Read Online All We Know of Love by Nora Raleigh Baskin - Free Book Online
Authors: Nora Raleigh Baskin
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worse than before I called. He could be busy, or uninterested. Or worse. Much worse.
But of course, there is always a chance he’ll be wonderful and loving, and kind and concerned. And I will feel so much better.
In this ridiculous debate, the desire to feel better wins out.
I call.
I can feel the excitement just pressing the buttons of his cell phone number.
“Hello?” Adam answers on the first ring. I pretend he has been waiting for my call.
“Hello,” I say back.
“Natty?” As his voice moves through me, an image is formed. My brain races to put the scene together based on the background sounds, the tone, the exact words.
Where is he? Is he alone?
He is smiling. I can hear it in his voice — a warm summer rain that has just ended, revealing a wet and glistening world, and I know he would like the analogy.
“Natalie.” He says it again, more softly. And I know he is alone. He wouldn’t talk like that in front of his friends.
“Hi,” I say, lowering my voice. Trying to sound as intimate, as if I am not surrounded by transient, rushing, waiting, loud-talking, bus-traveling strangers. I walk around searching for a more private area, but still concentrating all of my attention on this conversation, hoping to steer it in the right direction.
Then, suddenly, Adam isn’t saying anything.
Are you there?
I want to ask in a panic, but I know him. He is pausing, forcing my hand, forcing me to talk, to fill in the silence and betray myself as needy. It is like two people holding on to opposite ends of a rope.
I hear nothing in the phone.
In order to keep the line taut, one person has to keep pulling. Or the rope will fall. Why is it always me?
But it is.
“So where are you?” I ask, breaking into the anxious quiet, and giving myself away.
“Home.” And he pauses again. I can feel the pull drawing me in, like air into a bell jar.
“So what are you up to?” he asks.
I realize Adam doesn’t even know I’ve left. He doesn’t know that I’m not in town, not in my home, not at Sarah’s, not with my dad. I am on the road, hours and hours away. He doesn’t know that I crossed the Mason-Dixon line over ninety minutes ago.
And Adam hasn’t been waiting around for my “good” news, has he?
I got it.
He has not been waiting month after month, day after day. In fact, my menstrual cycle is probably not foremost in his thoughts. He has been with his friends having a beer, or watching TV, at practice, or eating breakfast, lunch, dinner with his parents and brothers.
No, if I tell him, he won’t even know what I’m talking about.
“So are you busy? Where
are
you?” he asks again. I know he wants to see me. Now. I have to change the subject. Distract him, letting him think that the possibility of seeing me is still real, even though it is not.
It is surprisingly easy not to answer Adam if I don’t want to. All I have to do is ask him something about himself. He falls for it every time.
“Are you in your room?” I ask.
“I am,” he says slowly. “I wish you were with me.”
I feel my heart sharpen, then leap, rise closer to the surface of my body. Breathing is one of those things you never notice until it changes.
“Why did you break up with me then?” I try to keep my voice airy, teasing.
I’m not a burden. I’m fun. Someone you want to be with. Someone who makes no demands.
“I didn’t,” Adam responds. “If you remember, Natty, it was all your idea.”
I can see his mouth, his hair, his eyes. I can see his room, the walls, the rug. His bed, the crumpled bedcovers.
I sigh into the phone. He’s going to do this again. I am trapped. Wordless, defenseless, turned around. I am sure this is manipulation. I just can’t figure out of what.
Because yes, he’s right. In a way. Technically speaking, it was all my idea, but it’s not that simple.
If I had to sum up the human condition, I would say life is one big rationalization. Or maybe a series of thousands, every day.
But of course, there is always a chance he’ll be wonderful and loving, and kind and concerned. And I will feel so much better.
In this ridiculous debate, the desire to feel better wins out.
I call.
I can feel the excitement just pressing the buttons of his cell phone number.
“Hello?” Adam answers on the first ring. I pretend he has been waiting for my call.
“Hello,” I say back.
“Natty?” As his voice moves through me, an image is formed. My brain races to put the scene together based on the background sounds, the tone, the exact words.
Where is he? Is he alone?
He is smiling. I can hear it in his voice — a warm summer rain that has just ended, revealing a wet and glistening world, and I know he would like the analogy.
“Natalie.” He says it again, more softly. And I know he is alone. He wouldn’t talk like that in front of his friends.
“Hi,” I say, lowering my voice. Trying to sound as intimate, as if I am not surrounded by transient, rushing, waiting, loud-talking, bus-traveling strangers. I walk around searching for a more private area, but still concentrating all of my attention on this conversation, hoping to steer it in the right direction.
Then, suddenly, Adam isn’t saying anything.
Are you there?
I want to ask in a panic, but I know him. He is pausing, forcing my hand, forcing me to talk, to fill in the silence and betray myself as needy. It is like two people holding on to opposite ends of a rope.
I hear nothing in the phone.
In order to keep the line taut, one person has to keep pulling. Or the rope will fall. Why is it always me?
But it is.
“So where are you?” I ask, breaking into the anxious quiet, and giving myself away.
“Home.” And he pauses again. I can feel the pull drawing me in, like air into a bell jar.
“So what are you up to?” he asks.
I realize Adam doesn’t even know I’ve left. He doesn’t know that I’m not in town, not in my home, not at Sarah’s, not with my dad. I am on the road, hours and hours away. He doesn’t know that I crossed the Mason-Dixon line over ninety minutes ago.
And Adam hasn’t been waiting around for my “good” news, has he?
I got it.
He has not been waiting month after month, day after day. In fact, my menstrual cycle is probably not foremost in his thoughts. He has been with his friends having a beer, or watching TV, at practice, or eating breakfast, lunch, dinner with his parents and brothers.
No, if I tell him, he won’t even know what I’m talking about.
“So are you busy? Where
are
you?” he asks again. I know he wants to see me. Now. I have to change the subject. Distract him, letting him think that the possibility of seeing me is still real, even though it is not.
It is surprisingly easy not to answer Adam if I don’t want to. All I have to do is ask him something about himself. He falls for it every time.
“Are you in your room?” I ask.
“I am,” he says slowly. “I wish you were with me.”
I feel my heart sharpen, then leap, rise closer to the surface of my body. Breathing is one of those things you never notice until it changes.
“Why did you break up with me then?” I try to keep my voice airy, teasing.
I’m not a burden. I’m fun. Someone you want to be with. Someone who makes no demands.
“I didn’t,” Adam responds. “If you remember, Natty, it was all your idea.”
I can see his mouth, his hair, his eyes. I can see his room, the walls, the rug. His bed, the crumpled bedcovers.
I sigh into the phone. He’s going to do this again. I am trapped. Wordless, defenseless, turned around. I am sure this is manipulation. I just can’t figure out of what.
Because yes, he’s right. In a way. Technically speaking, it was all my idea, but it’s not that simple.
If I had to sum up the human condition, I would say life is one big rationalization. Or maybe a series of thousands, every day.
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