Eleven Miles from Home

Eleven Miles from Home

  by Jeremy Bursey

  Copyright 2015 by Jeremy Bursey

  All rights reserved.

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  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Table of Contents

  Richard (Confession 1)

  Rachel (Confession 1)

  Richard (Confession 2)

  Rachel (Confession 2)

  Author’s Note

  Ebook Version

  About the Author

  Other Books

  Contact and Questions

  Richard

  Confession #1

  Rachel and I stopped getting along a few months ago. I think it happened suddenly—our shift toward mutual dislike—but I’m not sure offhand how or when. I do have a theory, but I’d need to give it some thought. Kind of a dumb reason to fight, actually, if that’s what caused it. But I could be wrong. I just know the first spark of our disagreement didn’t ignite over television or pizza or anything. If I’m not mistaken. Again, without a thorough investigation, I can base my assumptions only on assumptions, which boils my idea down to a circular argument. Those are fun to untangle, aren’t they?

  I suppose the actual catalyst that brought us to our new paradigm could’ve been introduced through other catalysts. Maybe nothing is really as simple as the surface view might suggest. I mean, who’d guess just by looking at the naked ocean that it’s seven miles deep in some places? The weight that must be pressing against the bottom right now, and all the junk that must be floating in between—

  In truth, the signs that we were about to clash were ambivalent at best, and they could’ve begun long before the actual incident that caused our rupture. But the important thing is that we did hit the wall. And regardless which road we were taking back then, we’ve certainly found our way onto a broken one now.

  Normally, the fact that we don’t get along wouldn’t be an issue. People don’t have to get along. We usually do fine with our conflicts whenever they arise because we find ways to handle them. Sometimes we fake our feelings with a smile. Sometimes we just open a fight and declare a winner when the dust settles. My favorite solution: We avoid each other when need be, and that need-be situation comes along often. But our current situation makes that difficult. At the moment, the fact that we can’t stand each other is a pretty big freaking deal. Unlike my favorite approach for dealing with our tension, we can’t run from this reality. Going for the default solution would just cause bigger problems.

  I know there’s an origin to our simmering war, and if I think about it long enough, I’m sure I can figure out what really started it, and why it’s been allowed to continue, and whether or not it can, or should, ever be fixed. And it’s not like I’m on some time limit to pinpoint the infection source because, frankly, Rachel and I aren’t going anywhere. We can place blame on who’s at fault for that later. For now, we have to live with the results: We’re stuck on the side of the road, Rachel’s cellphone is out of service thanks to our position in the dead zone, and there aren’t many people passing through to give us a lift back to town. If we ever are going to deal with it, today’s the day. But I’m still trying to decide if it’s worth it. There’s a reason we don’t get along anymore.

  I suppose for that detail to resonate, I need to explain our relationship. So, where do I begin?

  Relationships are like paperweights: they’re useful but heavy. Ours began as something useful. But like paperweights, relationships can also look like anything, and be made of anything. This makes it hard to differentiate between a paperweight, and say, a coffee cup serving as a paperweight. Is there coffee in the cup? Will the fan blow all the papers around if someone drinks the coffee in the cup? Are they thinking about the fan when they pick up the cup? Is it still a paperweight when the person is drinking out of the cup?

  Perhaps our state of opposition appeared on the horizon the day we met, or maybe it snuck up on me, but that inevitable moment arrived at a time when I wasn’t paying attention, and now, well, here we are, stranded in the middle of nowhere, not getting along. Our friction is a condition I’ve yet to figure out because we’re into the same things—on that fact alone we should, in theory, get along just fine. But sometimes two people with similar interests are less than kindred spirits, like the clown and the mime who went to school together; and the clown bullied him, or, more likely, the other way around. I’m pretty sure our relationship is a lot like that. Useful, but it became heavy.

  I’m no psychologist, though. My line of work does not encourage me to think or to evaluate people. I’m not sure I’m qualified to understand Rachel or her buttons, or what would drive her to hate me. But I do have a brain, so it’s worth a try. I think. I’ve got to do something smart here. I already kinda blew it once today.

  Maybe there’s some negative aura thing that makes us friends to dysfunction. Then again, I’m not really the type who believes in auras and stuff like that. Rachel doesn’t either. Perhaps that’s the heart of our similarity: a connection that we find everything weird yet understandable in the context of noun use because the word aura sounds pretty cool. But that’s conjecture. I’ve never heard anyone but literature snobs fighting over the meanings of words, and those people probably need some adrenaline in their lives anyway, so more power to them. Honestly, it’s a semantics issue, and who really cares about that? The semantics of words is just another way to get innocent people in trouble. I don’t think having a difference of opinion about nouns and weird things is what got us disliking other. We agree on that. So, that couldn’t have been the spark.

