Her

You met her on a day in late June. She was pretty, you thought, and you liked the way her waist curved. She was the TA for one of your less serious summer classes and you were glad, because that meant that you could pay more attention to her than to the professor’s voice humming in a drone through the lecture hall.

You were bored. Her eyes, behind her glasses, sparkled.

Somehow, much to your astonishment, you managed to stumble through an introduction one day, managing to shield your awkwardness with an idle question about homework. She answered you with a smile, her lips curving, and tells you that if you needed any help, she’s always available for coffee.

She gives you her number. You feel like you’re flying.

You feel, for several weeks, as though you can’t call her for coffee, not without an excuse. You make up several excuses not to call her: she won’t like you, she won’t like you, and she probably won’t like you. That’s enough to keep you from the phone for days, until the class that you haven’t been paying attention to snags you and she’s the only person you can call for help.

You squirm in your seat as you wait for her at the café. There is nothing quite like this feeling of anticipation, you feel. You kind of want to throw up.

You idly wonder if this crushing feeling of attraction to your TA can actually be termed a crush now.

You promptly feel like a middle schooler and bury your face in your hands. Just then, she pulls out the chair across from you. You suddenly wonder how hard it would be to kill yourself right then, using the metal spoon that came with your tea. Too much effort, you decide, just as she begins to speak.

Her voice is so nice, you think. You also think she would never like you, but you are glad that she is kind enough to help you limp through historical timelines enough so that you have significant background to start your first paper.

You like the way she lights up when she talks about the Han Dynasty. You are also glad for it, as you had kind of forgotten that this class was about the early dynasties of Imperial China. Maybe you should have paid attention.

You start to now, but she asks you to go for coffee again so that she can check up on your progress. You ask her to read the first draft of your paper and then sit there, staring at the dregs of your latte uncomfortably.

“It’s good,” she says, and then corrects a few factual errors. You almost feel like something like your kidney has combust, you feel so warm. You nod as you try to remember each of her comments, but you’re too caught up in the curve of her bare shoulder and the dark, orange-brown color of her skin. You hope you remember enough, though. You want to impress her with your grade.

When you get an A- you know it was only because of her help. You treasure the smile she gives you as she hands your paper back anyway.

She asks you out for coffee. You think it’s to discuss your paper, but then she starts asking you about your life and something tickles in the back of your mind. This couldn’t be a date – you know she’d never like you – but when she walks you to your dorm afterwards, smiling and saying “We should do this again sometime” before she leaves, you start to wonder.

Maybe she could like you, after all.

Your friends say that of course she could – you’re beautiful and smart and funny, everything a woman could want. And something in you believes them, but you’ve always been a logical person. You think that you have nothing to offer, and she’s just a glowing bastion of humanity. This was not going to happen.

But then she asks you out for coffee again and, when your latte is set in front of you she clears her throat. “I know it might be kind of weird to ask this, but I have to know. Do you even like girls?”

And you choke out an affirmative before she laughs, her eyes crinkled and says, “Good. Then this can officially be a date.”

You feel like your ribs are melting and trickling pleasantly down your insides. There is nothing quite like falling in love.

You alternate taking each other out for coffee after class until you finally build up the confidence to take her out to dinner. And by take out, you tell her, you mean you’ll cook. The way she looks at you as you explain that you’ve been cooking since you were three, that your father taught you how, makes you want to kiss her. But, you haven’t crossed that line yet, and you’re afraid to now. You want her to do it, if you’re being honest with yourself. You’re still not completely sure she likes you and, you think, if she kisses you that it’ll make all of this real.

You make her braised chicken in a white wine sauce over al dente angel hair pasta and she tells you she’s never tasted anything so good. It’s weird seeing her in your apartment, sitting at the table you set up in your little room. It’s like she’s in your personal space now and you still feel comfortable. You find yourself liking it.

She moans almost obscenely over how wonderful the food is, questioning how the hell you made this in a college kitchen. You feel yourself blushing and she giggles at how sweet you are. When you come out with dessert – strawberries and cream – she takes a bite and leaves some cream on her upper lip. You try to tell her with somewhat aborted hand motions and she laughs again before waving you over. You try to tell her again about the cream, even pointing, for emphasis, before she leans in and kisses you.

