Jacob Emmanuel - April 11, 2009 - I have to make the train so we walk out together and she leaves the weird amp equipment in the closet this time. The rain has stopped and we kiss goodbye by the train. My parents ask me how my rehearsal was later. I say it was excellent. I mean really. It was the best rehearsal I could have had. They stare oddly at each other and go back to talking with my brother, who is on April break. I walk upstairs to my room and lie on my bed, mulling everything over.
You’ve called me “dear” five times and each time it’s had a profound affect on me, which is why I remember the situation surrounding every time. The first time was when we were dating – shows you don’t use the term regularly. I was giving off my first signs of paranoia concerning your friendships with other girls. “Am I not allowed to have other friends who are girls?” you asked. “I was joking,” I lied. You replied honestly, “As am I, dear.”
The next time was rather uneventful-seeming. We were making plans to meet up in the city, but we needed to sneak, as usual, around your parents. The chat appeared on my previously blank screen. “Hi dear.” It may have meant nothing to you, but that one little word meant the world to me. Throughout the months following our break-up, I forgot its impact. But that one day in December reminded me.
It was nearly 12 in the morning and I’d invited you to the city to eat with a group of our mutual friends the next evening. I asked you why you were up so late past your usual bedtime and you said you’d been chilling. I tried to ignore the climbing feeling of unease in my stomach and relaxed when the crowd seemed to have been predominantly male. However, not the same guys I’d become acquainted with during our period of dating. “I didn’t know you switched friend groups so quickly.” “Wrong assumption dear.”
For the majority of January, I thought I’d never speak to you again. I thought you were making the world a worse place. When I snapped back, I was just as surprised as you were, even more so. One Saturday night I chatted you, wondering what you’d thought of the rehearsal I’d dropped into because I was “bored.” We ended up talking about your typical “stoned” behavior at Juilliard. Finally, you admitted that you felt restricted. “I wish you didn’t,” I replied but in all honesty I was just happy you’d opened up. I shivered at your reply. “I can’t help it dear.”
I turned to Aidan soon after that, performing my almost polished stunt of shutting you out. If you knew how easily you can bring me back, with one little word even, maybe you’d lose respect for me. Or maybe you’d realize the truth, which is that I’d never gone. But I’m keeping it hidden, even labeling you as my “gay friend” if necessary.
The fifth time transformed Sadie’s Facebook status into a ground for subconscious confession. I quoted a silly yet apt mantra of yours, but apparently mixed up some phrasing. “But alas dear, I’m afraid you have misquoted.” You corrected me with your subtle insertion of the magic word. I make it a habit of running from its heavy impact or extending it too far for either of us to reach. Maybe this time, with some luck, it’ll be just right.
