Your friend, Jenna—sometimes she calls and says things like, Hey, I found a phone number scrawled on a piece of paper in Tom's glove compartment. Do you think he's cheating?
You laugh and say, Of course not. It's probably just a new friend he made.
And you believe this, too. Tom is a good guy.
But when you hang up the phone, your smile is smug. Paul would never have numbers in his glove compartment. Paul is open and honest, and he tells you every single detail of his day—from the popcorn kernel he found stuck in his back molar this morning (It's probably been there since we left the theater last night! he shouts) to the Facebook message he got from an old high school friend this afternoon, some girl named Marla.
And even if you did find a number, you would assume it was the number to the dry cleaner down the street, or to his accountant's office. It is tax season. You are not the jealous type.
Which is well-adjusted, really, when you think about your history—that your father left your mother for a much younger woman (not his secretary or a student, as the clichés initially led you to believe, but a single mom in his Italian cooking class who he eventually married, and who you still think looks like Stephanie from Full House), and that your last serious boyfriend called you in the middle of the night to tell you that he just slept with someone else and that this was, in effect, over.
Unscathed! you say.
You're amazing, your friends say.
Which is why you don't understand what's been happening to you. You've never been jealous before. You don't even care when Paul says a celebrity like Eva Longoria is attractive, or when he goes to strip clubs from time to time (even though, you guess, he really only went that one time, for his best friend Chris's bachelor party). But lately you've been looking at Paul out of the corner of your eye, while he sits on the other couch watching basketball games on ESPN and shouting at the television, and you're wondering, What does he know that I don't know?
You think it's because of the medical school applications. You've never been under this much stress in your life, and you think maybe this is your way of dealing with it. Paul is the closest in proximity. Paul is who this will be taken out on.
You look up Marla on Facebook. Her eyes are too far apart. You feel better.
You sleep well without waking once, something that has been rare lately as you watch the mailbox and inbox and cell phone for acceptances and continue to have dreams about being rejected from every single school. That, plus that one odd dream you had two nights ago about an upright piano emerging from the sea and eating your dog Magellan with piano-key jaws. You consider telling Paul about this, but refrain for fear that it sounds too much like the stupid drug stories kids used to tell in high school.
You are feeling good. You think the online stalking must be a fluke. But then, you come home from work and find not one but three rejection letters in the mail - two from schools you didn't really care about, but one from Johns Hopkins, your dream.
You call Paul and cry. He says he'll be home in an hour.
In an hour, he is still not home.
You watch an episode of Family Guy and eat cookie dough ice cream. It will spoil your dinner, but you deserve it. To the side of the television is the desk you and Paul share, and a filing cabinet that Paul keeps unlocked. To you, it suddenly glows like pirate treasure. Without hesitation, you set the ice cream down and gravitate toward the filing cabinet. You open it, and your eyes scan the manila folders for questionably marked tabs. Tax Info, Savings Account, Family Reunion 2009—everything in Paul's tiny handwriting, all print, never cursive. You feel sheepish until you spy one unmarked folder in the very back, of course, and you grab for it, expecting letters from high school girlfriends and secret photos of old flames.
Inside there are only blank notecards. You close the cabinet and return to the couch, a strange floating sensation permeating your brain.
When Paul finally comes home, he is carrying a big cardboard box that he sets on the kitchen floor and stoops down into, behind a front panel that he's marked ADMISSIONS with a Sharpie.
Screw Johns Hopkins! he says. You're always admitted here!
You feel like an asshole. You burst into tears again, but you say they are tears of rejection, which - you suppose - they really are.
Two weeks go by with no word. You are beginning to think maybe you are on waitlists, which to you is better than slowly decaying beneath a pile of rejection letters. And that is exactly how you pictured it, for three solid days after the triple-whammy elimination - you, in pink pajamas even though you own none, unhurriedly wasting away under a heaping pile of paper. Nevermind that you only applied to six schools, and you have no idea where the extra paper might have come from.
Paul suggests a celebration.
Why? you ask. You still haven't gotten in anywhere.
Because no news is good news, isn't it? He smiles a big moon smile.
You look at him, and you feel your eyes narrow. What, you think I won't get in?, you say. Is that why we need to celebrate now, because it's only 'hello rejection!' from here on out? You think you sound like Robin Williams on the hello, or like Martin Short in Father of the Bride, but you keep your face stern and serious.
