FAITHLESS : 2003 : STEPHANIE.ZIOBRO

on make-believe

I had driven the two hours to see Colin like I did every weekend. We had been dating for a year, and it was the first long distance relationship for both of us. Well, the first long distance relationship that worked. And I was happy with it.

It was Saturday afternoon, and we sat on the couch in his parents’ living room, watching TV, as usual. (It wasn’t a terribly exciting relationship. But it was comfortable. And that was fine.)

Colin was all smiles. It was our one-year anniversary, almost to the day. "To the day" would have been a few days earlier, but due to the distance, the closest weekend day had to suffice. It was amusing actually – the whole role-reversal in the "anniversary" situation. Normally, it seems that it’s the female who remembers exact dates and events and gets offended when the male doesn’t. But the extent of my knowledge was that we had started dating in September. I think. I had tried to explain to Colin that I’d had a busy week and needed to use the weekend to catch up on a lot of things, so could we cancel this weekend and just wait until next Friday, he got all upset and whiney.

"But I made dinner reservations!"

"Well, you can change them, can’t you?"

"But… I made reservations!"

I caved and drove out. Mostly because I didn’t want to listen to him complain about my lack of effort.

I knew we were going to Bertucci’s – that was nothing new – we went to Bertucci’s all the time. We never needed reservations. But having "reservations" somehow made it a special occasion. When you go on a first date with someone, and you’re going out for dinner, "reservations" are always part of the package. It sets it in concrete, I suppose. If World War Three was scheduled to start at 8pm on Saturday night, "reservations" assure you you’re going to have dinner first. They also imply a more romantic situation. Colin could have made reservations at Bob’s Steak Pit and therefore consider it fine-dining.

So, Bertucci’s. I didn’t have the heart to tell him I was sick of eating there.

Besides, we had reservations.

And after dinner, he planned to take me to the observation deck of the John Hancock Tower. This was also nothing new. Once you can spot Fenway Park and the huge Citgo sign, and you know all the answers to the Boston Trivia computer games, it gets old. But I didn’t say anything. He’d probably talked to the security guard and made reservations there, too. Got us our own private elevator or something.

…

We were finishing dinner when I decided to speak up.

"Do you really want to go to the John Hancock Tower?"

Colin stopped mid-tip-calculation and stared at me.

‘Well, yeah."

I shrugged in submission.

"Why? Don’t you want to go?"

"I’m just tired," I explained. He remained frozen, staring at me with a look that was a mixture of shock and panic. "Don’t worry," I said. "We can go."

Heroin-rush relief flooded Colin’s face.

"We won’t stay long," he cooperated. "I’ve just been planning this for a while."

That amused me, the whole "planning this for a while." We did this every other weekend. But if I thought I was stubborn, throwing a monkey wrench in Colin’s plans meant Armageddon.

…

Boston Tea Party

Paul Revere

The Big Dig

Fenway Park.

Citgo sign.

We came, we saw.

Again.

"Well," Colin said after an hour. "Ready to go?"

"Sure," I said. Thank God, I was thinking. I turned around and started to walk to the elevator when I go the sense that Colin wasn’t following me. I turned around to see that he clearly wasn’t.

He was down on one knee.

"What are you doing?" I asked.

He pulled out a small velvet box, opened it, and held it out to me.

"Will you marry me?"

I was dumbfounded.

So I started to laugh.

"This is a joke, right?"

"No," he said, completely unaffected by my somewhat insulting response. And he smiled. "Will you marry me?"

My laughter stopped. And the first thing that went through my head was Matt Pictrowski, a guy I went to school with who I had a crush on.

And the second thing was "I’m too young."

And the third thing was "no."

And the fourth thing was "no."

And the fifth.

And the sixth…

Colin sat there, crouched on one knee, waiting. The five or six people that were also looking for a tiny Fenway Park tried to act like they weren’t paying attention. But I knew they were. How could they not?

Colin stood up.

"Well?" he asked. "Be my wife?"

I put my arms around him and hugged him and whispered in his ear.

"I can’t."

…

The ride home was pure torture. Colin was silent. He had tears running down his cheeks. I didn’t know what to say. I didn’t want to break up with Colin – I still wanted to date him. I wanted things to stay the way they were. But how can you say, "I don’t want to marry you but let’s still go out" and have everything be normal?

You can’t.

We were almost back to his parents’ house.

"Let’s go somewhere and talk," I said. He nodded.

We drove to a parking lot behind an old mill, and he put the car in park, and as I was about to open my mouth to explain why I said no, he started talking.

