Page 83 of The Baby Bargain
Yeah, we fought a lot. But when we made up—
Fuck, the sex was amazing.
For a while, it was a cycle. I'd pull her closer. She'd pull me closer. Then she'd push me away. Push me until I broke. We'd fight. I'd demand more of her heart. She'd promise it. We'd make up with hot, sweaty, needy sex.
Repeat the process.
I guess, when I put it that way, it makes sense. Logically, it makes sense.
But then I think about her smile. All those times she melted into my arm. That she whisperedI love youand clung to me like she was terrified I'd leave.
She thought I was scared of her moods. That I'd leave her when I realized she was crazy. That one day I'd wake up and put the pieces together.
Yeah, she had issues, but they never pushed me away. As long as she was dealing with them, taking care of herself—
I guess that was the problem.
It makes so much sense, when I think about it. I can articulate the words as well as any therapist. I couldn't save my mom (jury's out on the final results there, but at the time Mom was drinking heavily and unwilling to listen to ideas about help) so I tried to save my girlfriend.
I thought I could love her enough to convince her to stop hurting herself.
It was stupid. Love doesn't work like that. Self-loathing doesn't work like that.
Iknowthat.
But knowing something and really believing it are different.
My head gets it. My heart?
I still want to stitch her heart together.
Even though—
I have no idea how her heart is doing. Maybe she's fine. Maybe she's happy. Maybe she's taking her meds and eating right and exercising.
Maybe I was the problem all along.
I certainly can't—
Fuck, I don't even know.
The singer's groan ceases as I pause the song. I'm already on the band's second album. In some ways, it's like the first. There's still anger and energy and that youthful need to take over the world.
But there's something else too. The guy drops his defenses. He stops bragging about how little he cares about his ex. Starts admitting how much the world is slipping through his fingers.
I'm not sure who I am in this metaphor—the lyricist or the listener. Both, maybe.
I should clarify—there's something about this string of albums; they always underline my thoughts—but it doesn't.
My head is still a mess.
I want to help Ariel. That's clear.
But when I start thinking about more than that—
Maybe it's better if I cut the line there. I don't fix situations. I make them worse. I'm smart enough to understand that and stay away from people who are…
Whatever I should call it.
