Romance Is My Day Job by Patience Bloom Read Free Book Online Page B

deeply insulted by the whole sister thing. It’s almost as if The Thorn Birds predicted this fall from grace, the inappropriate love with a near-sibling. Part of me is relieved I don’t have to deal with this lovable hot mess anymore. I can get some sleep, don’t need to save him from himself. But the connection I feel to him continues. I miss his sweet face, his friendliness, his wanting to sit with me in the dining hall. He seems even lonelier than I am, and we tend to find each other at the end of the day, in the bar or in the library. I hate seeing him go through this torment, especially when one day, he walks into the cafeteria with a bleeding gash on his cheek from a motorcycle spill.
    His friends assure me he’s not an alcoholic. This is college and people drink. Just because my maximum is four beers and Craig’s minimum is twelve with a few shots of bourbon doesn’t mean he has a problem. I have this feeling they think I’m overreacting.
    I wait it out, knowing he will come back to me.
    A few weeks later I discover that he’s broken up with Peaches and Cream. I find him staring ahead stony eyed in the snack bar. He smiles when he sees me. I can tell he wants to escape.
    â€œWanna go for a ride?” he asks.
    He’s drunk, I can tell. Winter has set in. The streets are icy, and it’s a terrible idea for me to get on a motorcycle with a drunk person. If I get on the bike, I’ll deserve whatever fate comes of this disastrous decision. There is nothing stupider than drunk driving, unless you’re a willing, sober passenger.
    Of course I go. Even as I get on the bike, I hate myself. Love him, hate the power he has over me. This might be the only thing I have in common with Meggie, Mary Carson, Frank, and Father Ralph—the feeling of powerlessness. It’s tragic true love. I can’t stop it.
    He starts up the motorcycle and we ride along the country roads. The wind howls and it’s obvious he’s smashed because he’s swerving. Usually quiet, I start screaming in terror, into his back, into the air, hoping somehow he’ll make it all stop, have some regard for my life. But he doesn’t care. There is no thought given to my welfare.
    I regret not caring for myself, that I’d feel desperate enough to get on a drunk’s bike, that I’ve gained all this weight from drinking. That I’m practically flunking two courses. That this person with a death wish wants to kill himself and take me down with him. I have so much that I want to do. I vow not to waste another second.
    Until he slows down and we are safe.
    As we stand near his apartment, he invites me up. It’s decision time. I could either go home and cure myself of this sickness or keep up the destructive routine. I go upstairs, still hating myself and feeling like that tragic heroine. As Craig drops off to sleep, I go back downstairs, watch people returning home at four o’clock in the morning, and think, This can’t go on.
    The next day, I go back to my own cave again, start studying, staying in the basement of the library, going back home at a decent hour. Maybe I slip a few times with Craig, though we get no pleasure from it. It’s like withdrawal—my hunger keeps getting reawakened and I feel as if I’ll die if I don’t have him again.
    Maybe I have my own death wish, as I go through periods of drinking and lingering in bars until all hours, waiting for him to show. Then I’ll buckle down and study again. When I do see him, I start vicious fights with him or I literally run after him—aggressive acts that were never in my good-girl repertoire.
    What have I become?
    One night, when Craig ignores me, I figure this is the end. Those images of death flash before me: that woman in the driveway; Craig lying passed out on his bed; a girl in high school who took too many pills but then changed her mind. Sad people who have lost their way—they’re