  We also tend to agree that fast-food is awesome, dogs are too loud, and the past is worth forgetting, especially when we can’t let it go. None of those things would have sparked our conflict, either.

  Least surprising, we agree that jet skiing is cool. It’s the water sport that brought us to this place along the side of the road in the first place. Convenient, right? There’s another interesting word for dictionary types—an adjective this time. Convenient.

  Sorry, I know all of that sounds like fishing. I really want to believe we fell apart over something stupid. Coming to the conclusion that we slammed the brakes on our appreciation for each other and pushed the gear into reverse in response to something like my thinking a peanut butter and jelly sandwich is better than bologna and her getting pissed about it would justify my anger over the whole thing. Sometimes I wonder if the truth robs me of that justification, though. Truth is, we both agree peanut butter and jelly is better than bologna. Together and separately.

  Eh, the truth. Maybe I should just ditch the conjecture and own up to the facts. Fine, if we’re stuck here for a while, I may as well talk about what I do know.

  I guess I should back up a few feet and explain our history, not that history matters anymore because here we are now secretly wanting to strangle each other’s throats—not out of malice of course, but because that’s just what we do. Anyway, here’s the general scoop: We used to date, a lot. Again, not out of malice, but because we actually liked each other.

  In some reverse psychological way, that mutual infatuation is what screwed us. Yes, it began as something pleasant, satisfying, and, well, fine. But everything in l
ife degrades in time, and our relationship was no different. Our favoritism toward each other transformed into disagreement, then disillusionment, then disappointment, then disgust. We still haven’t hit the fifth stage of deterioration, distance—something we need plenty of from each other but can’t get thanks to the current situation—but after today, we might just get there.

  I suppose that still doesn’t answer the big question.

  So, the big question: How do two people go from liking each other, to not, to standing by the side of a road eleven miles from home? Well, there’s the jet skiing thing. But obviously it goes deeper than that. I suppose to adequately explore the origin of our emotional destruction, I would have to tell the story of how our relationship began. It began with the other girlfriend.

  Her name was Abby. Not really the nicest girl in the world and certainly not the prettiest, but she smelled really good. I’d describe her neck like a scent of shampoo dipped in flowers. It was the kind that made me forget about the horse-like face she had. Yeah, I know, comparing her to a horse is a bit extreme, but she’d never make it to the runways—not then, and probably not now—it’s just one of those painful facts of life. I didn’t mind, though, because she never expected me to kiss her. Her only demand was that I held her during movies every once in a while. The whole setup was favorable because I could smell her neck without ever having to look at her. It was the perfect relationship.

  But as irony had it, Rachel had to show up and ruin all of that.

  I realize I haven’t mentioned anything pertinent to the situation. But I guess that describes life. Nothing significant ever happens, yet, it all comes together in strange ways and places two contentious people along the side of the road for reasons neither understand. The fact that nothing ever happened with Abby and then, BAM, Rachel comes along and screws everything up, undoubtedly reinforces that theory. I guess deep down I’m still upset that she disturbed the order of my life. I mean, the low expectations and the great-scent thing were really awesome. The fact that both characteristics of my relationship with Abby demanded absolutely nothing in the realm of change had made it even better. But when Rachel invaded my life, she introduced a whole new factor of excitement that I’d never found in Abby, and thus brought into my life an unnecessary shift in nothing. That, of course, was my newfound love for Jet Skis.

  One day Abby and I headed off to the park to watch the lake ripple. There was no reason for it; there was just nothing worth watching on TV. As usual, we sat on the bench, put our arms around each other’s waist and said absolutely nothing for as long as the situation allowed. The lake undulated, we watched it with gaping mouths, and I savored the fact that her hair was up my nose. But then it happened: Some girl on a Jet Ski flew by. My gaping mouth hit my knees. The machine looked amazing and I felt fuzzy, and the girl looked pretty nice, too. In retrospect, the discovery was a terrible one.

  To this day I don’t know how Abby reacted. Since I made a point to never look directly into her eyes, I just focused my attention on the Jet Ski and assumed she was equally mesmerized. She didn’t speak of it, but deep down I figured she dreamed of riding it. I mean, the machine was unlike anything we’d ever seen before. Literally. We lived in a backwater town that believed lakes were meant for fishing, not fun.

  When the skier docked her machine, I felt the compulsion to talk to her and discover more about this crazy device. So that’s what I did. I didn’t wait for Abby to follow; I just assumed she’d find her way. Apparently, I was wrong. Looking back, I think maybe she was being shy. After all, she was a shy person when it came to meeting strangers and their strange toys. It didn’t matter, though. She had a right to support her quirks.

