Page 35 of We Can't Be Friends

“Your birthday,” I repeat, trying to recall what we’ve been planning. Or I have been planning.

I love birthdays.

And why wouldn’t you? It’s the only day of the year that is solely about you. Plus, childbirth is wild, a magical miracle, and should be celebrated—not that I’m ready for one, I still appreciate everything that the female body can do.

It’s not that I have any prospects on the horizon, either. My taste in men is terrible. Take Seth, for example. Actually, while he sucks, he’s not the best example.

Dating is like sex to me. Casual. Filling my time with obsessed boys has always—an excellent way to stroke my ego, yes—been how I ensured I wasn’t alone. Not that it ever worked. It never mattered who was in my bed, what we were doing, or how them being inside me settled the voices in my head, I was alone.

I was empty.

It started in college, spring of my sophomore year. Up till then, I could have won the award for biggest tease.

Flirting with you? If the mitochondria are the powerhouse of a cell, flirting was the powerhouse of my personality—still am a flirt. I proudly wear my once-a-flirt, always-a-flirt badge with honor.

Take me on a date, kiss me? Child's play.

Bring home to Mom? Used to be me.

Think you are about to score? Good luck getting past first base.

Then everything changed.

That semester, I slipped down a rabbit hole. Voices in my head grew louder, new ones worming their way through. Guilt ran through my veins. Shame dressed me.

I’d never felt ashamed of myself. Now? It’s a tattoo on my body.

But I wasn’t going to be ashamed of my body—how it looks or what I do with it.

My first—I cringe at the thought of giving him that title—boyfriend was from the hockey team. He played with my brother, super hot and really good in bed. When casual progressed to something more serious, I dumped him—by a note tapped to his dorm desk.

It was empowering—a quick high.

This process repeated. Over and over.

Some of the boys were too sweet, and I’d feel bad, which inevitably resulted in selecting duds.

I knew what I was doing. A methodically planned self-destruction.

Dumping them let me remain in control. They never had the opportunity to hurt me or say goodbye.Leave.

Until Seth.

About three sips into my morning coffee yesterday, I realized while I never loved him, I was exhausted from the mindfuck I’ve been putting myself through. When I met him, I think I finally wanted someone for more than what we could do between the sheets.

“Where’d you go? You drifted away again.”

“Mentally shopping my closet for what you are going to wear this weekend.”

Emerson chews on the inside of her cheek, eyes dancing over me. “Nothing too tight.” I give her a thumbs up. “I was thinking of drinks at Cindy’s before dinner. Any thoughts?”

I toss around the idea. Immediately thinking about restaurants within walking distance to the upscale rooftop bar—great views of the city, especially Millenium Park—knowing she will ask.

“If that’s what you want to do. It’s your birthday.”

She huffs. Dramatically. “But what would you want to do? I don’t want to drag people to a pla—”

I cut her off, “Emerson Lynn Clarke,” and full name her. “Pick what you want to do. It is your birthday. You do not need to worry about us. No one cares where we go or what we eat or what we do; we want to celebrate you.”

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