She apologizes for the gimmick before wiping cream off of your lips now, but you’re just amazed to the point of staring. She’s so beautiful, and so incredible, and you wonder how you got this lucky as you lean in and kiss her this time.

The world could have blown up and you wouldn’t have known it. It happens every time you kiss.

The fall semester starts and some people stare at your clasped hands as you pass, but not many really care.

You love holding hands. You love rubbing your thumb over the back of her hand. You love the possessive look in her eyes when you talk to other girls. You love the way she likes to play her fingertips along your thigh as you sit together at lunch and dinner and sometimes even breakfast. You love the way she gets along with your friends. You love the way she likes to beat them in video games and the way she likes to talk about her major and the way that she sparkles while she does everything and…

You love her, you realize, sometime in late November, as you are laying in bed with her, her body curled into yours. You love her, everything from her less than perfectly manicured toes to the top of her (kind of) frizzy haired head. You love her.

You feel like you’re going to throw up.

Sure, she likes you. Sure, she thinks you can cook. She lights up every time she sees you, likes looking over your shoulder as you read, likes playing idly with your hair when she knows you’re distracted. She even comes with your name on her lips, and says she likes the way you look when you come with hers on yours. But everything she does is mired in like. She can’t love you. You’re certain she doesn’t.

But then, one day, the week before Christmas break, you’re stressing over finals. She’s quizzing you on the ins and outs of the major rulers of some other dynasty of the Imperial Age of China, ones that you’ve already forgotten. You keep getting one question wrong and you are so angry at yourself and you feel like ripping your hair out, and that’s when she says it.

“Well, at least this is just one question. And this is just one final. Doesn’t mean anything in the grand scheme of things. You know what does, though?” she laughs awkwardly, “I love you.”

You almost trip over your own feet in your rush to say it back and then you pass your final the next day after what you are sure is the best sex of your life.

You go on Christmas break on an incredible high. You find yourself gushing to your father about your incredible girlfriend and he laughs, telling you that he’s glad you’re happy. Your mother smiles and says that she hopes they can meet her one day, if she is so special. Your brothers tease you relentlessly, but you love them so much that way.

You call her every night. You talk for hours. You have never been separated this long before and you rather find it fascinating. She says she misses you. You reply that you miss her too. You feel like you’re glowing because you love her so much, even when she’s so far away.

And then she calls you, crying.

Her father is dying, has died, is dead, and you have no idea how to comfort her. You stay on the line with her all night, not caring about your phone bill. She needs you right now, but you really don’t know what to do. You don’t know what to say. You feel like such an asshole, staying completely silent on the phone as she cries. But, you can’t think of anything to say and you desperately do not want to say anything wrong. You listen, and feel that it is not enough.

You worry about her for the rest of your break, knowing you cannot go to her – she is too far away and told you she didn't need you there. She told you not to waste the airfare. She told you.

You get back to school at the end of January and everything feels different. She does not sparkle like she used to, and you don’t know what to do. Your parent’s tell you there is nothing you can do – you just have to be there when she needs to and let the whole thing run its course.

But, it doesn't run its course. It’s nearly spring break before she touches you again, taking your hand outside the dining hall with a small, sad smile on her face. Your body hurts from how much nothing she has given you, but you cling to that touch like you might die without it. You know it’s ridiculous, but it’s almost like you can feel your heart weeping blood in your chest. You feel hallow.

She has not said that she loved you since the night before her father’s death. She has not truly touched you since before you left for Christmas. She has not really talked to you in so, so long.

You want to be angry at her. You find that you can’t be.

And then, “I slept with someone,” she is saying. You feel a rockslide in your lungs.

She says it was one time and it was a mistake, but God, you knew this was all too good to be true. She is so perfect and you are not and there was nothing keeping her with you, so why did she stay?

She says she was feeling so terrible about her father and that you weren’t there and that she needed someone and wanted comfort. She found someone who understood, who really understood, and they helped her through. And you believe every word she says and berate yourself for having listened to her when she said that she didn’t need you. And you want to cry when she says that she thinks, maybe, you guys should be on a break for a little while, but you will not in front of her.

So you smile and nod, and wish her a good spring break. She does the same for you. And then you run, getting only as far as the entrance of the old art museum before breaking down, sitting down hard on the stone wall and wishing nothing more than for the pain to stop, and for everything to go back to normal.

