Put It Bluntly, Thomas Turnberry

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I dated way too many women in high school. What an embarrassing revelation at the precipice of thirty. Married with kids and in pursuit of greatness—or at least recognition—and all I can think about is what they’ll think of me if they ever see my last name on a spine at the B&N.

 

No, not what they think. What they know. How much of a loser I was growing up. My cringeworthy navigation of adolescence and romance. Not a slick, greasy trail of broken hearts, but a footpath of meandering and self-aggrandizing. Reckless and ignorant of how many skeletons I was piling up, and how many of their ghosts would haunt me.

 

Not so much that it matters. Surely I remember more of them than they do of me. But that doesn’t stop the psychic damage when one of them crosses my mind.

 

Fuck… you moron. Why did you do that?

 

I picture it something like so.

 

“Did you hear about that new book about (insert whatever dumb thing I’ve written here)?” her husband says. My greatest fear begins with me stroking my own ego, as if I’d be so notable that her trade-working lover would know about young adult fiction.

 

“Oh… yeah,” she mumbles as she rolls a pea around her plate with her fork. It’s been a long day of wrangling her beautiful children, and so it takes longer for his words to register in her brain than it does the words to leave her mouth. A moment later she chuckles to herself, having actually heard him now.

 

“What’s so funny?” he asks through a laugh. Hers is infectious in that way. Poisonous even.

 

“Oh nothing,” she bats the air, fighting off more giggles. “Well, I actually used to date the author.”

 

They’re so secure in their relationship that the husband leans in close and wishes to know more. His wife, the center of his world, used to date a famous author.

 

Of course not. And the very thought of it makes her laugh harder, she’s shedding tears now.

 

“We dated in high school,” she reveals, which is a lifetime ago. Back when the author’s ambitions were nonexistent. Not yet aware of the anguish caused by toeing the line between player and man whore.

 

The nightmare never really began until the husband asks: “What was he like?”

 

“He was a little odd.”

 

“He was a senior without his permit.”

 

“He cheated on me.”

 

“He dated my cousin.”

 

“He dated my sister.”

 

“He broke up with me over text.”

 

“He broke up with me on my birthday.”

 

“He invited me to church, then broke up with me on the way home.”

 

“He said God told him we weren’t meant to be together.”

 

None said with contempt, but drowned in pity and humor. Her high-pitched sigh punctuating the mockery—a dagger dragging through my pride.

 

To know my facade can be easily dismantled by so many.

 

I could never dream of writing horrors this deep-seated in human nature. Lines that keep readers awake years after reading, that haunt them like poltergeists mingling with shower steam.

 

Young love. What a stupid turn of phrase.

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Young Zack. God… I fucking hate that guy.