So, you can imagine how frustrating it was when, after years of patiently waiting — for my boobs to come in, for my wardrobe to sort itself out after that weird retro-Punk phase I went through, and, most especially, for Nate to come home from his first semester of college and notice that I’d grown up — he didn’t even blink an eye at my high school freshman field hockey skirt and newly minted set of knockers.
In fact, if anything, he pulled away more, until I’d been demoted from honorary little sister to invisible girl who lives with Parker. That first winter break, he barely spoke to me at all unless it was to say something banal like “excuse me” as his body brushed past mine with new carefulness on the way to the fridge, or “is Parker home” when I’d hear the doorbell chime and race downstairs as fast as my legs could carry me, determined to be the one to greet him.
At first, I hated how much those tiny, bland niceties meant to me — how one thoughtless word from him could make or break my entire day. Each “hey Phoebe” and “tell Parker I called” was a bone thrown to a desperate dog, who’d live on any scrap of attention that came her way so long as it came from his hand. It made me feel weak. Pathetic. Invisible.
But afterwards, when Nate dropped out of Harvard — and, for all intents and purposes, out of my life — I missed his strained small talk, his tossed scraps. Oh, how I wished he’d come back from wherever he’d gone and look through me while saying “pass the pepper” at dinner. Because, as sad as it was to admit, having Asshole Nate around was better than no Nate at all.
His father, an influential Boston defense attorney with big plans for his only son, was pissed beyond belief when his sole heir joined the special forces and disappeared without so much as a discussion.
Parker, his best friend since elementary school, wasn’t thrilled to lose his partner in crime, but he vowed to be supportive if it meant making Nate happy.
And me? Well, there’ve been several stages of my post-Knox life…. starting with pure, undiluted misery.
The slightly melodramatic wherefore-hast-thou-forsaken-me-o-beloved-one phase was essentially an eighteen-month period during which I consumed a lot of chocolate chip cookie dough ice cream and listened to Damien Rice songs on repeat until my eye sockets physically refused to produce any more tears.
Then, when I turned sixteen and was finally done feeling sorry for myself, the numbing sorrow of missing him wore off and I realized how freaking pissed I was at him for abandoning me.
This may’ve been because my pride was a bit wounded that Nate hadn’t even bothered to come back and notice my months of moping, which was pretty inconsiderate, since it was all over him. Even later, when I learned he was halfway around the world training for a tactical team so lethal they didn’t even have a name, the firestorm of rage-fueled, unrequited love continued to scorch my insides.
My angry phase lasted longer.
Approximately six years, to be exact, until both high school and college were fading in my rearview and I was a twenty-two year old woman with a pitiful amount of experience with the male sex, all because my stupid, stubborn heart refused to relinquish hope that someday, my soulmate would wake up and smell the freaking pheromones.
But eventually, as I moved to the city and settled into new patterns in my Back Bay brownstone, as my “real life” started and — alarmingly — began to slip by without anyone to share it with…. I was forced to accept the fact that my reckless, hopeless (and occasionally dirty) dreams of Nate would never be fulfilled.
With that realization, I transitioned from anger into the indifferent phase, where I’ve been dwelling unhappily for nearly a year, now.
The main rules of indifference are: Don’t think about Nate.
Don’t talk about Nate.
And never, ever, talk to Nate at the few family gatherings where our paths cross.
It’s kind of like my own personal Fight Club, except less violent and way more pathetic since I’m the only member.