On the weekends we drive to Holyoke, sometimes all the way out to the Berkshires if gas isn’t too expensive. You play music on your iPod that I was too young to appreciate when it came out, and you tell me about when you saw this band live in high school. I ask if you always go for the younger girls.
In college, the boys congregate in the campus sculpture park, hanging upside down on pieces of art like kids on jungle gyms, talking about girls they’ve hooked up with. I keep my eyes on the sidewalk as I pass by and count down the days until I see you again.
It’s summer, and we lie in bed with all the windows open, blankets pushed down to our feet. I trace the outline of the tattoo on your chest with my index finger. “No other guy would be this patient,” you say, and I pull my hand away.
You move into an apartment closer to my mom’s house, but complain about the traffic in this part of the state. When you come over, I have a dozen tabs open on my laptop searching for flights out west.
Art museums are your favorite to visit on vacation. I like that there are few expectations besides talking about the art. I don’t like how stuffy the rooms are, how by the time I’m halfway through the exhibits I’m dehydrated and want to take a nap.
You grow a beard and I tell you it makes you look too old, and besides, it’s summertime and too warm. You shrug and say you like it. When we go for drives, I try to take selfies of us at all the places we stop, but you never smile, and now your lips are hidden behind facial hair. You complain that I touch you less often.
Our homes keep moving closer together but the distance feels wider. I make friends with a guy my own age who lives much farther away. At night, once you’ve fallen asleep watching TV, we send each other memes and joke about simpler things.
The other guy makes art, doesn’t just walk around looking at it. On a drive to the mountains, you make a joke about a secret boyfriend, and I don’t laugh. I say I don’t like the way you talk to me, and you make a face like I don’t know any better.
We try counseling, but you say it’s just me who still needs to grow. When I kiss you good night, I picture the other guy’s toothy grin and dream of escaping, of getting in my car and driving past the mountains and into something unknown, though that seems scarier than staying.
I lie in bed, alone, scrolling on my phone. The other guy posts a selfie of him and his girlfriend. She looks young, and they’re not smiling. She’s not tagged, so I click on his profile and glance at his followers, notice they’re mostly younger girls, the kind who will count down the days until he visits, who will be content doting over his tattoos and his art.
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Chelsea Dodds lives in Connecticut, where she teaches high school English. She holds an MFA in fiction from Southern Connecticut State University, and her short stories have appeared in Maudlin House and Sixfold Journal. She is currently querying her first novel, about a post-college cross-country road trip on a stolen school bus. You can follow her on Twitter @chelseawrites_ and Instagram @chelseawanders_.
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image: Ashley Beresch. Check out more of her work on Instagram @ashleyberesch
Rejection Letters 