"This is gonna make me look like such a jerk."

"What do you mean?"

"I told everyone I was going to propose to you. They all think I’m engaged right now."

"Everyone?"

He nodded, sniffling.

"Colin, Jimmy Ray, the guys at the department…"

I didn’t know what to say. I was thinking, "You should have told me first." I mean, we had been together for a while, and of course we talked about "if we were married." But I guess to me it had been like playing house. It was make-believe – it didn’t mean that just because I was the Mommy and Paula was the Daddy that Paula thought I was really going to be her wife one day. When Paula made dinner in the make-believe kitchen, I didn’t get all pissed off when there wasn’t a real steak on the make-believe plate she handed me. When the Mommy and Daddy took their make-believe baby to the make-believe supermarket, I didn’t scream in horror and call the police when Paula’s brother, Frankie, grabbed our Kermit the Frog baby and stuffed it in his pants and ran around the house saying he was going to eat it. I knew it wasn’t for real. And Paula knew it wasn’t for real. And we didn’t cry when the realization set in that it was just a game. Because we knew it all along.

It was Make-Believe.

We made each other believe it.

And unfortunately, I had made Colin believe that I was the Mommy and he was the Daddy. But he didn’t know it was a game.

But up until that moment, I didn’t know it was a game, either.

Colin put his head in his hands.

"How am I going to face everyone and tell them you said no?"

He started to cry.

Everything I was going to say was gone in an instant. A Guilt Bomb went off and obliterated all my reasoning and left me with a memory span of 2.5 seconds. I cared about Colin, and I wanted to make him happy. I didn’t want to see him hurt so much. I couldn’t handle seeing someone cry over something I did or said. It wasn’t an option.

I had to please everyone.

I had to make everyone happy.

Even if it meant sacrificing myself.

Those were my Rules.

So I had to follow them.

"I’ll wear it," I said.

I was thinking "for the weekend." At least he could face his friends and they could pat him on the back and he could be the Big Man. I could Make-Believe for the weekend. I wasn’t thinking any further than that. Somewhere in my brain was the assumption "I’ll just give it back," but the When of that statement was unknown. It was Make-Believe. There was no Time, things just happened and then didn’t happen. "I’ll wear it," I’d said. Not "I’ll marry you." "I’ll wear it" meant I’d go along with it. I’ll keep playing. I’ll do this to make you not cry anymore. I’ll take Kermit out of my pants and I swear I won’t eat him.

Colin took the ring out of his pocket, put it on my finger, and kissed me.

"I love you," he said.

I didn’t know it get, but I was engaged.

As we walked up to the door of Colin’s parents’ house, Colin took my hand.

"My parents are waiting up for us."

"Did they know too?"

He just smiled.

Of course they knew. Everyone knew.

Except for me.

We went into the kitchen, and on the counter was a bottle of champagne, four wine glasses, and a card. Colin handed me the card and I pretended to read it, but all I saw was a big mess of "congratulations" and "we love you" and "don’t fuck with our son." (That last part wasn’t really there, but neither was I…) I let Colin lead me into the living room, and in a state of shock, I smiled and said my "thank yous" and did my champagne toast. And the whole time I was thinking, "maybe I’ll get used to it."

…

I broke up with him a year later. On our two-year anniversary – unbeknownst to me. But it did seem rather poetic when it was brought to my attention. My intention was merely to call off the engagement. I’d called him the night before I was to drive out to see him, and told him that I couldn’t be engaged anymore. I don’t recall the reasons I gave him, but whatever I said implied that I still wanted to date him.

I drove the two hours the next day.

Gave him back the ring.

And within ten minutes of being there, I had broken up with him completely. I had grown too old to Make-Believe anymore. Somewhere along the line my imagination had lost it’s intensity. I needed a new game to play. So I got back in my car and drove the two hours back home, struggling to see the Mass pike through my tears. I wasn’t crying for me, I was crying for Colin. I was crying with the relief that the game was over. I didn’t care if I had won or lost, I was just thrilled that it was done. But the part of me that was elated wasn’t allowed to show its face yet.

Soon.

But not yet.

…

My second engagement wasn’t as dramatic. In fact, it was the exact opposite, which should have been the big red flag waving in my face and blocking my view of Reality. Waiting to smother me and put me out of my stupidity.

Brandon bought me a ring.

With my money.

And proposed to me.

In the mall.

Unfortunately, it took me a $10,000 debt and the total and complete breakdown of my self-esteem to make me realize I should have said no.

That I was way too old for Make-Believe.

NEXT

BACK