weakly denied any infidelity. Then he defended himself fiercely, calling me crazy and overly sensitive, calling Jane a liar. Soon, we were fighting terribly about the truth of these rumors, about the truth of everything that had ever gone on between us. We would break up, then reunite, and break up again. Sometimes when I was with him, I found myself clearly thinking, âI donât want to be with this man.â This shouldâve meantthat I could walk away. But nothing surpassed my need for Willâs approval. Nothing. It was a desperate grab, something I did not know how to control.
I remember several dramatic, sob-strewn scenes in restaurants, on sidewalks, and in our respective apartments. Once, a bartender asked us to go outside because we were fighting so loudly that we were disturbing other patrons. I pined for months, unable to think of much else. I looked for him everywhere, and the fact that I pretty much never had a chance of accidentally running into him in Manhattan left me feeling stranded, alone on an island of millions.
Then he would show up at my doorstep at 3 a.m., like a miracle, several beers in, and weâd fall into each otherâs arms. Weâd have sex, wonder aloud why we were not together, and pledge our undying love. Then in the morning the flaws would re-emerge, the hurts resurface, the arguments rewind, and weâd call it all off again. Iâd be crushed. Devastated. Imagining suicide off the roof of my building. Too torn apart, I knew, for my sorrow to be just about the demise of our romance.
T OTAL E CLIPSE, P ENNSYLVANIA AND O HIO
A
PRIL 17 AND 18, 1996
My mom and I barreled through eastern Pennsylvania. We pulled into a rest stop near Allentown where, as if scripted in a stupid movie, there stood Will. He was on tour with his band, a tour funded by the bass playerâs dad.
âOh, my god,â I whispered to myself when our eyes locked outside the vending machines. He walked over to me and pulled me to him, pressed his whole body into mine. My mom saw us and said nothing, just walked back to the car.
âI left New York,â I said into his collar. He smelled like cigarettes and beer.
âOkay,â he said.
âIâm sorry,â I said.
âShhh,â he pulled me close again. I still loved him. I loved his body. I loved how slight and strong it was. I had wanted to hold that body every morning and night for the rest of my life. But soon the cigarette smell became unbearable, and my mom was waiting for me. âI love you. Iâll always love you,â he said. I wiped my tears on my sleeve and pushed him away. His bandmates smirked as they ambled past us.
âMe too,â I said. I walked to my momâs car. She sat clutching the steering wheel with the engine already running. Iâd barely closed the door when she floored it and pulled away.
âYou okay?â she asked, as she sped back onto the freeway, looking over her shoulder into her blind spot. âOf all the luck. I canât
believe
we ran into him here.â
âYeah,â I said, buckling myself slowly. âJust drive.â I closed my eyes and prepared to return to sleep. I couldnât look back.
My mom and I didnât talk for several hundred miles. I slept, then woke and sat with my head turned away from her, my nose an inch from the window until I fell asleep again. We stopped an hour or so later and spent the night in a roadside motel.
I woke in the motel, disoriented after a vivid dream of New York and Will and the life Iâd abandoned. My mom tapped my shoulder, saying that it was checkout time, almost noon. âIt seemed like you desperately needed some real rest.â I imagined her watching me sleep, monitoring my breathing as if I were a newborn in a crib.
âOkay,â I said. I stumbled to the bathroom, peed with my eyes closed, brushed my teeth, and followed her to the car. I curled up against the car window, my eyes
Rebecca Hamilton, Conner Kressley