  Anyway, I started talking to the skier girl and immediately got hooked on the topic. It became all I harped on for twenty minutes straight. The girl seemed interested in my interest. So after my excitement dwindled down, she invited me to give it a ride. That floored me. I went for it.

  And I loved it. The adrenaline was more intense than riding a lawnmower. It was a rush in a can, a Red Bull on the water. By the end of the day, when I finally docked and called it quits, the skier congratulated me for making it through my first session in one piece. I shouted my joy at the treetops.

  It wasn’t until a couple of days later that I realized Abby was gone the whole time I was out there.

  To confirm the obvious, Rachel was the girl on the Jet Ski and I never saw Abby again. Don’t get me wrong, I tried to find her later that month and was even willing to apologize—I really didn’t want to lose her awesome scent. But I couldn’t. I don’t know why, but sometimes I think she just dug a hole next to that bench, jumped in, and covered herself up. That was the only logical explanation.

  To get back to the point of the current problem, Rachel and I started dating that very night. We hit it off pretty well: talking about jet skiing, how much we thought weird people should keep their thoughts to themselves, penguins, and more jet skiing. Eventually, we made special trips to Jet Ski camps, which meant spending entire weekends in ecstasy. Of course, that meant I had to buy my own Jet Ski, which was naturally the greatest investment of my life, if not a little pricey. To compensate for the financial hit, I ate cheaply for a long, long time. I’d gained weight in the process—the price for fun is often expensive. But, Rachel liked hanging out with me anyway. She was cool like that.

  But as the order of nothing became something, things started to change. I realized we were in an actual relationship: not a small movie-watching, bench-sitting, jet-skiing thing, but something that involved talking to and looking at each other. Sure, we got to spend a lot of time on the water, but we also had to pay attention to each other’s words and pretend we cared what was on the other’s mind. I wasn’t sure I was ready for that.

  I don’t know, somewhere along the line what became something started becoming too much. Rachel always asked why I didn’t care, even though I said I did, even though I really didn’t and she’d accuse me of lying. I’d buy her flowers on the advice of friends, hoping to prove that I could’ve cared, but she’d always get picky saying that plastic flowers from the dime store was not an appropriate make-up gift. After watching a few of her tears fall, and getting frustrated that I wasted twenty-five cents on the stupid flowers, I’d walk away to see if there was anything good on TV. That, of course, was when she’d come to my side, apologize for being so rude and tell me she loved me. That, of course, pissed me off. What did she really think she was going to accomplish by saying that? Abby never said the word love the whole time I knew her. The girl was obviously loony.

  It’s not that love bothers me. I mean, let’s be real; I love jet skiing. There’s no reason to think it’s a dirty word. The problem I had, however, was that this girl thought she was going to get me to marry her or something. Obviously, that’s the only reason she’d ever say it. Truth was, I didn’t want to be involved like that. So, I called it quits. That’s when the fireworks exploded.

  So, as much as I wish we’d fought over peanut butter, bologna, and loud dogs, the truth is, that was the trigger. Most likely. With Rachel it’s hard to tell sometimes. But I’m pretty sure it had a lot to do with the fact that I’d broken up with her.

  When I use the term “fireworks,” I should probably mention that they began as small firecrackers, rather than a full array of M80s. Even though the tension resembled a cloud that could be spotted from miles away, Rachel never chose to yell at me. In fact, I’m not sure she ever yelled a day in her life. Her big thing was passive-aggressiveness, to be polite when she blatantly insulted me and then shed a few tears for emphasis. She was a dirty player, certainly, and that’s how the dislike for each other escalated. The more she turned her anger into words, the more I’d flip them back at her. Our exchanges became cold war matches to see who’d get madder at the other without intensifying it with volume. In the end, she was better at the game than I was. It usually took three insults to break my patience. Of course, my eminent yelling always b
rought her to the point of flinging her arms upward and turning her back on me, to which she’d finish off with a sob-fest. We eventually got tired of fighting and acknowledged that “quits” meant no contact of any kind. That’s when we agreed to end the tension and avoid each other completely.

  So how does one go from dating, to hating, to going jet skiing together? It’s a complicated situation to the untrained mind. The bottom line is that we both love to jet ski, and neither of us know of another soul who shares our passion, so we bear the burden of sacrifice for our one true love, the one that doesn’t degrade over time.

  In retrospect, this may seem too insane for truth. But believe me, it’s all true. It’s what I like to call Jetskius Magnetismo, which, translated into layman’s terms, means the attraction to aquatic adrenaline. I guess the best way to describe it is to compare it to a Vin Diesel movie, where the story sucks but the action is amazing. When one has a deep love for jet skiing, he or she is willing to experience that love with anyone, regardless of feelings or having to watch a terrible story unfold. And that’s precisely what Rachel and I possess. Frankly, I think it’s beautiful.

