The time I didn’t leave

It would’ve been so easy to leave. To let go of his hand, disappear into the crowd. I could take off for home and my own bed and my family. Just let go.

“You’re a bitch, you know that?” He yelled to the drunk woman behind us.

The woman flipped us the bird and surged forward with the massive crowd attempting to exit the concert.

“Bitch.” He spat again, egging her on.

“Stop that,” I warned him, his sweaty palm still in mine.

“She started it,” he replied, “and it’s true.”

I turned away from his overheated face and tried to make out a clear path through the crowd.

We’d gone to a concert, our first little trip away together. He bought the tickets. I don’t remember what bands we saw. I’m not a music person, but he was pleased so I was too. We got a cheap hotel room in the heart of Minneapolis and headed up that afternoon, so I could show him around my college stomping grounds before the event.

I drove us the hour north to the cities while he flipped between songs on his phone. He couldn’t drive because of a medical condition and this was the first time in three months that things were looking up for us.

I pulled off the highway and meandered through a quaint neighborhood until I reached the old time burger and malt shop where I suggested we grab lunch.

“I’m not that hungry though,” he said as I parked under a shady tree.

“It’s lunch time, and you haven’t eaten anything today. Plus, they have chicken strips and fries. You like that.” I replied cheerfully, willing him not to mar this experience with his attitude.

“But I don’t know if I’ll like these chicken strips,” he said.

When we got into the restaurant, the hostess sat us along the wall in a red, vinyl-covered booth.

“Christy and I used to come here all the time,” I told him, thinking back to the countless times my sister and I would meet here for lunch during our college years. Our schools were equidistant, making this our go-to meeting spot.

He didn’t say anything, just studied the menu.

Looking back, I wonder how uncomfortable he was dating a college educated woman. It never occurred to me then, but I bet he was deeply self-conscious about it. He had finished high school, barely. From the stories I’d heard on our meaningless drives around town, he relished the nights he spent drinking and smoking with his other dead-beat high school students. After high school, he joined the military only to but discharged after his medical condition came up. From there he took shit jobs and worked until the place either kicked him out or closed down.

Meanwhile, I had gone to the private high school in our shared hometown, graduated college Magna Cum Laude and with graduate credits under my belt. I’d moved away from home and was only back because the Recession turned all my entry-level jobs into internships. We’d met working at a bookstore, where I’d applied because I hated everything about my life, but at least I’d get a good discount on all the books I could imagine. My collection grew exponentially that year although my confidence diminished about as much. He hated books. I should’ve taken that as my first warning sign.

When the waitress arrived, he declined to get any food. He claimed to not feel great. He always claimed to not feel great. I knew he just didn’t want to eat anything other than a 6-piece nugget meal from McDonalds with a large Dr. Pepper.

“We’ll share a basket of fries,” I started, “I’ll have the bacon cheeseburger. And can I get a malt? The full, we can split that too.”

The waitress nodded and left, hanging our order up for the fry cook.

“After this we can go wander around my college,” I said, ignoring his choice not to get food. “I haven’t been back there since I graduated. I’d like to see it again. They built a new Student Union.”

“Okay,” he replied, fidgeting on the sweaty vinyl.

I hoped our food would appear quickly.

John and I could keep a conversation going, but four years later I can’t for the life of me think of any that truly mattered, aside from one. About a month into our relationship, we were driving around, him smoking like a forest fire, me huddled in my coat, waiting to be dropped off at home. At the time he could drive, so he’d picked me up from work. We were racing around on some back road between town and the surrounding cornfields, spending time together by doing nothing.

“I can’t wait to get out of this town,” My breath created a fog in his chilly car.

It was my constant refrain. I wanted my career to start, my life to move forward. I’d felt stuck since moving back home. Despite being surrounded by my parents and siblings, the isolation from my friends and the self I’d been growing into prior to returning here stifled all my energy. I hadn’t written a thing in months. My paints sat, unopened in the corner of my childhood bedroom.

“I’ll move back up to the Cities if I have to. I just need to be out of here.” I looked at him.

“We can’t move yet, I’ve still got two years at RCTC,” he said disdainfully. “Then, I’ve got another two years, probably in Winona, for my teaching degree.”

I nearly started to cry, I was so startled by what he’d said. That night I emailed a close friend about his dismissal of my wants. He assumed we’d be together forever after only dating a month. He assumed that his goals in life aligned with mine. He assumed I was fine just doing the bare minimum to get by. Little did he know about the spreadsheet on my computer detailing the dozens of jobs I’d applied for since moving home. Little did he know the fire that burned in me to make something of myself, despite it only being kindling in that moment. Little did he know how passionately I wanted to live. However, because he was my first everything, because I was beaten down from the job searching and rejection, because I wanted something good and wholesome, I let him say things like that, dictate our lives, wondering if that would make me happy one day. This was the first red flag of many that I willfully ignored.

Once our food arrived, I eagerly ate my bacon cheeseburger, reveling in its grease. John ate a few fries. I finished our malt. Full and happy to have relived a college memory by taking him here, we paid and headed out the door.

When we arrived on my college campus, he didn’t even want to leave the car. I chided him into walking around, the balmy July air laying on the green campus in a haze of pollen and academia. I led him under the arches that acted as the official entrance to campus, pointed out the library where I’d spent the majority of my college years. We wandered into the massive Student Union that, in my time, had been a parking lot.

“Shit!” I squealed as a heavy door slammed into my toe. We hadn’t even made it into the lobby, and my toe was bleeding like a stuck pig.

“That looks like it hurt,” John said, helping me inside.

I looked around for someone, anyone, who might have a first aid kit. So much for exploring campus.

