if you dated someone,â she admits.
Her words take me by surprise, and as I mull them over, something shifts in my reasoning. I guess I saw that from the beginning of the small almost-catfight that she was annoyed I was with Nora, but for some reason I thought she was more upset because Iâd lied to her about what I was doing tonight. That she would feel weird at seeing me with someoneâeven though Iâm really not with anyoneâwasnât the first thing on my mind, given everything. She broke up with me over six months ago and has barely given me the time of day since.
Part of me wants to shout at her, Whereâs the logic in that!? but another part reminds me that she must feel that sheâs justified in some way. I do my best to try to see it from her side before I say anything or react because I know that if I do speak right now, my words will do more damage than good. Especially if Iâm only thinking of my point of view. Of myself. Still, Iâm mad, too. She thinks after six months that she can yell at me for dating someone who Iâm not even dating? I want to tell her that, tell her that sheâs wrongâand Iâm rightâand Iâm pissed, too! But thatâs the problem with this type of quick anger: discharging it would make me feel better for a few moments, but then Iâll feel like crap after. Anger doesnât often offer a solution, it only creates more problems.
Still, part of me wants to say something. I take a big drink of water instead.
I know anger.
The type of anger that I know isnât some small thing that pops up when you see your ex of six months hanging out with someone else. My experience with anger isnât getting pissed off because your neighbor drove his car into yours. The anger that I know cuts at you when youâre watching your best friend get his eye split open because his dad heard someone down at the bar whispering about him looking at another boy just a beat too long.
The anger that I know seeps inside of you and turns you into lava, burning slowly as it rolls down the hills and covers the town. Itâs when your friendâs bruises are in the shape of knuckles and you canât do shit about it without causing more destruction.
When youâve been host to that type of anger, itâs very, very hard to fly off the handle over small things. Iâve never been one to add fuel to a fire. Iâve been the water, extinguishing the flames, the salve to heal the burns.
Little problems come and go, and I have always avoided confrontation at all costs, but sometimes things become too much to bear or too big to ignore. Iâm terrible at fighting, I canât keep an argument going to save my life. My mom always said I was born with a gift: an enormous amount of empathy. And that it could quickly become a fault instead of a virtue.
I canât help it . . . I canât stand to see other people suffer, even if holding back causes suffering to me.
Iâm struggling to understand Dakotaâs anger when she finally breaks the silence.
âIâm not saying you canât date,â she says.
I sit down on the arm of the couch farther away from her.
âJust not so soon. Iâm not ready for you to date,â she adds, and takes a long drink of water.
Soon?Itâs been six months.
I can tell by her expression that Dakotaâs completely serious, and I donât know if I should call her out on it, or just let it blow over. Sheâs pretty drunk, and I know how stressed sheâs been lately with her academy and all. Iâm smart enough to pick and choose my battles, and I donât feel strongly enough about this one to let it snowball into a full-fledged war.
What sheâs asking of me isnât remotely fair, and Iâm frustrated by how easily Iâve let myself slide into this passive role again. Iâm enabling her . . . but is it really that bad? We are communicating. No one is yelling. No one is losing their cool. I want to keep this going. If sheâs handing out secrets, Iâll take a few.
âAnd when will you be ready for me to date?â I ask softly.
She sits up straight, immediately defensive. I knew she would be. I stare at her, my eyes telling her that thereâs nothing to be upset about, weâre only talking. No judging here.
Her shoulders relax.
âI donât know. I havenât really thought about it.â She shrugs. âI assumed it would take you longer to get over me.â
âGet over you?â I ask, worried for this womanâs sanity. What would have given her the assumption that I could get over her? My kiss with Nora? Itâs not like this girl before me even gave me a choice about getting over her.