Flavor of the Week: American History Ex

SOME RELATIONSHIPS START with fireworks. Ours ended with them.

Well, it would have, if my boyfriend John hadn’t called to dump me the morning of July 4 less than an hour before we were supposed to meet at Penn Station and head to his parents’ house on Long Island, where booze, boats and barbecue awaited.

“I don’t think I can do this,” John said, meaning our relationship. “I know it’s shitty over the phone, but I can’t break up with you when you’re looking at me.”

I had no idea what that meant, but I’d reached a conclusion. If it’s heartbreaking to look at me, then I wanted John to look at me. A lot. I’d also gone too damn long without barbecue, and I was already wearing a bikini under my clothes. My friends were out of town for their own festivities, so this was my one chance at an Independence Day celebration.

Sure, it would be heartbreaking and I’d probably want to stick a firecracker inside his urethra. But what better way to celebrate America—where she comes from and where she’s going?

“You are not leaving me alone on a holiday.” I said. “We had plans!” We agreed to meet at Penn Station in the usual spot and also, not to make a big scene at his friend Scott’s hot tub gathering later. Notice that this stipulation did not include Trader Joe’s, his family’s motorboat, or the rest of Long Island.

As the train lurched out of the city and into the suburbs, I tried to look at John the way I would any other overfed assclown on the Long Island Railroad. He wasn’t my best friend, my cheerleader, my lover. He was just some dude sitting next to me. I slapped his arm away when he tried to fit it around my waist.

“We don’t love each other anymore!” I hissed.

“I still love you. I just…” He was working on not loving me. It would take awhile.

Before the train pulled up to Jamaica station, I knew the trip was a mistake. It would’ve been much better to stay in Manhattan alone, wishing we were both dead.

Instead, I looked out the window and tried to find meaning in anagrams of each station we passed. For example, “Rockville Centre” could be rearranged into “Relent evil crock.”

I wished I was alone, or at least not newly dumped. John wiped a tear from my face with the pad of his finger. I hated the stupid, lying, asshole pad of his finger.

“The last movie we ever saw together was Last Tango in Paris,” I whimpered. “Why did it have to be that one?” I wasn’t a fan.

When we got to our stop, we stumbled out like two people who’d been on a much longer ride. John got a taxi to his parents’ house. We borrowed one of their cars and went to a Trader Joe’s to grab food for lunch. Nothing looked appetizing.

“This is why I didn’t want you to come,” John said. “You’re being all awkward. Wanna get some hummus?” “You broke up with me on a national holiday over the phone after a year-and-ahalf of dating,” I said. I wasn’t even going to mention the hummus.

I felt like a character in the Sims, walking stiffly through a generic supermarket to a generic parking lot to a generic car. When we pulled up to the generic house, John stepped out and got the keys to the motorboat. He’d steer us out to Long Island Sound, like he’d done in happier times.

Boat rides had never been romantic or adventurous. Water splashed as we bounced in the wake of bigger, nicer sea craft. John’s jowls shook as he steered. I’d forgotten to apply sunscreen.

John dropped the anchor and got out our lunch. I chewed, but had to spit out my food in a napkin. “Why are you so quiet?” John asked, frustrated. “What are you thinking?” I was thinking that I was wasting my time—had wasted so much of my

time—fighting for a cause that wasn’t worth fighting for. I had more regrets than merely having one life to give to my country. (Nathan Hale was the only person I could remember from the American Revolution that day.) I’d invested in the wrong country, which is to say the wrong douchebag from Long Island.

John stood on the stern on the boat and looked out at the distance. I watched the sun sparkle on the water and the red strands of his hair. And then I threw a half-empty bottle of water at his head as hard as I could.

No one fell overboard; the boat didn’t sink and 30 minutes later, I was back on a train to the city, watching my ex-boyfriend grow smaller and blurrier with distance.

He could have hot tubs and barbecue and pretending that everything was normal. I had independence.