Page 100 of Two to Tango

“What the hell are you doing?”

The question, probably meant with good intention, feels like a punch to my very injured heart.

“What everybody always expects me to do.”

“What does that even mean?” She throws her hands up like she’s tired of my shit, too.

I slam the laptop shut and stand up to walk to her. “It means that I should have known better than to make any plans or try to change any trajectory of my life. My whole life has been consumed by guilt, dictated by guilt. It’s always been about the next person I need to appease.”

“You don’t need to appease anybody.”

“Of course I fucking do,” I retort. “Were we not at the same dinner? Did you not listen to the shit I got?”

She just rolls her eyes like that dinner was so minuscule, such an unimportant thing. “What do you want to do?”

“I don’t even know! I have no idea what I want to do. Everything has always been about what other people wanted for me.”

“You wanted to dance, didn’t you? You made that plan by yourself; you went in there alone.”

“Did I? Or was I influenced by those shoes? Those fucking shoes.” The words spill out of me in a bitter tone, and I hate it. “Shit. You don’t even know what that guilt feels like.”

“I don’t? Really?” She rears back like she’s been hurt, and her voice gets louder. “That’s a hell of a thing to say. I know guilt, too. I’ve seen guilt and I’ve lived it, and you know what I did? I took the other fucking turn. I didn’t let that dictate my life. I chose to live my life. This was your choice.”

“No, it wasn’t.” I shake my head, my eyes starting to burn from the tears I’m fighting against.

“Sooner or later, you’re going to need to stop playing the victim and start taking responsibility for your actions. It is all a choice.” Her words are delivered with bitterness, too, loud and raw, but she means it.

“You don’t understand.” I might be pleading, my voice rising in volume to match hers, but who knows for what.

“Don’t fucking condescend me, Julie. Talk like that to your work peers if you want to, but don’t you dare fucking say that to me. I’m in this family, too. I’ve lived this life, too. We have seen all these problems firsthand and together. We just chose different ways to handle them. And I’m living. What thefuckare you doing?”

The knockout punch.

“You’re a bitch,” I spit out.

“No, Julie. I’m a realist.”

“You’re. A.Bitch!”

We’ve reached screaming levels.

“You know what the fuck you want, and you need to go out there and do it. Justdo it. What the hell is stopping you? Don’t answer that because I already know. But do you know the answer? It’s you. It isyou.” She points her finger straight at me, aiming for her shot, and hitting.

And then I cry. Loud, angry sobs that would feel cathartic if I wasn’t so pissed off.

She exhales sharply, falling onto the couch. “I’m sorry.”

“Are you?” I yell through tears, accusatory.

“Yes, I am. I’m sorry, Julie. I love you and I’m just so tired of watching you let life pass you by. I’m so tired of watching you make these stupid decisions that I know are making you miserable, but you’re willing to appease your family no matter what it takes. And for what? It’s not their life. It’s yours.”

I crash down on the couch next to her, drawing in my own ragged breath.

“I was so excited when I found out about all this shit you were doing,” T says. “When you went to the Alley Cat, when you came out after work. When I found out you were dancing, and you wanted to go to San Diego? I mean …Julie. You were fucking doing it just like she would have wanted.”

“You think so?” I ask, still crying.

“Yes. Fuck.”

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