  To the minds that don’t understand our relationship or the love of Jet Skis we share—shame on all of them—this whole setup probably seems like lunacy. It’s true that our depth of substance might have difficulty sinking a gerbil, but that’s all it took to bring us together in the first place. And maybe it’s true that if what brought us together is still strong in our lives today then, hypothetically, we should still be together. But life doesn’t always work that way.

  To make sense of our relationship, let’s examine this concept for a moment. Pretend a girl is sitting by herself in the park listening to the radio. For the sake of hypothesis, let’s pretend this girl is Abby. Now Abby has an easy-listening station tuned in, which, if I remember correctly, was her favorite kind of music. Imagine if Dude X came walking by, whistling some Neil Diamond, or Frank Sinatra, or some other popular old rich guy song. The tune wouldn’t be that interesting because who really listens to easy-listening? But think about it. If Abby is uninteresting enough to listen to that kind of music, and if Dude X is really known as Dork X, then maybe some kind of connection will take place. Hence, a version of Jetskius Magnetismo occurs.

  It can be a beautiful thing. Maybe not so much in Abby’s case, but for the most part it can be a beautiful thing.

  But that beauty doesn’t help Rachel and me anymore. The problem is that this section of road is nowhere near a lake and that means Rachel and I are separated from our only real connecting point. And trust me, when the link between a man’s and woman’s heart is severed, it sucks. Not only does it suck that we have to find another way to make due with our situation, but it sucks because we can’t have fun doing it. The truth is, we stopped having fun when the ride ended, and this forsaken highway isn’t the object that’s meant to restore our passion. The only fires lit in our hearts are the ones that left me craving a turkey sandwich and her giving me the silent treatment. As far as I know, those fires aren’t even strong enough to brown a marshmallow.

  So that more or less brings us to the present, or at least the recent past. I know it doesn’t explain how in the world we ended up here, but it does explain how we ended up here together. Of course, if knowing how we got here is important at all, then I suppose this would be the best time to discuss that. After all, neither Rachel nor I have anything else to do but to sit alongside this craggy road, trying to figure out why we felt the urge to take this jet skiing trip, reflecting on whether or not it was worth our becoming stranded together.

  Rachel

  Confession #1

  To be honest, I don’t know what I was thinking. I just wanted to spend a nice day on the lake—to take a deep breath and clear my head. One could probably call me a recreational dependent for all the deep breaths I’ve needed. But I don’t know; maybe I wouldn’t call myself that. Maybe I’d call myself a hopeless mess. It was the appropriate label for me back then, and I think it’s still the case now.

  Forgive me for sounding pessimistic, but I have no other way to describe it. I was depressed over the continual disappointments I’d faced each day—disappointments of losing my simple hopes in life, like finding jobs that didn’t involve waiting on cheapskates or finding parking spots close to my building, for example. It was like trying to climb the Himalayas with an ice pick and a jogging suit. Sometimes I’d ask myself if I was aiming too high, but I realized that asking the mailman to be punctual was aiming too high.

  For two years I gave up on life’s simple things and cried every chance I got, no longer expecting the obvious.

  My therapist used to tell me that life was just life, and that there was nothing unusual about mine. And I guess to some extent that was true. But the reality was that my therapist had problems of his own. Like, there was one day he came in with a cup of coffee in hand and bags under his red eyes. I asked him if everything was okay, and he just sort of nodded and sipped his coffee. He then countered by asking how I was doing. That’s when I cried again.

  I wish I could accurately describe how I was before the crisis began, but I was so foggy then that I really can’t remember all the details. I do remember the smiles were present at times and that I’d occasionally look forward to the next day of existence, but somewhere along the line all that faded. Sometimes I believe it was my blatant irresponsibility that had brought me to my low point, but deep down I think it had something to do with my heart shattering after I’d found out the guy I loved was married with three pets or kids or some discovered trio that left me too stunned to actually listen to his confession. I’d gotten as far as “And my wife and my three…” before I shutdown and collapsed into myself. So much has happened since then that narrowing it down to a singular event might be counterproductive to the truth, but I’m pretty sure that’s how the spiral started.

  When my therapist once asked how the whole attraction to the wrong man began, I described it as having happened by chance. The events that brought me down that path should never have happened, but they did because it was my time to start living in pain. My answer garnered a look that branded me as insane.

  Realistically, the question should’ve been a simple one, involving the recall of a historical moment that had occurred not long ago. But every time I dwelled on it, it brought me nothing but sorrow. Maybe I’m a crybaby at heart, but I think any girl in my situation would’ve reacted similarly. After all, that was the day I hit my gutter—the day when I dropped my standards to the floor and swept them under the rug. Granted, I didn’t know it back then, but it sure became obvious to me as time moved on. I had fallen so hard from perpetual loneliness that I was ready to invite anything into my heart to quench it. It was at that point that Harry entered the picture.

