LITMIR.BIZ

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“Is it the guy that lives upstairs?”

      “Yes, it is,” I replied, trying to sound casual. “I’ll call you tomorrow okay?”

      “You better.”

      I hung up the phone and motioned for Dylan to come inside. He followed me into the living room, peering around like he felt out of place.

      “I saw your car outside,” he explained. “I didn’t know if you were doing anything tonight. I’ve been working on some songs that I thought you might want to hear.”

      I was psyched that Dylan had decided to share his music with me, since it was something that was obviously very personal to him. Not to mention, I also wouldn’t have to spend another pathetic Friday night alone.

      “Sure, sounds great,” I said, making a horribly failed attempt at sounding cool. “Why don’t you go grab your guitar and bring it down here? My apartment is a little, um, cleaner.”

      “And green, not to mention. What’s up with the neon walls?”

      “Oh,” I said, laughing. I’d become so used to the color that I was completely oblivious to it now. “Apparently the gay gays that lived here before me liked bright colors.”

      “Guess they don’t call ‘em flaming for nothing,” he joked, as he made his way out the door. He reappeared several minutes later, guitar in hand, and propped himself down on my floor. As he fiddled around with the strings, I noticed his gray t-shirt exposed three Chinese symbol tattoos that ran vertically down his right forearm.

      “What do those mean?” I asked, pointing to the tattoos.

      “Courage, strength, and faith.” He looked down at his arm as if seeing it for the first time. “Three of the most important traits.”

      “Sounds like something I could use right about now,” I said, more to myself than to him.

      Dylan continued to toy with his guitar for a minute, then placed it on the rug next to him. “So, were you serious about why you moved back here? You know, because…” His voice trailed off.

      “Because my best friend slept with my boyfriend?” I asked. “It’s okay, you can say it. And yes, I was serious.”

      He winced. “You want to talk about it?”

      I shook my head, because in truth, I didn’t. But after a moment, I could feel the unspoken words hanging in the air, like some sort of silent presence, and I knew the only way to make it disappear was to acknowledge it.

      ***

       Conquering the quarter-life crisis is much harder than you’d think. It changes the way you look at everything – your job, your goals, your relationships. As soon as the dreaded twenty-five starts creeping around the corner, you feel like the world is going to end. You have so much to do, and so little time to do it. Your passions and goals in life suddenly spring out of left field, reminding you that you only have five years left to backpack through Europe, land your dream job, and find the person you’re destined to spend forever with. Because once you turn thirty, you could wake up one day married with three kids, working a dead-end job, and realize it’s too late to pursue your long-term goals. Or, even worse, you could end up thirty and alone.

       Luckily for me, the career aspect of my crisis was covered now that I’d landed a job as a music writer. And the traveling, of course, was something I could arrange between now and the next five years. But what was really weighing on my conscience was the relationship aspect of things.

       “Hey J,” I’d said to Justine, who was sprawled on our living room sofa watching an E! True Hollywood Special on Angelina Jolie. “Do you ever think about marriage?”

       She looked at me like I was insane “As in, do I ever think I’ll get married?”

       “Yeah.”

       She laughed wickedly. It was a stupid question. Justine was the biggest commitment-phobe I’d ever met. While most people acquired a handful of lasting, meaningful relationships throughout the course of their life, Justine acquired a new one just about every weekend. She had dated every type of guy under the sun, but typically got bored with them after a few dates and moved onto the next one.

       “I’m serious,” I’d insisted. “Have you ever been with someone you could picture yourself marrying?”

       “No,” she’d said, without hesitation.

       “What about Mark?”

       Justine’s longest relationship to date was with Mark Wheeler, an adorable real estate agent who was the poster boy for the ideal husband. For the likes of me, I couldn’t imagine how this guy ended up with Justine. Considering the fact that she and I had been friends since age fourteen, I knew more or less the type of guy that she was into. No job? Check. Motorcycle? Check. In a band? Absolutely. Long hair? Tattoos? Double check. Ryan Gosling look-alike with responsibility, brains and a great resume? Not so much.

       Mark was perfect on paper, but I knew exactly why Justine grew bored with him. He was just too damn nice. He was the one of those guys that you really wanted to like because you knew your mother and grandmother would adore the shit out of him, but when it came down to wanting to rip his clothes off, the burning desire just wasn’t there. Women never liked the nice guys; it was an unspoken rule. We liked the dickheads, the pompous asses, the narcissistic bastards. We wanted a guy to act like they didn’t give a shit about us because then they presented a challenge. Of course, women never said this aloud. We always said “Oh, I wish I could find a nice guy” but what we really meant was “Oh, I wish I could find some arrogant prick who loved me.”

       Justine shook her head. “Definitely not with Mark. He was so routine. The most exciting thing he ever did was throw away the Sunday paper without reading about the stock market section first.” She crinkled her brow. “What are you getting at?”

       I shrugged. “I don’t know. I mean, I love David and everything, but I just feel like we’re…different.”

      Deep down, I knew exactly what it was. It was that profound, meaningful connection with another person. That spiritual soul connection. That painful aching for each other. I enjoyed David’s company and loved being around him, but when I thought about true love and all the things that came with it – weddings, honeymoons, having a family, committing to spending all of eternity with one person – I wasn’t one-hundred percent certain that he was it. Not to mention, there was no way I could visualize spending forever with a guy who thought Muse was a clothing brand.

       Justine leaned forward in her seat. “Renee, are you saying you want to break up with David?”

       I shook my head, because in all honesty, I didn’t want to break up with him. Aside from our differences, David was everything I’d ever wanted. Caring, funny, gorgeous, affectionate. He was unlike anyone I’d ever been with. Most macho Boston guys wouldn’t be caught dead spending the day watching chick flicks with their girlfriend or surprising her with flowers, and I’d always wanted that. All women wanted that. I just hated the fact that, now that my mid-twenties had arrived, I had to look beyond that. I couldn’t just date someone because he was nice and cute and thoughtful. I had to think about goals, beliefs, forever.

       When I explained this to Justine, she looked at me, again, like I was crazy. “Renee, honestly, I think David is great. But if you’re having doubts, maybe you should take some time apart from him to really think about it.”

       Fortunately, this wish was granted to me less than an hour after Justine made the suggestion. My mother called and informed me, through broken sobs, that my grandfather had unexpectedly passed away from a heart attack. I was on a plane back to Boston the following morning, part of me grateful for the time I’d have to myself to think things through.

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