think,” he finished.
“Then what is it?” I demanded.
There was a bit of a muffled noise, like he’d dropped the phone. I figured he’d lost his signal, and I nearly hung up when he came back on again.
“I have to go . . . I’m so s-sorry, babe.” His voice caught so hard I knew he meant it. He sounded near to tears, or maybe it was the bad connection.
“Hey, wait a sec—”
But there was only dead air on the other end.
An earful of nothing.
“Brian?”
I stared at the phone for a minute before my instincts kicked in. I hit the redial button, but his voice mail picked up after a single ring.
Well, damn him!
He wasn’t answering.
So that was it, huh?
The pulse at my temples began to throb, and my heart stung, as if I’d been target practice for the Olympic dart team.
I’d waited twenty-four long hours to hear from the guy, and it was over in a twenty-second cell phone call. Sort of a technological version of the old wham, bam, thank you, ma’am.
Sling a cow pie at my head and call me Bubba.
This wasn’t possible.
I clutched the receiver, hand trembling, my guts gripped with confusion; blinking into the dark, disbelief sliding up my throat like acid reflux so I couldn’t even let flow a string of curses. The sound I made was more like, “Uhhh.”
I couldn’t react. My limbs felt weighted, too heavy to do anything but sit there, zombielike, biting on my lower lip.
I’m so sorry . . . things changed . . . I need space.
Had he really said that?
Had he meant it the way it sounded? Why not add the tried and true—and utterly barf-inspiring—“Let’s just be friends” line, too?
Or maybe I was still dreaming and had imagined the entire pathetic one-sided conversation. I clunked myself in the head with the receiver and winced at the sting of pain in my skull.
I was awake, all right.
The realization made me groan, and I dropped the handset of the phone onto the cushion beside me, burying my face in my hands.
Brian had blown me off three days before my natal celebration.
That’s what this was: a cell phone dumping.
No nicer way to put it.
Happy Birthday, loser girl.
I’d been skunked.
Which meant that everyone else was right and I was wrong, didn’t it? Malone had turned to the dark side virtually overnight. Four months together, and I was being tossed for a chippie who wore fringed tassels on her nipples.
Oh, wow. Was that it?
I winced as a sudden thought struck me.
The age-old “good girl vs. slut” conundrum.
Could that be the problem? Was sex at the crux of everything?
I wore big T-shirts and flannel jammie bottoms to bed. I didn’t own a pair of tassels or even a push-up bra from Victoria’s Secret.
Was I not woman enough for Brian? Was I too much the girl next door and not enough ho?
I knew that teenage girls were getting bikini waxes these days, paid for by their super-hip mommies, so they’d be ready for bidness at the drop of a zipper. Every MTV video bordered on soft core porn, as did half the beer commercials. The world moved faster than a quickie in the broom closet; nothing was romance or even innuendo anymore. It was hooking up and one-night stands and “drunk sex,” as a friend of mine called it (without apology, I might add).
Perhaps Cissy wasn’t the only one who was old-fashioned in our family, at least where love was concerned.
Because that’s what it was about for me, the feeling close and caring, the emotional part, not body parts or dirty talk or trashy accoutrements.
Is that how I’d lost Brian? After one night in a strip club to celebrate Matty’s upcoming wedding?
Had he felt trapped by his faithfulness, by the mere idea he might be spending the rest of his life with me, under the thumb of my overbearing mummy? By the fact that Said Mummy expected him to put a ring on my finger and purchase this cow on layaway?
Did it scare him to imagine that maybe the idea of marriage didn’t sound so all-fire awful to me either? That the idea of
“Then what is it?” I demanded.
There was a bit of a muffled noise, like he’d dropped the phone. I figured he’d lost his signal, and I nearly hung up when he came back on again.
“I have to go . . . I’m so s-sorry, babe.” His voice caught so hard I knew he meant it. He sounded near to tears, or maybe it was the bad connection.
“Hey, wait a sec—”
But there was only dead air on the other end.
An earful of nothing.
“Brian?”
I stared at the phone for a minute before my instincts kicked in. I hit the redial button, but his voice mail picked up after a single ring.
Well, damn him!
He wasn’t answering.
So that was it, huh?
The pulse at my temples began to throb, and my heart stung, as if I’d been target practice for the Olympic dart team.
I’d waited twenty-four long hours to hear from the guy, and it was over in a twenty-second cell phone call. Sort of a technological version of the old wham, bam, thank you, ma’am.
Sling a cow pie at my head and call me Bubba.
This wasn’t possible.
I clutched the receiver, hand trembling, my guts gripped with confusion; blinking into the dark, disbelief sliding up my throat like acid reflux so I couldn’t even let flow a string of curses. The sound I made was more like, “Uhhh.”
I couldn’t react. My limbs felt weighted, too heavy to do anything but sit there, zombielike, biting on my lower lip.
I’m so sorry . . . things changed . . . I need space.
Had he really said that?
Had he meant it the way it sounded? Why not add the tried and true—and utterly barf-inspiring—“Let’s just be friends” line, too?
Or maybe I was still dreaming and had imagined the entire pathetic one-sided conversation. I clunked myself in the head with the receiver and winced at the sting of pain in my skull.
I was awake, all right.
The realization made me groan, and I dropped the handset of the phone onto the cushion beside me, burying my face in my hands.
Brian had blown me off three days before my natal celebration.
That’s what this was: a cell phone dumping.
No nicer way to put it.
Happy Birthday, loser girl.
I’d been skunked.
Which meant that everyone else was right and I was wrong, didn’t it? Malone had turned to the dark side virtually overnight. Four months together, and I was being tossed for a chippie who wore fringed tassels on her nipples.
Oh, wow. Was that it?
I winced as a sudden thought struck me.
The age-old “good girl vs. slut” conundrum.
Could that be the problem? Was sex at the crux of everything?
I wore big T-shirts and flannel jammie bottoms to bed. I didn’t own a pair of tassels or even a push-up bra from Victoria’s Secret.
Was I not woman enough for Brian? Was I too much the girl next door and not enough ho?
I knew that teenage girls were getting bikini waxes these days, paid for by their super-hip mommies, so they’d be ready for bidness at the drop of a zipper. Every MTV video bordered on soft core porn, as did half the beer commercials. The world moved faster than a quickie in the broom closet; nothing was romance or even innuendo anymore. It was hooking up and one-night stands and “drunk sex,” as a friend of mine called it (without apology, I might add).
Perhaps Cissy wasn’t the only one who was old-fashioned in our family, at least where love was concerned.
Because that’s what it was about for me, the feeling close and caring, the emotional part, not body parts or dirty talk or trashy accoutrements.
Is that how I’d lost Brian? After one night in a strip club to celebrate Matty’s upcoming wedding?
Had he felt trapped by his faithfulness, by the mere idea he might be spending the rest of his life with me, under the thumb of my overbearing mummy? By the fact that Said Mummy expected him to put a ring on my finger and purchase this cow on layaway?
Did it scare him to imagine that maybe the idea of marriage didn’t sound so all-fire awful to me either? That the idea of
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