  Harry was the kind of guy who could flash a lawyer’s smile, even if his teeth were smoke-stained and his lips were cracked. His tastes for appearance involved mock Italian suits from Walmart and cheap scented colognes from the local drug store. To his credit, he had a way of playing them up. I never would’ve considered him strikingly handsome, but he had that gentle touch that caressed my skin with excitement. And that was enough to enrapture me. Looking back, I can see I was desperate to be caught—the sad face sporting the invitation from the fool. But when that slick phony found me crying by a park bench that fateful day, he found the right buttons to push.

  Just to clarify things, I cried in public where families walking their dogs could openly see. My heart was that beaten. I forget what triggered the drama, but I remember it had to do with the ongoing loneliness I’d felt since college.

  When I was a freshman, I flunked out of my classes for partying too hard too often. I either attended class inebriated or flat out didn’t attend at all. Even though my friends supported my lifestyle, my instructors were less than understanding. After a spell, my math teacher advised the dean to kick me out because I was “wasting the campus’s resources.” When the dean summ
oned me to his office to make it clear that I either shaped up or shipped out, I laughed at him, puked on his chair and flashed him my headlights. I think in my head I was trying to reveal my attributes to appease his disappointment in me, but in my heart I was just trying to salvage what little future I had left. Either way, it was a bad decision. When the dust cleared, my reaction stunned him for a minute; then he closed his eyes and pointed to the door.

  I cleaned out my dormitory the following day.

  The disparaging loneliness set in a few months later when I realized my friends weren’t coming to rescue me. They had their own lives to live—far away I might add—and the fun we used to share died away. I continued to go to bars and clubs, because that’s what I knew, but the thrill weakened when I realized going anywhere by myself really sucked. Then one night, as I sat under a strobe light with a bottle of Zima in hand, I stared at all the animated dancers slowly pulsating with their eyes glazed over, wondering what their lives were like before dark. Somehow I concluded they had spent their sunlit hours thinking about coming to the club, which was exactly what I did each day while I waited on the diner’s lunch crowd to leave. At that point, my heart broke and I questioned where my life was going. When I realized I had no idea, I set the Zima on the floor and walked out of the club forever.

  Needless to say, I was ready to change my life from head to toe and actually pursue some honest ambition. But doing that meant changing everything about me.

  So I returned to college—a campus a little closer to home—and tried out for a future again, this time without the parties, or the drinking or anything that didn’t revolve around studying. In fact, anything that sounded remotely like fun had to get the big red “X” because I wasn’t about to get kicked out of college again.

  But as irony had it, my lack of a job led me to financial disaster and I had to drop out of school anyway. And though I was sober, I left without making any friends.

  And I think that’s ultimately what led me to the park bench that introduced me to Harry.

  Harry didn’t seem like the wrong guy at first. In fact, I found him quite charming. His presence made my heart light, which was great considering he made my tears vanish. He took me to dinner, bought me the usual romantic stuff, and touched me in the usual romantic ways—hair, thigh, hair, lips, repeat where appropriate. The whole bloody package felt wonderful for five straight months.

  But one night, when we were planning our first exotic adventure to the Bahamas together, his wedding ring fell out of his pocket.

  I spent the next few days and nights crying on a different park bench, occasionally returning to my dingy apartment to erase my phone messages. Somewhere in that block of time I’d hoped that maybe another prince would come and rescue me from that random hideaway, but I gave up when I concluded that all the charming ones had something gold and circular buried in their pockets.

  So, that was the time I decided to go for total losers.

  Admittedly, I was nervous about the thought of dating guys with beer breath and greasy armpits. Nevertheless, deep down I was too numb to care anymore. They weren’t attractive, and they certainly weren’t respectful, but they weren’t married, either, so I tolerated it. Of course they all broke me eventually, to which I had to go off and look for yet another. But in the long run I never had to worry about loneliness. That was the one thing they were good for. They always hung around. Even when I wasn’t home, they’d hang around…eating my food, putting their grungy flip-flops on my couch, putting their huge, filthy dogs on my bed, putting their used utensils back in the drawer…and I was okay with it because…because I was afraid to be alone….

  I was afraid to be alone.

  Truthfully, I hated my life. I hated every moment of it because I couldn’t be alone. I wanted to be alone—believe me, I couldn’t stand any of those drunken scrubby guys that kept coming around, bringing six-packs of beer into my apartment, drinking up a storm…pissing all over the seat. I wanted to get them out of my life once and for all. But I couldn’t because then I wouldn’t have anyone. And that was something I just couldn’t handle.

