Laura’s calendar in her room is covered in black Xs. They’re counting down to today, August twentieth, which she’s circled in bright red permanent marker.
I walked out on her when she told me about the abortion. I managed to hold out for all of twenty-four hours. Like a moth to a flame, like Kenickie jumping right back on that Ferris wheel with Rizzo as if nothing happened, I drove back to her house the very next day and told her we’d get past this.
To be sure, “this” isn’t worth much. Our relationship is falling apart. Experiencing the unintended consequences of sex firsthand with a healthy second course of deceit makes for a great chastity belt, and Laura is doing her best to pull that belt in a few more notches. This last month she’s been withholding even token affections—the touch of her hand, a kiss, even something as small as a compliment or a wink. She returns maybe every other phone call, if I’m lucky. Wrestling team conditioning has started up and is taking up a lot of my time, but I still try to make time for dates or even to just hang out. And yet, each and every one of these encounters ends with a door in my face, a turned back, a brush-off.
She had an abortion. I fucking get it!
As I look back on these last few weeks, I rationalize that Laura has only herself to blame for my late-night phone calls to Beth.
On the bright side, Bucknell called three days ago. And Laura got in.
She leans up against her bursting-at-the-seams Calais. “This time apart will be good for us, Hank.”
“I agree.”
Our goodbye kiss is short, choreographed. Laura drives away. I don’t even cry.
We haven’t officially broken up. But I can’t shake the feeling that somewhere in the trunk of Laura’s silver Oldsmobile Calais with the Fitzpatrick license plate frame, in a box labeled toiletries, tucked in between her disposable contacts and disposable tampons, is our disposable love for one other.