“You like it?”
“Yeah. Gorgeous hills. Snowed like a motherfucker and I didn’t have snow tires, so I got stuck there for a whole week longer than I meant to, but you know… if you don’t need to get anywhere because you live there to begin with, it’s probably nice. Stay in. Eat waffles. The maple syrup’s real.”
Ethan buries his head in his hands.
“Or get snow tires,” I say. “Trade in your Saab for a Jeep?”
“Thin blood,” Ethan says into his hands and shakes his head from side to side. “I have thin southern blood. I’m going to freeze to death.” He hugs his arms around his chest and chatters his teeth. “I’m cold just thinking about it.”
There’s a reason he works in theatre. I wonder why he’s a behind the scenes person instead of an on the stage one.
“Why aren’t you staying here?” I ask, trying to keep my disappointment hidden. It’s not like I thought I could live in Asheville forever, with a regular gig, and a comfy bed, and Ethan refusing to let me pay rent, but I’m not ready for it to end either.
“Oh, you know,” he says. “Bad breakup. Time for a change. Tomorrow was supposed to be our anniversary. You waste three years of your life on someone, it seems like a good idea to get out of town when you wake up.”
I drink my coffee and push pamphlets around the table. So many weird names I don’t recognize. Carnegie Mellon. Brandeis. Sarah Lawrence. And then there’s one I do: Ithaca College.
“Here.” I tap the Ithaca brochure with my finger. “Go here.”
“Ithaca?” Ethan says. “That’s a great program. Cold, but good.”
“It’s warmer than where I grew up,” I say. “And snow feels nicer in Ithaca. I don’t know why. Everything is nicer there.”
“Do you play in Ithaca a lot?” Ethan asks.
“I lived there for a bit.” The air catches in my throat. “It’s a hard place to leave.” I stare into my coffee cup and will my eyes to stay dry. “And,” I say, taking a deep breath, pulling myself back together, “it’s a super gay place. You’d love it.”
“Super gay?” Ethan says. “Would I have to get a cape?”
“No,” I tell him. “But tights aren’t frowned on.”
— Chapter 46 —
I decide to make Ethan an anti-anniversary dinner to celebrate that we got all of his applications in the mail. I check my wallet so many times before I get up to the checkout. My heart thuds in my throat until I make it out of the store, like groceries are the beginning of the end, even though I know they aren’t. Some things get written into your body and your mind can’t reason them away.
I walk home with my bag full of food. Pasta and sauce from a jar. Some onions and peppers to dress it up. It’s the most I really know how to cook, but it’s something. I’m hoping the thought counts more than the end result.
There are tulips blooming in front yard flowerbeds and the air smells full and mossy. It’s not quite dark when I get home. The door to the sun porch is open wide and the door to the living room isn’t closed all the way. I hear Ethan say, “That wasn’t what I meant,” and his voice is full of tears.
I stand on the sun porch and peek through the open door. There’s a man in the living room holding Ethan against the wall. Ethan’s nose is bleeding down his neck. I hold my breath and push the living room door open slowly.
The guy screams, “You’re the one who should be sorry. You’re the one who had such a big problem with it!” He’s screaming so loud he doesn’t hear me come in.
When Ethan sees me, he turns his face away. The guy slaps Ethan’s cheek, and then the other. “Look at me when I talk to you!”
My body feels like it might never move again, but Ethan is crying and the guy doesn’t look like he’s going to stop. I’m still holding the groceries, so I grab the jar of sauce and throw it at the guy. It hits with a thump between his shoulders and falls to the floor, exploding, sending sauce and glass everywhere. “Stop!” I scream. “Stop!”
He drops his hold on Ethan and turns. His face is bloated, cheeks trembling. Red eyes. Raw knuckles. He looks like he’s going to come after me instead. I chuck a pepper and catch him on the side of his head and then an onion that hits him right in the eye and I scream and scream and throw everything from the bag. I pretend I’m bigger than him and bigger than everyone and if I look at him hard enough, he might just burn up and die. He might turn into nothing. He gets in my face. His breath smells so sour. I can see in his eyes he’s deciding if he’s going to hit me too. I’m all out of groceries. There’s nothing else to throw. He grabs my hair, all of it, in his fist and pulls me out of his way. Away from the door and I don’t know what he’s going to do. He pulls so hard. I stumble. Hit the floor, hip first. All I can think about is the bruise it will leave. Dark purple. I can feel my blood pooling.