  So I kept inviting them over because I knew they wouldn’t leave, even when I asked them to. They’d insist on staying day after day, night after night, headache after headache, and I’d be grudgingly thankful because there was another body to keep me company. Sometimes there would be two guys overlapping shifts. That usually broke into a fight, of course; while one guy claimed dominion over me, the other called the police claiming assault. But the new guy would always win and I’d have to put up with him until the next one entered my life. And I would never be alone—yet I would pray for the day I could handle the solitude.

  And now I suppose would be a good time to mention the Jet Ski.

  Shortly before Harry dropped his big revelation on me, he had bought me a special gift. He knew I loved the outdoors; the problem was I never had the right equipment to take with me. Even though I’d spend my studying phase in open courtyards and under trees at the park, my resources beyond the books were limited. So, he thought I’d enjoy a little outdoor action. That’s when he covered my eyes and walked me outside to reveal to me a lump of tarp in my parking lot.

  When he shed the mystery device’s covering, out popped a sexy little white two-person Jet Ski with the Kawasaki brand name and a racing stripe emblazoned on the side. It had a flower insignia and my initials inscribed underneath on the front.

  I fell in love with the watercraft the moment Harry taught me how to use it. The thrill of the speed, the splash of lake water against my face—it was a bit nasty, but oh so exhilarating. Immediately, it became my second love. Each day I’d go out and hop a few waves before breakfast. Then, I’d go out again after coming home from my useless job until night fell and Harry came over with flowers and a movie.

  But when the night fell that Harry shed his scales, he managed to take my love for the watercraft with him. Though the thrill of hopping water lingered, I no longer had the heart to put his machine between my legs. After two weeks passed, I wanted freedom from the reminder, so I put a FOR SALE sign across the handlebars.

  I stuffed the money I’d made from the sale into my bank account so I’d have something to go back to college with. But as time passed and deadbeat men came and went, I started to think that my return to school wasn’t meant to happen in my lifetime. The income trickled in too slowly, the guys cleaned me out of resources, and I still had bills to pay. Eventually, I had to put my academic pipe dreams to bed. So, with my ambition for a degree vanished forever, I decided to spend my money on something else.

  Since my love for the lake had never wavered, I decided to invest in my own personal watercraft—free from Harry’s wallet.

  Unfortunately, I couldn’t sell my old Jet Ski for the full price that Harry had probably spent on it, so a new sport model large enough for two people was out of the question. I looked through the classifieds for a nice used watercraft, but realized the prices offered were too low for comfort (some people advertise hot items, and I can’t bring myself to buy something stolen), so I decided to invest in a new solo. And sure, it was expensive enough to break me, but it was still comparatively cheaper than my first. My only real concern was that I had been accustomed to ride sitting down and this one required me to stand.

  I’ll admit that the two-person sport was easier to ride, but the solo offered unparalleled freedom. It was like skipping a motor scooter across the water. The experience carried all the benefits that my old one had provided, but added a new thrill with the whole butt-suspension thing. Needless to say, I felt free to love again.

  And that’s what finally made me happy. I had my own Jet Ski, bought with my own cash, ridden on my own passion, unattached to any man. No one could steal it from me. This was my true love. No greasy stranger would intercept my heart now that it was spoken for.

  But then came the event that relapsed me into my newest oblivion. Richard entered my life.

  Richard

/>   Confession #2

  I have no idea how it happened. We weren’t eager to ride together. I didn’t like her and she didn’t like me. Yet, somehow we found ourselves traveling in my SUV, hitching a small trailer with our solo Jet Skis attached, heading back to town—because we were stupid.

  Now, we weren’t stupid because we’d spent the day jet skiing together. Realistically, we’d jet ski with Hitler if he were alive and knew how to operate one. We were stupid for leaving the lake. Sure, the decision had to come eventually. But it forced us to enter a situation that required us to talk to each other. And if we weren’t required to talk, then we were required to sit in silence, or worst of all, spend several miles on the road alone with each other.

  When two people share no common interests other than aquatic adventure and a few stupid things, trying to make do with a measly road trip would be like licking the fires of hell without a glass of lemonade on hand. For anyone who has sensory deprivation, I should probably clarify that that’s a bad thing.

  Now, I’m no masochist; I didn’t place myself in this vehicle with this woman to punish myself. After all, it’s my vehicle. But I bit the bullet with her because I didn’t want to jet ski alone. To this day I’ve never ridden solo and I have no intention to start. Therefore, I had to invite the only girl I knew who shares my passion because that was the only thing that made sense to me.

