may also be due to the fact that I keep skipping my sessions with Claudia. I imagine her sitting around drinking mint tea on her own and probably reading Freud or Jung or whoever is making her ask her opaque questions. I keep thinking that I don't want to create more anxieties or delve into old ones. I feel like I don't want opaque questions when, all of a sudden, everything seems so clear. I'm leaving my job soon and moving to Paris. It feels weird to quit a job I actually like, but it must be done.

For the first time in a long time, I feel okay, but it's such a delicate balance.

More soon,

Scarface

APRIL 18

Jess to Rachel

I know the exact feeling you're talking about, when you step out of the incessant superficial chatter in your head and actually become aware of what's around you. I get it when I'm in the middle of a throng of motorists, cyclists, and cabs and look up and see an ancient temple looming over me.

As for George, you're right. He probably is sexually frustrated. Things progressed slightly. I'll say this much: I don't mind kissing him. But then again, that's the title of the least gripping romance novel in the world. Subtitle: He Was Just Okay.

I thought that if you get naked with someone, the attraction would just appear. But I was wrong. Once we start removing our clothes, I am completely detached. I tune out and it starts to feel like I'm just an observer rather than a participant. “So
that's
what a hand on my right boob looks like.” So far, I've managed to escape actually having sex with him by always claiming to be late for an appointment I just remembered I had. “I'm meeting Astrid and I have to leave NOW.” It is a sign of George's politeness that he does not say, “But it only takes fifteen minutes!”

Other than you, Astrid took the brunt of my George angst. She tolerated session after session of my justifications for trying to talk myself into him: “We'd be such a great couple. Our children would be so funny. They would have the best accents ever. He says ‘schedule' in the funny British way, and that will never get old.” But you know Astrid can't take this kind of delusional shit.

Finally, she sat me down and said, “Look, George is great. I get it. He's funny and kind and it seems like he'll love you forever. I can see that, too. But if you don't want to have sex with him now, then you certainly aren't going to want to have sex with him in ten years. And eventually, he's going to hate your guts.”

Flicks cigarette.

“So end it today and have him hate you now or drag this out for ten years and have him hate you later. Your choice. But either way, he will hate you.”

Norwegian wisdom.

George came over to my apartment later that night. I let him in, trying to avoid his kiss hello, and he sat next to me on my couch with a smile as he reached over to pull me into him. But I stopped him and shook my head. He froze and we looked at each other for a few moments as I tried to get up the nerve to say something.

Only fragments ran through my head. The knowledge I would soon be ruining something special, the loss of someone that I genuinely liked, the fact that he really was one of the greatest guys I'd ever met. Instead of speaking, I started crying. I didn't say anything because I didn't have to. He put his arm around me and brushed my hair from my face. That's how great George is—­considerate and understanding even when I'm breaking up with him. He said he understood, that he knew something was wrong but that he didn't want to face it.

Then he went from so nice to manic. He stood up and started pacing my apartment. After rambling for five minutes about how hard it was, how hard this was going to be, he abruptly announced that he was leaving.

At the doorway, he turned and said, “I thought we were going to be together for a really long time.” Then he grabbed me and kissed me, hard. I let him.

And then I closed the door.

I still have my doubts, and have to go around wondering whether George is the last man who will ever truly appreciate me, afraid that I was being too picky.

I mope and Astrid tolerates it briefly. Every time I think about backsliding, she grabs me and says, “Think of his penis. Do you want to be with his penis?”

That's an old Norwegian saying grandmothers knit on throw pillows.

Why am I always writing about penises?? You don't even want to know what Google ads keep appearing in my sidebar.

Meanwhile, George told all of his friends that I have ruined his self-­confidence, that I led him on, that I was cruel, and that he hates me. Astrid was also right about that.

Apparently, if you don't have sex with a guy you are dating, he will hate you forever. It doesn't matter how much fun you had together—­all he will remember is that you refused to have sex with him. Nothing else. The rooftop conversations while overlooking a lake? The book you gave him that changed his life? The time you saved him from a burning building? No. For every photo he sees of you, his eyes will superimpose a red
X
across your crotch and his heart will turn to stone.

Mutual friends wonder why I dated George at all if I'm not actually attracted to him. But friends become lovers all the time, don't they? Rosabelle and Buster! Harry and Sally! Luke and Lorelai! Only now do I see that this happens in real life when friends suddenly see amazing new things in each other for the first time, making them suddenly want to rip each other's clothes off. You can't work backward—­“This person is amazing, therefore I will eventually want to sleep with him.” It's saying something that I would rather attend six imaginary urgent meetings with Astrid than have sex with George even once.

His friends call me Nonstick. Nonstick Pan.

Rachel! Come to China and knock some sense into me (with the hand that's intact). How did I mess this up so badly?

Anyway, I have to finish editing and writing articles on breast-­feeding and summer camps for Victoria (separate articles, thank God). I feel like I've been doing well at work—­less heavy-­handed editing by Victoria, and I've been given more responsibility, like ordering around the interns. However, the George drama did set me back a few days, and I turned in a book review to Victoria three days late. I think I've seen too many movies where the writer is depressed, incompetent, and lazy and their editor is patient and kind of a hard-­ass who loves the writer anyway.

All lies, because Victoria's not speaking to me now. Via e-mail, she has assured me that she does not love me.

Love,

Sad Jessi Trousers

APRIL 27

Rachel to Jess

I feel sad for the demise of you and George, and not just because I had grown to love the idea of you two. I always thought that if someone was great enough, we would love them. That's the point of entire fairy tales.
The Frog Prince
?
Beauty and the Beast
? At least at the end, the frog and the beast turn into handsome men. In real life, you're stuck with unappealing bedfellows whom you then have to sleep with for the next fiftysomething years.

If attraction didn't matter, you and I would be married to each other!

I do think you are pretty, though.

Anyway, my hand is slowly getting better.

I quit my job last week. It was so different than when I quit with Vince, because I wasn't scared about my boss's reaction this time. My happiness is more important than inconveniencing two people for a short period of time. It also helps knowing I'm headed to Paris.

When I actually talked with my boss Joan, she just nodded sagely and said, “I knew you wouldn't stay long. You're meant for other things.” This confused me. Why did you hire me, then? I mean, I'm glad you did...but then tell me what I'm meant for!

The feeling of having missed my calling again hit me after I posted my job description online to find my replacement. Responses started piling up after five minutes and by the end of the day, I had seventy-­five. Each one made me question my decision to leave. “You are giving up a job people are lining up to take away from you. Most of these people are more qualified than you are in the first place! WHY ARE YOU LEAVING THIS JOB?”