Unfortunate Timing

It was their last night together. They both knew it. They had spent four months together. “Casual dating,” they had called it–he had called it, even though he didn’t consider it very casual. She referred to their relationship as “unfortunate timing.” “How are things going with Justin?” her friends would ask. “The unfortunate timing is going inconveniently well,” Jess would respond. Her friends would criticize her for being negative. “He’s graduating,” she would say sharply. “He has accepted a job on the other side of the country. It’s over.”

They started their last day together with a picnic by the river. It wasn’t anything particularly romantic–just a couple of subs and sodas. They went hiking. She caught a frog. He named it Albert just before it squirmed out of her hands. They repeatedly made uncomfortable eye contact. They didn’t want their eyes to acknowledge their thoughts.

He remembered when he first met her. He had been watching her from across a party and finally got the nerve to introduce himself. “Hi. I’m Justin,” he had said clumsily, with no warning. She smiled sweetly and said, “Surely you can do better than that.” He stuttered and stumbled over the simplest of words. She nodded her head a little, laughing but not mocking, and said, “Hi. My name is Jessica. I like Chinese food and kayaking . . . and I’m an awful dancer.” He stared at her, still speechless. She was kind enough to speak up again before the silence became too awkward, “And I almost died once when I was rafting down the Amazon in Brazil.” He had laughed instantly. “The Amazon? Seriously?” They talked for hours. He walked her home; he had offered her his coat but she declined. Before he had the chance to kiss her she said, “You don’t want to kiss me.” And before he had a chance to disagree she said, “We’re drunk. Our first kiss can’t happen when we’re drunk.” She kissed him on the cheek, said goodnight, and left him, completely enchanted, on her porch.

After hiking they went back to his place to shower. She showered first and walked to his room in a towel. “Is that what you’re wearing to dinner?” he asked, embracing her and kissing her forehead.

“Of course,” she responded, stepping back so he could see the full view. “You don’t think they’ll mind, do you?”

He shook his head and went to take his own shower. She sat on his bed and thought about the many nights they had spent there . . . about the first night they had spent there.

They had gone to a formal together and she was nervous . . . nervous because she didn’t know what he was expecting . . . nervous because she didn’t know what she expected. As soon as the lights were out, their lips found each other . . . their tongues explored each others’ mouths . . . their bodies writhed as their hands tentatively caressed and held and directed the motion . . . before she stopped him. “You okay?” he had immediately asked. “Yeah,” she responded, unsure of herself. “But I can’t do this . . . I mean . . . this is futureless . . . and I just can’t . . . I’m not . . .” She had been ready to give an entire speech about how she wasn’t “that kind of girl”–how she couldn’t give that much of herself to someone who wasn’t going to be in her future. He kissed her forehead and pulled her shirt back down to cover her. “I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I thought I could, but it just doesn’t feel right.” He pulled her close and said, “Don’t apologize. I’m lucky just to be holding you.” She rolled her eyes and said, “That’s so cheesy.” He laughed and criticized her for “ruining the mood.” They had stayed up most of the night talking. When they finally fell asleep, she found herself feeling safe in his arms. She had never felt safe in a man’s arms. Never in high school. Definitely not in college. Not even in her father’s embrace.

When they were both ready, he took her to a small steakhouse on the river. He was careful to open doors for her, even though she told him that it wasn’t necessary. She ordered salmon and he playfully criticized her for ordering fish before he ordered filet mignon. The conversation was unusually awkward. Neither of them wanted to discuss the future . . . their separate futures . . . but it was there and they knew they were avoiding it. “She has two more years left,” he thought. “Two more years of college to meet another guy . . .” He looked at her across the table. She looked different. She wasn’t happy and she wasn’t pretending to be . . . though he could tell she was trying not to cry. He remembered their first date, the night directly after they met.

He wanted to take her to an “authentic” Mexican restaurant. He was worried that she wouldn’t like it. When he warned her that the food wasn’t “Americanized” she laughed and said, “I grew up in southern California. It’s really not a problem.” She was full of off-the-wall, get-to-know-you questions. Some were relatively deep while others were merely comic relief. “What’s the worst thing you’ve ever done? Do you believe in God? Have you ever been to Europe? How do you feel about armadillos?” They had laughed all through dinner . . . never a dull moment. When they were done eating, she looked at his empty plate. “Do you always clean your plate?” she asked. “Yes,” he responded. “I’m slightly compulsive about it.” She grinned mischievously. “What?” he asked. She then picked up the basket of tortilla chips and dumped them onto his plate. He shook his head in disbelief–her smile was nothing but smug. “What if I really made you sit here and watch me eat all of these chips?” he asked. Her eyes softened but her smile never wavered. “At least I’d be in good company,” she answered, shrugging her shoulders in a way that made her hair cover a part of her face. He laughed, mostly to himself, and picked up a chip. He then proceeded to clean his plate, very slowly, for the second time that night, savoring not the taste, but her company.

After dinner they went back to his apartment. Before the bedroom door was shut and locked they were on each other. She pinned him against the wall and pressed her hips against his. She pulled back to take off his shirt and they moved towards the bed . . . off came dress. When they finally made it to the bed, he lifted her onto it and knelt to kiss her inner thighs. She ran her fingers through his hair and trembled as he got close . . . then subtly encouraged him to stand up again. She wrapped her legs around him as he kissed her neck and moved to unclasp her bra.

“No,” she said. He immediately turned his hands and his attention to her face. They looked into each other’s eyes and he moved in for another kiss. Something was off. She pulled back. “I can’t,” she said quickly.