  I should’ve known that opening the door for her would’ve caused major problems down the road. I did it anyway because I’m the moron and because I’d hate to leave my Jet Ski alone on the trailer without the company of another Jet Ski. I think most guys in my situation would’ve called me a patriot. I love my Jet Ski—so much in fact that I park it inside the house every night to protect it. To let go of my selfishness, to let the woman into the vehicle, and to return back to town with her was my visual labor of love for my watercraft. And what kind of man would neglect the one he loves?

  Of course, all I’ve done here was to talk about my SUV and my Jet Ski. I realize that doesn’t paint things in the proper context, so, once again, let me clarify. The real issues began inside the vehicle—inside with Rachel. It all started as soon as we pulled out of the lake’s parking lot.

  We filled the drive with silence for a while. I had nothing to say to her and she had nothing to say to me, so we didn’t say anything, initially. But something happened and Rachel asked me a question. Normally I’d humor her and answer whatever she asked, but this time I just didn’t feel like it. So she asked again. I ignored her. This went on for a few cycles. Finally, I got sick of listening to her, so I drove to a nearby gas station to pick up a turkey sandwich.

  I think, in retrospect, I probably deserved what happened next.

  I’ll admit that I could’ve treated her questions and opinions a little more seriously. In fact, if I were to dive into deeper retrospect, I think maybe I could’ve treated her better as a person. The effort would’ve demanded more than I wanted to give, because I really got sick of all her constant crying. But…the problem was…

  Look, there was absolutely no way I could’ve put up with her crying for the rest of my life. Every time she cried, I felt like I was responsible. I can’t speak for every man, but I hate feeling accountable to a woman’s tears. Rachel’s or anyone’s. The fact that she cried a lot pissed me off because much of it was on my behalf. She expected more from me than I could possibly want to give. All I expected from her was to give me some breathing room. Neither of us could deliver our mutual desires, so we crumbled at the foundation.

  And our Jet Skis couldn’t save us. We were doomed as a couple.

  And I was content with that.

  I was seriously content with that. Because…

  Well, it’s like…

  I know what I want to say; it’s just…

  Bloody hell….

  Never mind. I’ll think of what kept me content later. To make the long story short, when Rachel and I went to buy our late-afternoon snacks, some dude ripped off my SUV. With both Jet Skis attached. I felt responsible for that.

  In my defense, I didn’t think leaving my keys in the ignition while parked in the middle of nowhere would’ve been that bad of an idea. I mean, if no one’s around…

  I don’t even know why I’m talking about this. I know I was right. Right?

  Look, I know my decisions look bad. I could sense it in Rachel’s mannerisms, the way she glared at me when I insisted on leaving the keys in the ignition. I just wanted to shave a few extra seconds off the clock, reduce the time we had to spend together by any means necessary. I wasn’t wrong. I’m sure of that.

  Even if someone did come along and steal the whole shebang.

  I know my decision looks bad.

  Okay, the more I think about it, the more I realize all of this did fall entirely on my shoulders. Blame placed. Fair enough. I don’t like her anymore, and I let it show quite vividly. But tracing my reasons back to their origin brought everything full circle into my lap. I don’t like her because she cries too much. She cries too much because I don’t want to be deeply involved with her. I don’t want to be deeply involved with her because…well because…um…

  Okay, truthfully I don’t know the answer to that last one. She stuck with me—even when Jet Skis weren’t part of the agenda. She used to say nice things to me when my days were bad—even when she didn’t believe her own words. She took bottles of alcohol out of my hand to keep me straight—even when her eyes lusted after the drink herself. Rachel did all that…and I didn’t want her to.

  Why?

  Truth: I didn’t trust her. She was too interested in me—cared too much. She’d actually massage my shoulders when I was tense. She’d actually kiss me on the cheek when I had a bad hair day. She’d actually say positive things about me when I’d fall flat on my face. And she’d actually say that seriously twisted word called love to me whenever I felt like a reject. I didn’t trust her at all. Who the hell treats anyone with respect anymore?

  And now my SUV is gone. And now my Jet Ski is gone. And, for crying out loud, now Rachel’s Jet Ski is gone. All because I didn’t trust her.

  It’s almost laughable.

  Sometimes I wish I weren’t such a prick. Yeah, I know; I’m not blind—I know exactly what I am. I used to gawk at people like me once, too, back when I hung out with the band geeks. I think somewhere along the line I found out about culture shock, and popularity and biker bars, and pretty much changed the way I thought about life from that point forward. And sitting here with Rachel crying along the side of the road eleven miles from home really makes me wish that I could return to the band geek days, look for that poor little kid who thought he was cool but really wasn’t, and lock him up in a closet for the next ten years. Maybe that kid would’ve put a smile on this girl’s face.

  No introspection in the world will give me the power to time travel, though. This is my reality now.