When no meandering students appeared, I led the way back to my Toyota and the first aid kit I kept in the glove-box. I poured water over the wound, washing blood off my sandal. Then I dressed my toe while John stood nearby, waiting to get in the car.

When we finally got to the hotel, we immediately changed into our swimsuits, both eager to hang out for a while in the pool. It was small, just down the hall from where a continental breakfast likely took place each morning. I waded in, and the cool water felt good against my skin. We’d gone swimming one other time this summer, and John was happiest in the water. He became a different person. Or more accurately, he became the person I wished could stick around for a while.

We splashed around, raced from edge to edge. He picked me up, the water making me lighter than him for once. His thin chest lost its edges in the chlorine. We kissed, just as I’d imagined kissing a guy in a pool might be. We were cute.

Afterwards, we changed for the concert. I had purchased a new dress that week. I wanted to look nice. It was white with red flowers. I strapped on my hiking sandals, knowing that if I had to stand outside at a concert all evening, I sure as hell would be comfortable doing so. John threw on his usual jeans and a polo. We walked to the outdoor venue, the tickets in John’s pocket.

Once inside, we each ordered a beer and split a funnel cake.

“I’m starving,” John said, plowing into the cake.

“Well, you didn’t eat lunch,” I reminded him.

“I wasn’t hungry then,” he replied.

We sat on the grass and watched the other concert goers mingle outside the stage area. I finished my beer, wishing I could get a second not because I love drinking but because I wanted, for once, to be able to let go and have fun. But the beers were expensive, and someone needed to be the semi-adult here as John scowled at the already drunk people nearby. I decided to get two waters instead.

I enjoyed the concert and recognized a few songs. It was standing room only, so we found a spot just close enough to see the band. We held hands and swayed to the music. I leaned into his chest. He wrapped his arms around me. It was nice.

As the second band played, the mood change almost imperceptibly. The crowd around us would surge forward and backward as people moved about, trying to get more drinks or find a friend or get to a Port-a-Potty. At one point, we’d surged even closer, near a massive light pole that illuminated the band as the sun set behind us.

“Hey, watch it asshole,” John muttered as a drunk reveler pushed past us.

The guy turned around, confused as to who was talking, and I willed him not to notice John’s furrowed brow and icy stare.

“It’s fine, John. It’s crowded here, so we’re bound to get pushed around,” I said calmly.

“Well he didn’t have to push us like that,” John said defensively and crossed his arms.

I didn’t reply, returning my attention instead to the concert as the band played on.

John’s mood deteriorated rapidly during those last few songs. He got fussy and every touch that wasn’t mine prompted him to call out to another “dick” or “asshole” who had tried to get by us in this packed crowd. I told him to drink water, realizing what an idiot he was for foregoing any real food then standing out in this hot summer weather all evening.

Finally, the concert ended. The crowd crawled slowly towards the gates, most of it enjoying the last light of a beautiful Minnesota evening. I kept a hand clasped tightly around John’s and led the way. A drunk woman in a pink tank-top and a sunburn pushed into us hard, nearly toppling John over.

“Watch it!” He yelled at her.

She looked around, confused.

“You watch it,” she spat back. A mean drunk. Great.

“There are people walking here, you know,” John said with such malice that the woman rounded on him.

“I don’t give a fuck about the other people here,” she said.

Her drunk friend caught my eye, and we both realized how easily these two could start at each other. I pulled John ahead of the women, spotting a break in the crowd.

“You’re a bitch, you know that?” He yelled backwards, still trying to incite his little fight.

The woman flipped him the bird. I pulled at his hand to keep us moving. His stubbornness held him in place a moment longer.

I turned back, tugging harder on his hand. The crowd was slowly pulling us apart from the woman. Before she disappeared, she caught my eye. I don’t know if it was divine inspiration or a moment of drunken clarity, but she stared at me for a moment before speaking.

“He’s a terrible guy,” she said calmly.

In that moment, I realized how easily I could simply let go of his hand. Disappear into the crowd. Leave him behind forever. I knew this city, he didn’t. I could get back to the hotel before he even got out of the venue, pack my bag, and leave. I would stay with my sister for the night. We would drink too much, and she would revel with me about our bad luck in men. I would quit my job, pack up, and head somewhere new. I would never see him again. He could find his own damned way home in this mess.

I didn’t drop his hand. I didn’t disappear. I didn’t leave him. I pulled his hand harder, steering him towards the gates. We walked in silence all the way back to the hotel. Once we got there, he got sick. Heat exhaustion, the asshole. Such an easy fix if he had just listened to me. He fell asleep while I flipped between HGTV and NatGeo. I drove us home the next morning, wishing for brunch but waiting for a sign.

I didn’t leave him that night. I should’ve, but I didn’t. Because that’s the thing: looking back, hindsight clearly points out when we had that sign, that right moment, to do what we need to do. But I didn’t see it then because I was hoping against hope for something good.

I left him several months later after he said he’d never read the book I was writing. His reasoning was that he doesn’t like to read. My dream is to be a writer. This isn’t news to anyone who knows me. But this man who talked of marriage and kids and happily ever after denied me by denying my dreams. So I left him. A few months later I quit my job, packed up my car, and moved somewhere entirely new. I haven’t seen him since but I’m pretty sure he’s still in that hometown, screwing up every relationship in his life and blaming it on everyone else. And he probably works a shitty job too.

I don’t hate him. I don’t hate myself either. Instead, I focused my energy on doing what I love. I finished my novel and got a job that matters to me. I take the risks I didn’t take when I was with him. I’ve grown, which is what we should strive to do. I pity him because he refuses to grow. I don’t dwell on that relationship much, despite it being the one big relationship in my life. I’ve grown past it. But damn, would it have been nice to just drop that sweaty hand and run off into the night, alone and wild and free.