This is where your friend finds you. He kneels down in front of you for a while, looking so concerned that you want him to go away. You don’t need any pity. Then his face hardens and you find yourself being swung up, into his arms. He takes you back to his dorm room and lays you in his bed, tucking you in with a box of tissues before calling his roommate and telling him to find somewhere else to stay. You hear nothing else.

Sleep is a place where nothing hurts, you figure out pretty soon, and so you try to do it as much as possible. Your friend keeps reminding you that you hadn’t really spoken to her in almost three months, but that doesn’t matter to you. What matters is the fact that, for those three months, you clung to the hope, however small, that she would come back to you.

You had no hope now. That was what was killing you.

Eventually, your friend brings you back to your room, sleeping on your couch as he makes sure you’re not overdosing on sleeping pills or anything. You tell him the notion of suicide is silly, that you have too much to live for, but there is a ghost of something in his eyes that makes you let him stay with you. You feel guilty for making him worry so much.

You go home for Spring Break and your mother fusses. She says you are too thin. She says that you make her so worried sometimes. She says that, obviously, this girl wasn’t very nice after all, if she treated you so poorly. You wave away the final comment, feeling tears burn at the back of your eyes, and feel like you are choking.

Your father gives you a beer and lets you sit with him, in silence. He seems to understand more than anyone thus far. You are grateful.

Your brothers treat you no differently. You love them so much that you ache with it and are so glad that nothing in the world could take them away.

You go back to school at the end of March and feel different. Not better just… different. Your friend comes to your room to greet you as soon as he gets back and you end up watching a bad reality TV show full of loud, strident women as you throw popcorn at each other. You fall asleep with your head on his shoulder.

He takes you to breakfast the next morning and you meet a couple of your other friends there. They prattle on about nothing, clearly afraid of you and how sad you have been rumored to be.

You want to laugh at them. When they leave, you look at your friend and you do, he laughing along with you.

Another of your friends comes over that evening for your reality show binge. She makes better popcorn than you, and she is comforting and gravely understanding. You are grateful for her presence.

Your classes are suddenly easier. You suppose that, without the weight of imminent heartbreak looming over you, everything seems a little brighter. Something in your chest starts to loosen.

You don’t go out with your friends for a while, and when you do, they are all rather protective. It is not as though they don’t have problems of their own, but you have always been fragile, and you had never been in love before and you sense that they feel bad – your first experience ending this way. You try to assuage their worries. You act as normally as you can. You laugh at jokes and drink a little and throw an arm over some shoulders. You look normal.

Eventually, you begin to feel normal too.

By the time finals week rolls around, you feel like a different person. You have a summer looming ahead of you, a job all lined up for you at home, and you feel confident in all of your classes. You write two papers, take two written tests, and speak in French for half an hour before you are ready to leave. Your mother comes right up behind your dorm and helps you load things in. You had never really realized your apartment was so big.

You leave feeling like, maybe, it wasn’t so bad. Maybe this year was something to learn by. Maybe your relationship, your time with her – maybe you could look back on it as some kind of learning experience. It had been a couple of months now, and although it still feels like your heart is made of scar tissue, you feel better. There is no more rockslide in your lungs. There is no more fire in your liver. There is a calm through you and you feel…peace. Your mother drives you home, babbling about how good you look and how much your brothers had missed you. You missed her, her voice and her presence, and you are suddenly so grateful that she is here.

You get home and you get back to your own room and a space all your own and feel good. You get to work, a new job at a family owned grocery, and the happy old women buying milk make you feel good.

You feel good. You smile.

When, towards the end of June, a young woman comes up to your register, her blonde undercut in perfect contrast to her dark, dark roots, with the most beautiful eyes you have ever seen, you feel your heart lurch and you wonder. Has it been too short a time? Should you be over her already? Could you try this? Could you do this?

And you decide as you check her out and help her bag her things, that if you feel that you’re ready, that you are. This is your life, you deserve to be happy. You deserve to be loved.

So, “Hi,” you say. And when she smiles, you like the way her eyes curve. “I don’t know if it’s weird to come on to you in the grocery store, but I think you’re really pretty and wanted to know if I could buy you dinner tonight, or something.”

Color rises in her cheeks as she says yes and you think you really could like this girl. And, better yet, you really think she could like you.