  It’s funny really, funny how things work. I grew up without any deep issues weighing me down, yet I still found a way to take this road. I believe some relational scholars would call me an idiot, a moron, a retard, a dimwit, or a crackhead. I know the empty spot on the road where our Jet Skis should be would prove all of that. It’s no secret that I’m brain-damaged. I mean, for gosh sakes, how did I lose our Jet Skis? Most guys don’t sit around expecting good things to come to an unlocked SUV with its keys in the ignition. Some guys don’t veer off into a gas station just to avoid answering his ex-girlfriend’s questions. Yet, I found a way to do both. And yet, this girl can still find an excuse to sit by me. Is she an idiot, too?

  Sure, the redness in her face reveals those discernable shades of anger, but I suppose the tears helped in her discoloration, so I’m still the moron. All she wanted was to give me a chance. After all the hassles she had with other guys, including some dude who was already married, she really wasn’t in the mood to talk that day all those months ago. But I had to be curious about that love machine of hers—the Jet Ski for those wi
th short-term memories—and find out all I could about it. So I was the moron back then, too. I still had Abby, and I still had silent nights on the couch in front of the television, but that day at the park gave me the chance to have a new life of excitement and a decent girl to enjoy it with. And the girl loved me. Abby never said “love” the entire time I knew her. Rachel on the other hand said it, and probably meant it, quite a bit. Deep down, however, hearing those words triggered a feeling too intense for me to handle and, in the end, it helped me to make the decision to sabotage Rachel’s chances at being happy with me. Therefore, those relational scholars would’ve made an accurate assumption.

  I actually remember the first night she said it. We were driving home from the lake, as one might expect, when she asked me to stop along the side of the road. I can’t tell from the lack of landmarks, but I think it was fairly close to the spot where we’re sitting now. There was an exposed stretch of road that ran through an expansive parched field, with a few foothills in the distance and a small block of woods far behind us. As the sun neared the horizon and the mosquitoes made their way into the rift of our spatial circumference, the crickets started to chirp and the breeze that blew through the area faded.

  There wasn’t any reason for us to stop other than to talk face to face. And Rachel knew that I was uncomfortable talking to any woman face to face—it was harder for me to lie that way—but she asked me to pull off to the side anyway. And sure enough, she wanted to talk face to face.

  When she opened the door and stepped onto the grass, I thought I was off the hook. I figured she just needed to take a leak and wanted me to stop so she could get out and dig a hole. But then I remembered that girls don’t pee on the side of roads like guys do and that Rachel wasn’t very well disposed around me anyway, so I was confused.

  She stood silent by the open door for a good twenty seconds before walking around to the front and leaning against the hood. I remained seated for a few minutes before finally getting out to see what in the world she was doing—I thought maybe she was reflecting on the recreational day we had. She took my hand and smiled when I leaned up next to her.

  And that’s when she said it—the word love—to me. The very first time. Yeah, she said it a bunch of times since, but that was the first.

  I released her hand and returned to my seat. That was the moment that changed everything. And all the stinking mosquitoes were biting me.

  I’d say that at least two months passed before I made my big snap at her. Maybe three. To be honest, once those words started leaving her loose lips, all my days started blending together. It was grating on my nerves—not because I disliked her, but because I wasn’t ready to accept her feelings. My true ambition was to have fun zipping across the water. And I thought that’s all she wanted, too. She had been in one bad relationship after the next for at least two years; I figured the last thing she wanted was to get stuck in another one. So I had no desire to bring our relationship closer than what our Jet Skis allowed. To even mention the word love would’ve only complicated such contentment, becoming dangerous for both of us.

  She broke our unwritten boundary when she brought it up. And then she continued to break it when she started sneaking me kisses and such. Although the kisses were within reason because who really hates being kissed by a pretty girl? everything else spelling love and romance and deep relationship with her just seemed like too much.

  I arrived at the point where I couldn’t handle the direction she was steering us. The last thing I wanted was to cause more relational tears, so I forced myself to hate her, just so I could be the one to break up and spare her the agony of going through the same crap that she’d gone through with everyone else. I didn’t want our days of jet skiing to take the road of sacrifice, but our dating relationship had to end.

  Of course, that ultimately introduced a new set of problems. Our casual dating fights escalated into ex-boyfriend/girlfriend flame wars. When those transformed into insult matches, I could no longer stand the thought of being anywhere in the same proximity with her—except for those times when we were on the lake.

  Eminent disaster fell at last.

  And yet, here we are staring at the fields, sitting side by side, waiting for a passerby to notice us, wondering what to say to each other should no one mount our rescue. It’s painfully obvious that I’m the one to blame for our stranded state. And though I’m sure I could fabricate some excuse about how it’s really all Rachel’s fault, I just don’t feel like it anymore. I suppose that’s a step forward.