Page 1 of Beautiful & Dirty

Chapter 1

I want all the carbs.That’s all I can think when I step off the train in Naples, Italy. Alone, even though my boyfriend was supposed to be next to me.

We’d been planning this trip for a year, saving every penny, making all of our meals at home, passing on drinks out with friends and coffee at our favorite café down the street from our apartment so that we could enjoy ourselves on this trip. All the fucking good that did us. Me. All the fucking good that’s done me on this cursed trip. My mother always said that if you want to know who someone really is at their core, take a trip with them. Lesson learned.

My boyfriend Steve and I had saved every penny we could for an entire year for the trip that was supposed to cement our relationship, and then as soon as we landed in Rome, everything went to shit. It all started when we landed, only to find that Steve’s suitcase hadn’t arrived. According to the baggage claim agent, there had been some kind of mistake, and his bag was still in D.C.; it was never even loaded onto our plane. It sucks, but it’s the kind of thing that happens every day, hundreds of times of day, probably — that’s what I kept telling myself and Steve — it happens, but it’s not the end of the world.

I feel like the thing anyone would need to know about me is that I’m a people-pleaser. I sometimes wish I wasn’t, but I am. I hate conflict and confrontation, and I always try to see things from other people’s points of view so I can avoid conflict, or back immediately away if I stumble into it. Smoothing things over is one of my gifts, and I will go completely out of my way to make someone else more comfortable in any situation, without a second thought. I’m not the kind of people-pleaser who needs everyone to like me, it’s just that I want everyone around me to be happy, and the lesson I’ve learned about myself over the past week is that I want other people to be happy apparently more than I want to be happy myself.

Even I’m depressed by this admission. But I am who I am, that’s not the problem. The problem is that, if someone had asked me two weeks ago, I’d have said Steve was similar. And I’d have been wrong as hell.

While I worked with the baggage claim agent to get the airline the address of our hotel and a voucher so Steve could buy a few necessities — you know, underwear, a toothbrush, whatever — Steve yelled and pouted and whined on WhatsApp to his mother like a child. I’d rationalized at the time that his behavior might not have been polite, but it was understandable. I wouldn’t have thrown a tantrum in the airport — in a foreign country, no less — because my mother would never have allowed that kind of behavior, but lots of people would do that and have done that. I’m sure people throwing very public tantrums in airports must be another thing that happens hundreds of times a day. Besides, I couldn’t imagine how hard it was to land in a foreign country after a ten-hour flight, dry-mouthed, dirty, and tired, only to find out that all your clean clothes and toiletries are thousands of miles away. So, I tried to be understanding.

This is how my brain works all the time. Every time I felt annoyed at Steve not helping mehelp him, I just thought about how uncomfortable he must have been, and poof, sympathy chip activated and turned all the way up. It’s surprisingly easy for me to do this; it’s second nature, like breathing. And even more so because I love Steve and I wanted him to be happy and comfortable, but I never stopped to think about how uncomfortable I was. That’s, apparently, not second nature.

But still, I fought so hard — politely, of course — to get him some concessions from the airline. It took two hours, but when we finally left the airport with clothes and food vouchers, I was so proud of myself, certain that the rest of our trip would be smooth sailing from that point on. Naively, I thought once we checked into our hotel, showered, and took a nap in a clean bed, Steve’s mood would improve, and we could restart the trip of our dreams.

WRONG.

Steve bitched the entire cab ride, and when we arrived at the hotel, he whined about how small our room was, even though I’d sent him plenty of articles about the quaint size of traditional Italian bed and breakfast rooms, especially in the center of Rome, just so we could both be prepared. In fact, before we even started saving for the trip, Steve and I had a lengthy conversation about our budget and what we wanted to prioritize. I thought we’d agreed that food and wine were the most important things, so if we had to get a smaller hotel room or middle seats in coach, that would be perfectly fine, because Rome was the trip of a lifetime. Had he forgotten?

But then he started complaining about howoldeverything looked.

It’s Rome!

I felt like I was in an alternate universe, standing in the middle of our adorably small room, listening to this man who looked like Steve but wasn’t acting like him. I was exhausted, confused, and bordering on angry; and Ineverget angry.

