The spoiler, p.25
The Spoiler, page 25
That day, I went home and broke down completely. The tears that rushed from me were heavy and thick and full of the pain I was feeling from being alone. After all the years of isolating myself, I was coming to realize that I had never truly been alone. I was always with the people who cared about me: Rob, my parents, Tristan. Being in my little apartment, far from life and happiness was sucking even more from me than I had left.
Silent tears stained my pillow as I stayed in a fetal position for hours that night. I didn’t sleep, just let my mind be overcome by every terrible thing happening in my life.
Soon, with the haunting weight of sleep deprivation, I was envisioning things no one wanted to see. Tristan would certainly fall in love with Heather. He’d already spent years dating her off and on. They had enough history that it was a foundation for a future. With me gone from his mind, he could actually focus on dating her and letting himself connect with her emotionally. There was no need to keep her on the sidelines for me. Now she could be his main interest. And she would be receptive to his attention instead of what I’d done. She wouldn’t tell him she hated him.
My tired mind worked to give me images of their engagement and her tiny baby bump, the posts she’d make about starting a life together. My family would be so happy for him to see that he had this great future ahead and a family of his own. Rob would move past what had happened to me because he’d still need to be there for his best friend.
Every image I painted was another pain; another reminder that I’d taken what could have been my own future and thrown it away. That I couldn’t see beyond what I was with OCD to really accept that someone like Tristan could love me.
But then, I also started to consider the details. I was, after all, a detail-oriented perfectionist. There was something a little crooked about the whole scenario, and after weeks of feeling like shit about my own contribution to our downfall, I started to even things out in my mind.
Yes, I had made assumptions about Tristan. I had jumped to the idea that he was trying to sleep with me and there was nothing more to our situation. When he’d disappeared for the weekend, I’d freaked out on him, and in the end, said awful things and left with Drew. But could I really forget that he had spent all those years trying to “help” me redirect my anger to him by spoiling movies? That was a huge misstep on his part. And with his feelings being what they were, but never sharing even the slightest hint aside from the flirtations that seemed purely sexual, could I blame myself for not believing any of it? Even knowing now that I’d failed to see the insecurities he’d suffered, it was never on me to decipher the deeper meaning in everything he’d done.
I wasn’t mad while I sorted through the many problems that we’d both created in our non-relationship. I was too fucking depressed to be mad at all. But I found that the situation's symmetry was more pleasing when I blamed myself a little less for it all. And maybe that was where Rob had been right in all of this, that I was hard on myself and that it wasn’t just me who’d fucked things up.
The first weekend in December was not my favorite in recent memory. My new apartment was cold and shitty. At the very least, it was cheap enough for me to pay for, but the hundred-year-old windows didn’t keep the heat in, so I’d resorted to shrink wrap and a blow dryer to get me through what was a very bitter winter.
I’d missed Thanksgiving after giving a weak, noncommittal response to the mere idea of it, then flaking altogether. The guilt that filled my stomach in the week that followed was enough to make me feel that I deserved my loneliness.
My classes had gotten more difficult as the semester went on and I worried about finals and the future of my architecture career. Every hiccup in my life seemed to make me question my own abilities after what had happened with Tristan.
OCD plagued me at work, the emotional runoff had me focused on anything but school, and the idea of a future where I was in love and happy was also looking grim.
That grim outlook only worsened on Saturday, the first of December. It was the night of the Christmas party that Drew had invited me to. I was less than excited to attend any kind of social event in general, but even less so these days. He insisted we’d have fun, though, and even brought me this kind of cheesy corsage that I wore around the wrist of my emerald green dress. It was really the least I could do, attending as his date, after all he’d done for me.
The streets were extra slick with a layer of ice that had formed over a dusting of snow in the previous week, so we took our time getting to the tavern downtown.
“Not a night to rush, I’d say.” Drew’s voice broke the silence between us.
