I hate public restrooms, and I hate trying to find one in this crazy place even more, but I don’t have much of a choice. “Can we find a restroom?” I ask Noah, and he nods.
“We passed one on the way in,” he says, smiling. Discussing restroom whereabouts isn’t usually smile-inducing, but his smile makes me smile back at him. Maybe he’s glad we’re not talking about how tightly we’re holding hands, glad I’m not getting all relationshippy on him. We’re not at Haven High now—nobody to see us, nobody to ask us if Noah’s going to be the first Soccer Lovin’ Kid to have a girlfriend. We can take our time figuring out what this all means. After all, we have a six-hour drive ahead of us.
It’s when I’m in one of the surprisingly nice marble stalls getting out a toilet seat cover that I remember that bathroom at Haven High, three weeks ago. Hiding from Noah. My life up to leaving on the trip plays in fast-forward. The scenes in my mind are mostly of Mattia, and I know I need to finally talk to her. It’s time.
I empty my bladder at lightning speed and the toilet flushes beneath me. Even though I do up my jeans, I don’t leave the stall. I need some privacy for this call.
It doesn’t feel like a Sunday, but it is. Mattia has the early church schedule—nine to noon. She’ll definitely be back by now. Part of me is afraid she’ll let it go to voice mail, but I have to at least try. She answers on the second ring. “Hey. Are you back?”
I can’t read her tone. Mattia’s master of the poker face, and she has the voice to go along with it. “No, not yet. We got . . . delayed. Noah’s car broke down, but it’s all good now.”
“Good.” Mattia pauses. “So . . . did it go . . . well?” She says it slowly, like she’s second-guessing every word.
“Yeah. I found Zan.” I deliberate about telling her the next part. “He has a new girlfriend. Ismene.”
“Ismene? What in the heck kind of name is that?” The old Mattia is back. “I mean, seriously? Could you
be
more pretentious?”
“It’s from
Antigone
. You know, her sister?”
Mattia scoffs. “Whatever. Antigone’s sister’s name is ‘is-meanie.’ Not ease-men.” Some people might write poetry about the wasted minds of Haven High, but Mattia’s is not one of them. Mattia may be a pop-psychology-loving social butterfly, but she’s smart, too, and she tells it like it is. “This girl sounds like the world’s biggest poseur.”
There’s a long pause, and I wonder if I’m supposed to say something. Is this when I apologize?
“I’m sorry, though.” Mattia’s voice is softer. “That he’s got a new girlfriend. That you couldn’t get . . . closure.”
“I’m not sure that closure exists. Not in real life, at least. But I think I got my own kind of closure.”
“Did you finally realize you’re too good for him?”
“No, that’s not it. I think I realized that he’s not too good for me.”
She pauses. “Okay, I’m way too tired to figure out what that means. You’re going to have to explain it to me.”
I grab another toilet seat cover and sit down. “Well, it’s like I always thought Zan was perfect. Genius-smart, Abercrombie-handsome—”
Mattia snorts.
“Like he was a step above everybody else in Haven. No offense.”
“Oh, no worries, none taken.” But a smile is creeping into her voice, I can tell.
“Coming here, I realized something, though. I thought he was better than everybody else; he thought he was better than everybody else. But he isn’t.”
“Nope,” says Mattia, like it’s been clear to her all the time. “He’s worse.”
“You’re missing the point! He’s not better or worse. Nobody is. We’re all just people.”
“Yep,” Mattia says, like this, too, has been clear to her all the time.
So maybe it’s just me, getting it for the first time. “Listen, I guess what it comes down to is that I’m not Zan’s girlfriend anymore—and I’m good with that. It’s like, before I thought I couldn’t be myself without him. But I can. In some ways it’s easier.” I don’t realize I know these things until I say them to her. Now I can be more than Zan’s girlfriend. I don’t have to spend my life trying to get back to Joy 2.0. I can just be me.
“Anyway, I’m sorry that I’ve been so wrapped up in what I lost that I haven’t seen what I have. Which is a dang good friend like you.”
“Dang good,” says Mattia. “But you’re a dang good friend, too. And I’m sorry for not being more supportive. I just wanted you to be happy, and Zan . . . you never seemed that happy with him. You just seemed happy that he wanted to be with you.”
I was. But that was before. “It’s different now.” I think of Noah.
“Yeah, I know it is. I can tell. Non sequitur: Will you be back tonight?”
“Uh-huh. I’ll text you when I get in, okay?”
“Okay. Take care.”
“You too.”
BACK WHEN YOU WERE EASIER TO LOVE
It occurs to
me when I stand up to flush the second toilet seat cover. But the walls of these stalls are marble; too nice to deface. Besides, I don’t have a Sharpie. I dig around in my purse to see what I do have, and there are my sticky-notes from the Lucky Seven. So I grab a pen and write, “Back when you were easier to love.” Then I tear off the note and post it right on the swinging door.
LEAVING LAS VEGAS
Noah and I
hold hands as we walk out to the SAAB, and his hand brushes mine when we stop at red lights. When we stop to fill up the car we walk out of the convenience store holding hands—and jumbo-size cups of Sprite.
And in real life, I am so lucky. In real life, “Copacabana” is playing on the tape deck, and Noah is joining in with me on the chorus.