I Get It. I’m Just Not Allowed To Be Happy.

As I was getting ready to go home from work today, after having spent ten hours there doing mostly manual labor (which is not in my job description, by the way,) I looked at my phone and saw a voice mail from my mom. My mom never calls me on Saturdays, so of course, I was immediately a little concerned. I listened to the message right away, even though I was still standing in the middle of my workplace, and she immediately reassured me that everything was all right (does she know me, or does she know me?,) but that she did get a “message from my past” this afternoon. I immediately called her back — I was still at work, mind you — and asked what was going on.

So, instead of answering me, my mom passed the phone to my dad and to my grandma so they could say hello, before taking it back and telling me what in tarnation was going on. Or, actually, she didn’t tell me. She had me guess. And I knew, on the first try, exactly who she was talking about.

Craig.

There are no other guesses. There are no other people. He’s all that there ever was, and all that there ever will be. I cannot escape from him. I’m learning that now.

He doesn’t know that he lives two blocks away from me — he doesn’t even know that we live in the same city. (And believe me, this wasn’t intentional. When I moved here, I made sure to move into a neighborhood that was completely separate from his, because I didn’t want to run into him on the streets all the time. Then, in the spring, I saw him from afar three times, but I don’t think he ever saw me. My friend reminded me that his school has an online database of students, so I looked him up and discovered, yes, he’d moved into my neighborhood. I’ve avoided his street ever since.) He also doesn’t know why we broke up — because we never technically did. We stopped talking, that’s it. He doesn’t know that I’ve spent the past year and a half swearing up and down that I would never be with him again. To him, this could be just another one of the little breaks we take. We’ve broken up a lot, we both know that, and we’ve gotten back together a lot, too. I have kissed him at least once in every single year since 1997. Except 2004. I have not kissed him in 2004, and I will not kiss him in 2004. In 2005, either. Or 2006, 2007, 2008, or ever. Never. Again..

He called me today. Or my parents, rather, because he doesn’t know that I don’t live there anymore. He does now, though, because my father told him so. Still, I’m lucky that he talked to my dad, because my mom would have told him where I live, and what’s more, she would have invited him to come out to dinner with us next week, when my whole family will be down here visiting. He’s a nice Jewish boy from a nice Jewish family — my mother adores him. What else can I say?

She made me promise, though, that I’d call him back. She says that if I don’t, then she will. And I don’t doubt her for a minute.

So, I will. I have no idea what’s going to happen.

This isn’t going to be pretty.