asks. “You end up writing stuff you would never say out loud. Actually, maybe that’s the beauty of a blog. That’s why you did it, right?”
“No,” I say. I don’t really know why I did it. “It was just to let off steam, I guess.”
“Do you feel better now?”
“No,” I say. “Not really.” And I don’t feel any better. The rage is still coursing through my body. My face feels hot and there’s nothing I can do to cool it down. I’m still angry—I still feel like opening my window and screaming at the world. The rage quickly turns to sadness as I read the rest of Chloe’s entry:
Love is selfish. Love is a lie. Love is waking up in the middle of the night to a phone call saying that the love of your life OD’d afterhe’s been promising you for months on end that he’s been sober. Love is having to call your boyfriend’s parents right before Christmas to tell them that their son is dead and you don’t know why and you don’t know how because you weren’t even there .
Love tears your heart out. Love kills your soul .
“Oh, Chlo. I’m so sorry,” I say. “I didn’t mean to upset you.”
“Thinking about Billy always upsets me,” she says. “Nothing unusual about that.”
“I really didn’t know it was going out to my whole mailing list,” I say, taking the throw blanket that’s draped over the back of the couch and putting it across my shoulders. “You know I would never do anything to hurt you, right?”
“You didn’t hurt me,” she says. “Billy hurt me. When he cared more about drugs than he cared about me, that hurt me. And he hurt you, too, right? The band broke up after he died. But you? You didn’t hurt me. You know, I always think of him on Valentine’s Day. Getting that all out on your blog actually made me feel better, you know?”
“I’m glad it made you feel better,” I say, wondering why I didn’t feel any better after I vented all of my feelings. “Anyway, what are you doing on the Internet when you have a Valentine’s Day date? Did you get rid of him already?”
“I sent him home,” she says. “He took me out for drinks. Who does drinks on Valentine’s Day? No matter how casual you are with a guy, on Valentine’s Day, a girl deserves dinner. Don’t you think?”
“Do you want to talk about it?” I ask.
“I wasn’t going to date him past this weekend anyway, so there’s really nothing to say.”
“I meant, do you want to talk about Billy?” I ask, drawing the blanket over my head and lying back on the couch.
“Didn’t I say enough?” she asks, laughing. I’m happy that I got her to laugh, but then I remember that for Chloe, she really has to cry it all out until she feels better.
“There’s no limit on how much you can cry to your best friend,” I say.
“You said it best, Jo: ‘We’re believing in a lie. True love isn’t really out there; it’s a myth. It’s no different than Santa Claus or the Tooth Fairy. So, I say—let’s just grow up already and call a spade a spade. Let’s just stop deluding ourselves and admit that there’s no such thing as love.’ That’s what you said. Didn’t you mean it?”
“I guess,” I say as I read the rest of what I wrote: I’m done with love. I’m giving up on love before it breaks my heart again. And I’d suggest that you do the same thing, too . “I just didn’t mean for that—for how angry I feel—to upset you,” I say.
“Everything you wrote, everything you said, is exactly how I feel,” she says. “How I felt, I mean. I think I’m still mad at Billy for dying. I keep thinking that I’m over it, that I’m ready to move on, but then the tiniest thing will happen—like I’ll hear some song he loved, or some song he hated—and everything just comes flooding back to me, you know?”
“I know,” I say.
“And I’m still on the mailing list for the goddamned Guitar Center,” she says. “Why is that place still sending me mailers when I haven’t even shopped
“No,” I say. I don’t really know why I did it. “It was just to let off steam, I guess.”
“Do you feel better now?”
“No,” I say. “Not really.” And I don’t feel any better. The rage is still coursing through my body. My face feels hot and there’s nothing I can do to cool it down. I’m still angry—I still feel like opening my window and screaming at the world. The rage quickly turns to sadness as I read the rest of Chloe’s entry:
Love is selfish. Love is a lie. Love is waking up in the middle of the night to a phone call saying that the love of your life OD’d afterhe’s been promising you for months on end that he’s been sober. Love is having to call your boyfriend’s parents right before Christmas to tell them that their son is dead and you don’t know why and you don’t know how because you weren’t even there .
Love tears your heart out. Love kills your soul .
“Oh, Chlo. I’m so sorry,” I say. “I didn’t mean to upset you.”
“Thinking about Billy always upsets me,” she says. “Nothing unusual about that.”
“I really didn’t know it was going out to my whole mailing list,” I say, taking the throw blanket that’s draped over the back of the couch and putting it across my shoulders. “You know I would never do anything to hurt you, right?”
“You didn’t hurt me,” she says. “Billy hurt me. When he cared more about drugs than he cared about me, that hurt me. And he hurt you, too, right? The band broke up after he died. But you? You didn’t hurt me. You know, I always think of him on Valentine’s Day. Getting that all out on your blog actually made me feel better, you know?”
“I’m glad it made you feel better,” I say, wondering why I didn’t feel any better after I vented all of my feelings. “Anyway, what are you doing on the Internet when you have a Valentine’s Day date? Did you get rid of him already?”
“I sent him home,” she says. “He took me out for drinks. Who does drinks on Valentine’s Day? No matter how casual you are with a guy, on Valentine’s Day, a girl deserves dinner. Don’t you think?”
“Do you want to talk about it?” I ask.
“I wasn’t going to date him past this weekend anyway, so there’s really nothing to say.”
“I meant, do you want to talk about Billy?” I ask, drawing the blanket over my head and lying back on the couch.
“Didn’t I say enough?” she asks, laughing. I’m happy that I got her to laugh, but then I remember that for Chloe, she really has to cry it all out until she feels better.
“There’s no limit on how much you can cry to your best friend,” I say.
“You said it best, Jo: ‘We’re believing in a lie. True love isn’t really out there; it’s a myth. It’s no different than Santa Claus or the Tooth Fairy. So, I say—let’s just grow up already and call a spade a spade. Let’s just stop deluding ourselves and admit that there’s no such thing as love.’ That’s what you said. Didn’t you mean it?”
“I guess,” I say as I read the rest of what I wrote: I’m done with love. I’m giving up on love before it breaks my heart again. And I’d suggest that you do the same thing, too . “I just didn’t mean for that—for how angry I feel—to upset you,” I say.
“Everything you wrote, everything you said, is exactly how I feel,” she says. “How I felt, I mean. I think I’m still mad at Billy for dying. I keep thinking that I’m over it, that I’m ready to move on, but then the tiniest thing will happen—like I’ll hear some song he loved, or some song he hated—and everything just comes flooding back to me, you know?”
“I know,” I say.
“And I’m still on the mailing list for the goddamned Guitar Center,” she says. “Why is that place still sending me mailers when I haven’t even shopped
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