Paul stares at you, a deer in hazards. His smile crumples away like a pumpkin after Halloween.
You sigh out a torrent and retreat to the bedroom, curling into the polka-dot sheets with the new novel you just bought. Magellan naps at your feet. Paul does not follow you in. About twenty minutes into the second chapter, you get up to brush your teeth and notice Paul's cell phone flashing a new message. The time on the outfacing window reads 9:53 p.m. Who would call this late, on a Tuesday? You hesitate but continue into the bathroom, though you crack the door open and peak at the phone. It is sitting on his nightstand, blinking red, maddening. You spit out your toothpaste, open the door and are in mid-grab when Paul enters the room. He is carrying a small dandelion that you think he picked from the back porch.
Sweet, what are you doing? The dandelion seems to droop like a cartoon.
You choke on your words, but you are swift. You say you thought he had some Kleenex in his bedside drawer, your nose is beginning to run—seasonal allergies, fucking tree pollen—and you mutter a quick apology for the way you snapped out there, before he can even begin to think about where your hand was really headed. You find a juice glass for the dandelion and you set it on the nightstand before you fall asleep, but not before Paul wonders aloud why his sister would call at such a strange hour.
Jenna calls you at work a week later. I think I've been stupid, she says. That number I found? I think it was the baseball stadium's customer service number.
You don't understand. You are still in a pre-noon haze, a flurry of email memos and Post-It notes cluttering your desk.
A baseball stadium, Jenna stresses. To propose on the Jumbotron.
You pull your reading glasses off and pinch the bridge of your nose. You are tired. You think for a split second of telling Jenna about your recent episodes, how you've been flinching every time Paul's hand grazes your stomach when he rolls over in bed, and how you've been getting up in the middle of the night to just stand, staring for stretches of time out your front bay window at the empty streets beneath.
I feel like I'm under a great nimbostratus of doom, you sigh.
There is an awkward silence on the other end of the line, and you realize you've said this out loud.
What? Jenna says. I'm telling you I think Tom and I are getting engaged soon. Jesus Christ.
You feel something like guilt, at the thought of dismissing your friend's happiness. But only something like it, and no more. You are too tired for anything else.
When you arrive home there are two bills in the mail—one from Verizon, one from the electric company - plus a thin envelope underneath from Duke University.
You carry it inside, feeling the rain cloud finally descend. But when you open the envelope, your heart skips a no-handed cartwheel to find a letter of acceptance within.
You scream and clap your hands. You jump a few inches off the ground, and Magellan hides under the table. You call Paul, feeling like you're about to pee your pants, and he says he's on his way home.
As you wait, you call your mom, and your sister. Then you call your dad and Stephanie Tanner. They all shriek their congratulations, bright exclamations echoing through your cell phone. Your heart thumps rapidly, like a quickened metronome.
When Paul finally arrives, you are sitting on the couch, your posture perfect. He rushes over and sweeps you into a hug, kissing the side of your neck. His mouth is soft, surrounded by second-day stubble. You imagine the stubble in your mind, rough little hairs sprouting from cavernous follicles.
Congratulations! he shouts. You explode into tears.
Paul looks at you strangely as you struggle to compose yourself, to wade through the murk. The tears confuse you, except they feel something like the high school prom—a dance you anticipated for weeks, but which culminated in nothing but indigestion and a broken heel.
Sweetpea, what's wrong? Paul gathers you up like excess fabric, letting you sob into his shoulder and wipe your nose on his sleeve.
I have baggage! you shout into his jacket, to no one in particular.
He pulls back and holds you at arm's length, confusion peppering his brow. He searches your face, which you imagine looks like an angry red baby.
I have baggage, you say again, though you hate that you're even using this phrase. It sounds like you've brought love handles into this apartment, into this relationship, instead of the bruised discolorations of what came before Paul ever spoke your name.
But he doesn't understand. Of course he doesn't—who would, you wonder, this blubbering, red-baby mess? He just looks at you, and for a second you wonder whether he might detonate before you, throw his hands up in frustration, burst into a puff and spontaneously combust.
But instead he picks you up. He kisses your face, the salt you imagine he can taste, and says, honey, no more tears. Now. Now's the time for a real celebration.