“I almost feel like we should have gotten a cab, considering how much we may drink.” I intended to drink heavily, if only to mute the holiday cheer I did not feel this year. Hopefully, I’d keep my boobs in my clothes this time.
“Eh, there’s always cabs around. We’ll get one if we need to. Or just maybe walk to my place?” He hesitated, then lifted his brow at me as if to ask what I thought of the idea. We’d been down that road, and I already knew I wasn’t as into it as he was.
I felt my phone vibrate in my bag, so I quickly opened it, then did something that had become a habit—opened the last text I ever got from Tristan.
I sighed before glancing up to see him studying my phone, which I quickly snapped shut.
“Maybe, yeah,” I answered, awkwardly and far too late. I wasn’t sure what else I could say, though. ‘I’m pretty sure I don’t want to sleep with you and I’m in love with Tristan Moore’ probably wouldn’t sit well. He narrowed his eyes a bit at me, glancing down at the phone in my lap, so I turned to look out the window as we slowly made our way down the street.
Charlottesville was alive with Christmas lights on every lamppost. It was a picture-perfect downtown, complete with Salvation Army Santas ringing bells for donations and people bundled up and strolling with hot chocolates.
We parked near Market Street and walked a few blocks to the cozy tavern where the philosophy department held their yearly Christmas affair.
“I’ve never actually been in here,” I told him as he took my coat and scarf. It was one of those ancient-looking taverns with a big, elegant bar and long, family style tables. I nervously gripped his arm as he waved to some people he knew and we headed in to sit down.
“Dave, this is Rose. Rose, Dave. He’s a professor who likes to argue in favor of Kantian ethics. Basically, he’s a heartless bastard.” They both laughed while I nodded with a tight smile on my mouth. I’d be spending the entire night guessing what most of these people were talking about. I shook his hand, then nudged Drew toward the bar.
“I’m going to need drinks to get through this.”
“It’s not that bad,” he said. “Come on. Meet a few more people.”
So I followed reluctantly in tow as Drew led me through a sea of professors, students, and spouses who seemed much more comfortable than I was. People laughed and poked fun at one another, everyone cheerful and bubbly in their silly season-appropriate sweaters.
We’d shared small talk with at least a dozen people before one man, sporting a very bristly beard, stood on a chair at the end of the room and dinged his glass with a knife.
“One in ten philosophers buys into egoism… It’s a Nietzsche market!” He paused for dramatic effect and a bunch of people laughed. “Sorry, sorry, plus ones; we aren’t a very funny bunch. But we do know how to drink until we’re all having existential crises. So, I thank you all for coming to the eleventh annual UVA Philosophy Department Christmas Party. Please eat, drink, and spend the rest of the night questioning why we’re all here… aside from the drinking.”
Some people around us clinked their glasses, finally signaling Drew that we should be holding some. He closed his arm around my waist and we made our way to the bar for our first cocktails of the night. I picked a cranberry martini off the seasonal list while Drew settled on a beer, then we cut through the minglers and found seats at one of the large tables.
A spread of food was put out at eight, which helped me slow down on drinking and kept my mouth occupied so I wouldn’t need to talk much. Beside me, Drew continued on about his next step in school, future travel plans, and his family. Nothing much came into conversation about us, which I was thankful for, considering how little of an ‘us’ there really was.
The longer I sat at the table feeling like an outsider and wondering how long we would stay, the more I wanted to get another drink. But then, those who’d been standing found seats and a large table discussion began that I hadn’t anticipated.
“Oh, they do this debate every year. It’s pretty fun. Chime in, if you want.” Right.
I didn’t chime in. In fact, I sat back in my chair doing nothing but daydreaming as the discussion wound around the table and voices started to raise. Drew leaned in and laughed as one of his professors tossed a stack of ones on the table and demanded a dance out of the loser of the debate at hand. People started putting in votes and soon the evening was kicked up a notch as a woman who looked like Elaine Benes hopped onto the table and did an exaggerated dance to a barely danceable Mariah Carey song.
