Brian Didn’t Forget About Me.
I didn’t spend a lot of time with my high school sweetheart in the summer of 1985. But between The Firm concert in May and the night I met Larry, we reunited for a few short and beautiful weeks.
Brian had always been the responsible one. We dated for a long time in high school and when we broke up, it was mostly because he didn’t want to do all the really stupid things I wanted to do.
So when we got back together, I was thrilled to find that he’d grown up enough to do some of the stupid things I wanted to do. We had some great dates and I felt like we were finally connecting in a way we couldn’t connect in high school. We’d both grown and matured, I reasoned, and we had more in common now that we were both 20 than we did when we were 17.
I was pretty sure I was in love with Brian for real this time … for those few short weeks.
Then I met Larry and I forgot all about Brian and his silly “normal” dates and dove headfirst into life as a biker chick.
But Brian didn’t forget about me.
After I left home, leaving nothing but wreckage in my wake, Brian called my parents and talked to them. I’m not sure what they told him, how they explained my absence. In fact, I rarely thought about my absence from their viewpoint. I assumed my being gone was doing them a favor.
It never occurred to me that Brian would keep calling – and calling – and calling. Finally, one night when I was talking to my mom about something “important” like whether or not I’d left my favorite album in front of my bedroom window when I left, my mother said: “Brian is still calling. He wants you to call him.”
Brian was very, very cute. It never occurred to me that it would be a challenging conversation to have. So I got off the phone with my mom and I called Brian.
“I’ve been trying to reach you,” he said.
“I know,” I said, quite cool. “That’s why I’m calling.”
“You moved out of the house?”
“Yeah,” I said, taking a long drag of my cigarette. “I needed to be on my own.”
Brian didn’t waste any time getting to his point: “Did you think at all about what you’re doing to your parents?”
He may as well have kicked me right in the gut. No, I wanted to say, I haven’t thought about anyone but myself and I’d like to keep it that way!
Instead I decided to be defensive: “What the fuck difference does it make? My parents don’t give a fuck about me or what I want!”
“I think they do,” Brian said. “I think they love you very much and they want what’s best for you. I want what’s best for you and I’m not sure what you’re doing is what’s best for anybody.”
I briefly lost the ability to respond. Then I spoke: “You have no idea what’s BEST for me! And neither do they! Is this really what you wanted to talk to me about? My parents?!” I spat the word at him, hard, through the payphone receiver.
“I just want you to think about what you’re doing. You are hurting people with some of your choices.”
“I’m not hurting anybody,” I said. “I’m sure as fuck not hurting you! Anything else you want to say?”
There was a pause. “No,” he said. “I guess not.”
I never spoke to Brian again.