“It’s okay,” he responded, stepping back as he noticed her legs were no longer wrapped around him. He dropped his hands to her waist.

“It’s not,” she said unsteadily.

“Jess, I told you before . . . we don’t have to do anything-"

"I know,” she interrupted. “Where’s my dress?” she asked.

He retrieved it from the floor and handed it to her without asking any questions. She stood up and he turned away, out of habit, as she dressed. He had never been more confused by her.

As she dressed she spoke out loud–possibly to herself. He wasn’t sure. “What the hell am I doing to myself?” she said in frustration. He turned around and stared her down. She looked different again. She no longer looked like the girl he had been dating for months. She no longer looked like the easy-going, fun-loving girl at the party. She looked like the girl whose heart he had just broken. “Jess . . . what’s wrong?” he asked. She smiled, and for the first time, he knew that it was fake.

“I’m so sorry,” she said. Her eyebrows furrowed and she added, “I can’t . . . I can’t do this tonight.”

“That’s fine!” he said in relief. “I told you before–“

”I know,” she interrupted again. “I should go though,” she added.

His confusion increased. “You don’t . . .” he stammered. “You don’t . . . I don’t want . . .” he looked to her for any hint as to how to proceed, but her fake smile was solid and unnerving. “I don’t want you to go,” he finally managed to get out. “We can put in a movie-“

”And what?” she interrupted as her smile faded. “Cuddle and talk all night?” her tone was accusing and he didn’t–he couldn’t–understand why. She saw his face melt and realized she was hurting him. “I’m sorry,” she said. “But you’re leaving . . . and this is over . . .” he tried to interrupt, but she held up her hand. “I am so sorry. I thought I could do this. I mean, from the beginning I knew that you were leaving . . . and I would never try to hold you back. You know that,” she said. He nodded his head. “Justin . . . I pride myself on not being needy or high maintenance . . . or attached . . . and this has been fun . . . really . . .” She looked to the floor, instead of to him, for the strength to continue. He thought about how she always maintained eye contact. How she used to always maintain eye contact. “I’m afraid that I have to cut myself off,” she finally continued. “This last night together would be great . . . the day has been great . . . the picnic and hiking and dinner. . . everything has been perfect. . . but staying here tonight,” she paused and stared at the floor for a long time. “Staying here tonight would be the shot to push me too far past sobriety . . . so I’m going to do something I almost never do and not take it. . . because I have next week’s hangover in mind, if you know what I mean.”

He barely heard the words, but he felt her slip away. She looked like a stranger to him by the time she stopped talking. Unfamiliar in every way. He could hardly believe that moments before he had taken off her dress–that he had kissed the nape of her neck, that he might have left a hickey on her inner thigh. . . he didn’t suppose he’d ever have the chance to check. She looked broken almost, though still just as stubborn and confident as always.

“I’ll walk you home,” he said.

“No,” she replied. “I’ve crossed this campus many times by myself. I’ll be fine.”

He nodded. He wanted to argue. He wanted to scream that he hated it when she walked alone at night. He wanted to tell her how much it worried him. But he knew she wouldn’t listen.

“To the door of my building at least?”

She nodded in agreement, then gathered her things into her backpack.

The elevator ride was long and silent. Neither of them could remember a time they had spent together that had been so uncomfortably quiet. . . but now there was nothing left to say.

He walked her to the door.

“I feel really bad,” she said.

“Me too,” he agreed.

She shook her head. “You were perfect. You were honest and up front all along. And a perfect gentleman,” she said, smiling. “I really appreciate it.”

He nodded and asked, “What could you possibly feel bad about?”

She looked into his eyes for a long time. “You deserve more,” she finally said. “I cheated you.” His eyes asked for elaboration. “The last few months of your senior year. . . you spent mostly with me. You should’ve been with your friends. . . but you were with me. . . and I didn’t even put out,” she said with a smile.

He shook his head and chuckled. “Give me some credit. . . I wanted to be with you.”

Her smile looked real to him again. There she was. . . the smart, funny, beautiful girl that he had seen at the party. Her smile may have been real, but her eyes were leaking despite it. His hand instinctively moved to wipe away her tears, but her hand caught his in protest. Though he had never seen her cry before, he was sure she never let anyone else catch her tears.

He wanted her to stay. He wanted to protect her. He wanted to make her feel safe. He wanted her. . . all of her. But she was right. He had told her from the beginning that it was futureless. . . it was over. It wouldn’t be fair of him to ask her to stay. The night would have been bittersweet at best, but he couldn’t keep it in. “I don’t want you to go,” he said again.

“Me neither,” she responded. She moved in and kissed him; she had completely caught him off guard. He didn’t have time to react the way he wanted. When she pulled away, he tried to move with her, but she was done. She turned quickly and walked out the door.

He fought the urge, the nearly unbearable desire to chase after her as he watched her retreat. When she was out of sight, he returned to his room and finished packing. . . putting all thoughts of her into a box labeled “college.”

She didn’t go directly to her apartment. She was crossing the courtyard in the middle of campus when she broke down. She collapsed to the ground and finally allowed herself to cry–to really cry. She didn’t pretend to be stronger than she was. She sat in the grass and thought of all the times they had spent on that lawn. Picnics, reading together, star watching. . . and when they had first met in January, snow ball fights. She fantasized about him running to her and saying it was a lie. . . that he wasn’t going to the west coast. . . that he’d find another job. . . but she knew that he wouldn’t do that. Even if he would have, she probably wouldn’t have let him. Then, as abruptly as she had started, she stopped crying, stood up, brushed herself off, and walked home. She had to finish packing for the summer too; her boxes, however, were labeled “growing up” and “regrets.”