“This is… interesting.” I rubbed at my eyes and craned my neck toward the bar. The booze in my martini was putting me to sleep, but I wanted another.
“We can get another drink soon. They’re bringing out a dessert now.” We waited another half hour before some gelatinous dish was set before us. I poked at it with my finger and tried a bite, but ultimately pushed it away. This was just not the night for me.
Soon, we were roped into a conversation with a couple across the table from us. They were married and maybe in their forties, so it was safe to assume I had nothing in common with them. They gushed about their kids, then started in on a round of questions directed at Drew while I sat back in my chair and stared at my uneaten Jell-O thing.
After a few minutes, my focus on the room around me was fading. I could hear the faint noise of chattering voices knit together with the din of bar goers behind us and a soft blanket of background Christmas music. But all I could think of was Tristan. What was he doing right now? Who was he with? Had he stopped thinking of me? Was he happy? The wheel of unanswered, depressing questions rolled through my brain on a loop that didn’t want to stop. And as I lost myself further in the muddled image of Tristan’s smiling face as he descended on Heather in the alley behind Gallagher’s, my hands took up their familiar twitch.
I wasn’t sure how long I had fallen into the motions of picking apart the corsage Drew had gotten me, but after several far-away calls of my name, I finally found myself face-to-face with him. His hands had clamped onto my arms and he was softly shaking me like I’d been in a trance. And in a way, I had been.
“Rose! Earth to Rose!” Drew’s voice finally registered in my mind.
“Oh. Sorry, I—”
“What the hell, Rose?” He picked up the bald flower arrangement from my wrist, staring at it like it was some work of art I’d spit on.
“I was… I didn’t mean to…” What could I say? He’d never seen me lose myself in an OCD moment. He didn’t even know about my OCD, but here I was obsessively destroying the flower he’d placed on my wrist a few hours earlier.
Drew leaned toward me and, for the first time, I could feel the irritation in his eyes that I knew I deserved.
“You’ve been focused on anything but this night and spending time with me.” His voice was low, but angry. “I’ve even ignored you checking messages from Tristan. Is this something you want to explain to me? Your kitchen; checking his rental history; his sudden appearance on our dates? And now, on this lovely fucking night, you checking to see if he’s what, texted you?”
“No. I… I’m not. I was just–” The heat that began to spread across my cheeks was enough to mortify me, but now I had nothing to say that would explain how terribly I’d treated him. “I’m sorry.”
I glanced over at the couple across from us who were wide-eyeing me like I was some freak. It was nothing unfamiliar to me, really. The stares. The bulging looks of confusion. But the expression on Drew’s face when he looked across at them was one I’d never seen. He was embarrassed by me. His cheeks were pink as he awkwardly smiled and said something about how I must have been off in another world.
“I’ll get you that drink,” he said with a sigh before disappearing behind me.
But I never did have that drink. Anxiety flooded my stomach as I looked over at the married couple, then rushed from the table to grab my coat and scarf. I burst through the front door and into the blustery, cold street, taking in deep breaths of frigid air before turning to walk home.
Just a few blocks later, I remembered home was not on Montebello Circle anymore. I headed south instead, stopping at a liquor store for something strong to take to my new, empty, awful apartment.
My phone buzzed twice, three times, as I walked, but I couldn’t stop. Not now. I had to get away from the people who knew I was Routine Rose. They saw me. Everyone could see me. And the only people who I didn’t mind seeing me weren’t in my life anymore.
I broke through my front door clutching a pint of Captain and a bottle of Coke, then slid to my floor and started drinking.
This was life now. Me, this apartment, nobody. Rob was on the other side of town with Nicole, Tristan, and probably Heather. Mom and Dad were at home wondering why I’d moved and if I was going to therapy. I’d been too upset to go to my second appointment and ended up rescheduling. It was something I didn’t want them to know or have to worry about.
