hustle of the city. Despite its proximity, Brooklyn is nothing like Manhattan.
A group of four—two women and two men—walks past as I lock up and step out onto the sidewalk. I watch as the two couples split into handholding pairs. The taller of the guys is wearing a Browns jersey and I wonder if he’s checked their stats for the season. If he had, he probably wouldn’t be prancing around in that thing with such pride. I watch them as I follow in their wake. The Browns fan is louder than the rest of the bunch and has an obnoxiously deep voice to boot. He’s drunk, I think. I cross the street to get away from them and call my mom to check on her. By “check on her,” I mean let her know that I’m fine and that her only child survived another day in the big city. I ask how she’s feeling, but in typical fashion she pushes that aside to ask about me.
My mom wasn’t as worried about the idea of me moving as I thought she would be. She wants me to be happy, and going to New York to be with Dakota made me happy. Well, it was supposed to. My move was supposed to be the glue that would keep our fraying relationship together. I thought that the distance was the thing that was chipping away at us, but I hadn’t realized it was freedom she craved. Her freedom-seeking came so unexpected to me because I’d never acted possessive with her. I never tried to control her or tell her what to do. I’m just not like that. Since the day the spunky girl with the noodles for hair moved in next door, I knew there was something special about her. Something so special and real, and I never, ever wanted to hide that. How could I? Why would I? I reinforced her independence and pushed for her to keep her sharp tongue and strong opinions. For the entire five years we were together, I treasured her strength and tried to give her everything she needed.
When she was afraid to move from Saginaw, Michigan, to the Big Apple, I found a way to calm her fear. I’ve had the experience of a few moves myself; I moved from Saginaw to Washington just before my senior year of high school. I constantly reminded her of her very good reasons for wanting to go to NYC: how much she loved dance and how talented she was at it. Not a day passed when I didn’t remind her how great she was and how proud of herself she should be. With blistered toes and bleeding feet, she rehearsed day and night. Dakota has always been one of the most motivated people I’ve ever met. Excellent grades came easier to her than they did to me, and she always had a job when we were teens. When my mom was working and couldn’t drop her off, she rode her bike a mile to her cashier’s job at a truck stop. Once I turned sixteen and got my license, she let her dad pawn her bicycle for extra cash and I gladly drove her.
And yet, in her family life I suppose freedom was something Dakota never felt like she had. Her dad tried to keep her and her brother, Carter, prisoner in their redbrick house. The sheets that he tacked over the windows couldn’t keep either of his children inside. When she got to New York, she saw a new type of living. Watching her dad wither away into nothing with anger and booze wasn’t living. Trying to wash away the guilt of her brother’s death wasn’t living. She realized that she had never truly lived. I had begun living the day I met her, but for her it wasn’t the same.
As much as the destruction of our relationship hurt, I didn’t hold it against her. I still don’t. But I can’t say that it didn’t cause me real pain in addition to erasing the future we had mapped out together. I thought I would come to New York and share an apartment with her. I had assumed that every morning I would wake up to her legs wrapped around mine, the sweet smell of her hair in my face. I thought we would make memories while learning the ways of the city together. We were supposed to take strolls through parks and pretend to understand the art hanging in fancy museums. I expected so much when I started planning my move here. I expected it to be the beginning of my future, not the end of my past.
To her credit, she saw things coming, saw her feelings for what they were, and broke up with me before I moved out here. Rather than try to fake it for some time before it blew up in both of our faces, she was honest with me. Still, by the time she finally ended things, I was too invested in the move to change my mind. I had already transferred schools and put a deposit on an apartment. I don’t regret it, and looking back, I think it was what I needed. I’m not completely enthralled by the city yet—its charm hasn’t really hypnotized me like it does some, and I don’t think I’ll stay here after I graduate—but I like it enough for now. I would like to settle somewhere quiet, with a big yard and sunlight that makes everything gorgeous and browns my skin.
It helps that Tessa moved here with me. I’m not happy about the circumstances that brought her, but I’m glad I could provide an escape for her. Tessa Young was the first friend I made at Washington Central University, and she sort of ended up being the only one I had up until I left. She was the first and only friend I made in Washington, and vice versa. Her freshman year was rough. She fell in love and got her heart broken almost simultaneously. I was in a weird place, between my stepbrother, who I was trying to build a relationship with, and my best friend, Tessa, whose wounds came from the same man.
I opened my door to Tessa the moment she asked and I would do it again. I didn’t mind the idea of sharing my apartment with her, and I knew it would help her. I like my place as the friend, the nice guy. I’ve been the nice guy my entire life and I’m more comfortable in that role than any other. I don’t need to be the center of attention. In fact, I recently realized that I go out of my way to avoid any situation that would put me there. I’m known for being the supporting act, the supportive friend and boyfriend—and I’m perfectly okay with that. When everything went down in Michigan, I wanted to suffer alone. I didn’t want anyone to bleed with me, especially not Dakota.