I looked around the room, trying to find some purpose, some explanation for why Steve was behaving this way, and I couldn’t. The walls were covered in an outdated but charming textured wallpaper that looked straight out of the last century — early last century. There was an adorable quilt draped over the foot of the bed that looked like someone’s grandmother had knitted it especially for this room, the carpet was some strange color they probably stopped manufacturing in the seventies, and the single window was covered in a gauzy curtain that looked out onto a square. The room looked dated, yet tasteful in a way I imagined only a bed and breakfast in a city as old as Rome could. It looked exactly like the pictures on the website, and I loved it in person as much as I had online. What the fuck was Steve talking about?

When I looked at him, a wave of confusion cut through the exhaustion as I mentally replayed all those conversations we’d had about this trip, all the articles I’d read and forwarded to him, all the Yelp and Travelocity reviews I’d saved, and realized far too late that I’d done all the talking and research and prep work and relayed it to him, while he’d played video games. Each new complaint that fell from his mouth made me realize that I was the only one in this relationship who’d actually prepared for this trip. I was the only one who’d been looking forward to this experience with every ounce of my soul. I was in this alone.

How had I missed that? What else had I missed? And how many other words can I find to express that I was wrong, stupid, and naïve and had been for over a year? Maybe longer?

I didn’t know how to answer any of the questions that dawned on me in that moment, so I’d turned away from Steve, opened my suitcase and started unpacking, anything to take my mind off of the uncomfortable realizations about my relationship, and maybe even myself. I started rooting around in my suitcase, looking for my toiletries, desperate to jump in the shower and wash away all of…this. Maybe I’d think better in clean clothes, I thought to myself, but Steve ruined that as well.

I was still looking for my body wash when Steve started whining because the hotel restaurant wasn’t open for lunch. When I reminded him that the website had been very clear that they’re only open for breakfast and dinner, he’d started pouting again. And even though I was tired and rocked by his whining, I’m still a people-pleaser. And so, instead of climbing in the shower, I left our hotel room in the same clothes I’d been wearing for nearly two days and went in search of food for Steve whileheshowered withmybody wash.

Oh, did I mention that I don’t speak Italian?

Doesn’t matter, because a positive side effect of my people-pleasing personality is that people like me, even when they can’t understand me. I smile. I blush. I pull out my phrase book and look confused — because I am — I apologize and say thank you profusely. And then I make things happen. An hour later, I returned to our room with a selection of panini, fresh fruit from an adorable market I’d stumbled upon, two big bottles of water, and even a small bottle of wine, only to find Steve snoring in our bed.

At the time, I blamed the pressure of tears in my eyes on the jet lag. I was just tired, not having serious doubts about my boyfriend or anything. I loved Steve, and he loved me. We’d been together since we were eighteen, one trip wouldn’t break us. I thought those soothing — or delusional — mantras in my head while I ate alone, showered, and crawled under the covers beside him, exhausted. As I drifted off to sleep, I managed to muster just a bit more optimism that when I woke up, Steve would be the man I’d spent the last seven years with, and everything would be good again.

Wrong again. God, I must sound like a broken record right now.

Steve shook me awake in the middle of the night, frustrated that his sandwiches were cold. I don’t know what the fuck he thought I was supposed to do about that, but I fell asleep before he could strip search me for a microwave or something equally ludicrous, and before I could say something I might regret.

You’ve probably guessed by now that our grand Italian vacation hasn’t been the trip of a lifetime. It’s been hell, actually, even worse than you can imagine.

For the past week and a half, I’ve felt like a weary kindergarten teacher while Steve threw tantrums at me all over this beautiful ancient city I’ve been dying to visit since I was a kid. And because I cannot turn off that gene in my DNA that just wants to make other people happy, I’ve bent over backward each and every time, breaking myself in half dozens of times each day. For him.

And what has he given me in return? The biggest migraine of my life.

It’s been horrendous, and I want to go home so bad, I’m near tears every night. And then every morning, I abruptly wake up, heart racing, chest heaving, and my ears straining for any sign of life from the other side of the bed. I only calm down when his muffled snores hit my ear, or he kicks me in his sleep.

For a sad few seconds, I revel the knowledge that I have a few moments of peace and then waste that time dreading the moment when he will groan into consciousness with his first complaint of the day. To say that this wasn’t the trip I’d been waiting a year to experience is the understatement of the century.

A different person would have probably reached their breaking point days ago, maybe even on the first day, but… people-pleaser! Before this trip, I wasn’t even certain I had a breaking point, but apparently, I do, and I hit it today.

---