By my fourth swig of Captain, my phone was buzzing incessantly. I pulled it out of my bag to see Drew’s name flashing across the screen, then waited until it stopped its vibration before opening it to check my texts.
Drew: You didn’t have to leave like that.
Drew: I don’t know what I did, but leaving was a little much, Rose.
Drew: Did I embarrass you? I’m sorry.
Drew: Look, I know I snapped a little. The corsage didn’t matter. Will you answer my calls?
…
Rob: Did I just see you walking down Ridge in a dress?!
Rob: Miss you, Rosey. Wish you’d let me come see you.
Miss you too.
I didn’t invite Rob over, and I didn’t text Drew back. Instead, I upped my drink count and held my phone in my hand, thinking about texting the one I wanted to hear from… and the one I hadn’t heard from in weeks.
But I didn’t do that either.
The reality of the situation was that Tristan didn’t want to hear from me. He’d have reached out if he wanted any resolution from all that had happened.
As the night wore on and I found myself in bed with my waning bottle, I flicked the TV on. The only perk to living in my new, awful apartment was the paid cable television. And what else would grace my TV in my inebriated state, there to kick me while I was down, but Tristan & Isolde. I’d never finished it after it had been spoiled for me, so I let it play on until tears were rolling down my cheeks.
Tristan did die in the end, of course. Just as my Tristan—who was never my Tristan—had told me. I cried until I ultimately fell asleep, alone, drunk, and crushed over a movie that never really mattered.
In the end, none of them ever really mattered.
In solitude she lived, and in solitude hath she built her nest; And in solitude, alone hath the beloved guided her… In solitude also wounded with love. And there was no other way to look at my world's emptiness. That I had gone from lonely to even lonelier was an understatement. I’d existed in the safety of my empty life and taken comfort in the word: alone. But there is a fine line between being alone and being lonely. It’s a line I’d crossed a long time ago.
And on the other side of that line, I truly was wounded with love.
After leaving Drew at the Christmas party, we stopped seeing each other. I did what little I could do to apologize to him via text for having left, then tried for a clean break, but he continued to call for the better part of a week. He thought we had a decent thing going, that we could get past this little bump in the road. I, on the other hand, didn’t have any interest in going anywhere—on any road—with Drew.
The truth was that we could have had a million things in common and enjoyed countless dates together, and I still would have been completely heartsick over Tristan Moore. Nothing was going to change it, and even though it hurt tremendously, I didn’t want anything to change it. It was better to feel the pain of what had happened, knowing I’d at least almost had him once, than to cover it up with memories of someone new.
So, at the end of my days with Drew, I found myself in a new state of loneliness I’d never experienced. I was completely and utterly alone. And being alone only made everything so much worse.
Most of my December seemed to be filled with cyclical, oppressive OCD. It had been years since I’d had such frequent, long-lasting issues, but they were back again. Back to remind me that Routine Rose was determined to ruin my life. Days of work and school were overshadowed now by anxiety and the urge to fight off compulsions. But when I couldn’t fight any longer, those days were punctuated by excuses and escape tactics.
The more problems I had, the less I was scheduled for work, and the worse I did in school. My midterms had been a mess, so with finals on the horizon, I tried to buckle down and make up for the low grades that could ruin my chances at any sort of master’s program.
The library became my second home that month, letting me feel at least a touch of relief from the glaring reality of being alone at my apartment. But every night, as I closed my door behind me and turned my lights off, I felt the weight of my living situation and the same wash of sickness at losing Tristan.
Night after night, I’d lose myself in the overwhelming pattern of fixations. My skin would be left raw from all the picking, my nail beds bleeding and puffy. But nothing that my hands obsessed over could smother the constant stream of anguish in my heart. And so I’d cry. I’d cry, lose sleep, try to wash away the anxiety, and cry some more.
