Anthropology of an American Girl: A Novel - By Hilary Thayer Hamann Page 0,211

naturally I believed that if the best I could be was with him, then without him I was nothing.

When he left, I told myself that I was not good enough, that he wanted someone better. My anguish rendered me insensible. At the time, I forgot that life is strange and long and beautiful, and that something so extraordinary in its success could hardly be ordinary in its failure. I persuaded myself that he did not love me, that he never had; and yet, not once when we were together did I need to tell myself he did. It should have been enough to love and be loved, but there was more, I thought—I must have thought—because at some point everything changed from my simply wanting more of him to my wanting more of something else—something substantive, something normal—all the while denying the egocentricity of my aspirations, and forgetting the universe we’d made.

The cab is on the lower roadway; the cables and girders are thoomping past, animating the steel beam windows of the bridge.

I feel shame to have doubted him, especially when I recall his absence of artifice, the way he knew me when he met me, the way he worked to move us despite obstacles of age and position, the way he trusted that I would feel as he felt, the way he was patient and true. And so, the way he let me go—let us go—surely must have been just as deliberate.

Since he knew things at the beginning, maybe at the end he knew things too. That we had gone as far as chance would take us. That nothing is more sacred than youth or more hopeful than turning yourself over to someone and saying, I have this time, it is not a long time, but it is my best time and my best gift, and I give it to you. When I revisit my youth, I revisit you.

I had not been walking on air. Rourke had been there, pressure, earth beneath my feet, always.

At Pinky’s everybody’s watching a game on television. Rob is down at the end of the bar, in his usual place, by the telephone. His mood has not improved since fighting with Mark—the stiff hunch to his back, the shaking leg. He does not smile when he sees me; he just kicks out a stool. I drop my book bag and climb up. Something happens in the game, and the men shout in unison—“Ho, shit!” Rob’s voice joins the chorus. He concentrates on the set, pretending to ignore me. Eventually he turns, his eyes drifting toward my lap. My legs are crossed, and with the pants I’m wearing, the crevice between my thighs is revealing. I slide my hands to cover myself.

Rob grabs a couple of bar napkins and blows his nose hard. “I’m allergic to something in here.” He looks over each shoulder. “Must be somebody’s cologne.” He gestures to my knapsack. “More school? It seems like you’ve been in school longer than anyone ever—why is that?”

“I don’t know.”

“You don’t, huh?” he says. “Well, when are you done?”

“I have three papers due Tuesday.”

“And that’s it?”

“And a presentation.”

“A presentation, oh, excuse me. What’s that, like Darrin Stephens?”

“Kind of. Only no witches.”

He faces the bar, puts his elbows up, and wipes his nose one more time. “Where’s the ring?” he asks, talking into his napkin.

“I left it at home.”

“Home,” he repeats facetiously. “That’s not fair play. Some poor slob might get the idea you’re available. Unless of course you weren’t allowed to wear it. Did he tell you I’m gonna steal it and hock it?”

“He doesn’t—”

“The future Mrs. Ross,” Rob says, repeating Dara’s remark from the previous night. “I should have popped that vampire asshole. He was asking for it. Tell you the truth, I’d rather you were gonna marry that queer friend of yours. Dennis. He’s actually a good guy.”

“Mark’s okay.”

“Yeah, sure. Okay. Capital O.”

“Do you hate him because he’s rich?” I ask.

“Do you sleep with him because he’s rich?” Rob snaps back. “Oh, no, I’m sorry,” he taunts, “you sleep with him because you love him.”

“No, I—”

“No? Then why do you sleep with him?”

“I—I’m not sure. He was there—”

“Lots of people were there. I was there.” He slaps his chest. “How come you never fucked me?” His fingers come together. “I’ll tell you why. Because I know the code.” He clenches his jaw, leans back, pulls out his wallet, and drops a fresh ten on the bar. Rob’s wallet is full of cash. Rob’s