Somehow, the upperclass floormate of a girl I hooked up with had called, and invited me to her dorm room. But it felt odd, and rang with all the hallmarks of a setup. One, if I guessed, where my jaw would drop at how gorgeous she was ― before she turned the tables to throw daggers, face to face. For, I don’t know, playing it too aloof with her friend I hooked up with? Of course, I still went. Sure enough, upon my arrival, the floormate seemed overly dressed for midweek on campus: a tight, white tank top and strategically shredded, denim jeans. Wavy brown hair. And syrupy, red lips.
What no one understood was, I didn’t really care. I was still untangling from getting nuked by my first serious girlfriend. The one I fell head over heels for. I was the dumpee. Out of the blue and over the phone. Over winter break. Something, I reasoned years after, having to do with her shitty father and mistrust, and how thusly she wouldn’t / couldn’t trust me as a substantial guy in her life. Or maybe she just found someone she liked better. God, how I bawled during that call. I don’t remember ever feeling so gutted, before or since. I just bawled, so much she thought I was laughing.
For a while, I obsessed. I tried calling her. I made a mixtape. In what was my final phone call, she handed me off to her next new boyfriend after me. It went about as expected, and not well for me. Then, when winter break ended and we went back to campus, my roommate straightened me out: “It’s over,” and I realized it was. That whole semester, I had become a frail, faint version of me. Over months, a malaise set in. Then, slowly, the sting lessened, and I found I started getting over her.
That summer and into the fall, I found comfort channeling a strict ambivalence. I literally, frankly did. not. care. Not about love or rejection or trying to impress anyone at all. Sure, the hunt. But not caring became my armor and my version of control. I didn’t put up with the rudimentary bullshit that guys normally do. I didn’t want to be or pretend to be exclusive. Didn’t help move-in the girl I started dating over summer who was transferring onto campus. Didn’t bother to bother, with anyone. And I found this translated to an enigmatic poise of sorts, one that simultaneously frustrated and intrigued girls I dated.
I held myself out of reach. And became something THEY wound up chasing. I mean, it didn’t work on everyone, but it worked. Simply by not getting close. I had cracked the code, by accident and without trying. I just didn’t care. Not if someone liked me a lot or a little, or not at all. Not if a girl was dismissive, or walked out on me, or threaten to, or called me an asshole. I had been the sweet guy ― so nice for so long ― thoughtful, pining, romantically hopeful, and sickeningly ideal. Then I met my endpoint, a rock bottom emptiness, with no fucks to give.
So when Miss Hotsy Totsy opened her door, motioned me in, and sat on her desk, I wondered how she intended playing things out. After all ― we had this odd juxtaposition: our sole connection was her floormate, who a few weeks ago I slept with.
She seemed to be sizing me up. She acted unimpressed. I chatted coolly, curiously, and firm in said ambivalence. And then, as surreally as she invited me there, our chitchat dwindled, and I left. And I simply went on with the rest of my night, not caring, not even perplexed about what just happened, or how. And that summed up how I existed, secure in a detachment, succeeding with it, while fully unclear how this version of me would turn out to be. I just knew the good guy I started as would never survive the wounds that real life issued. That guy ― I never wanted to be him or see him again.
Jason James Barry is an award-winning essayist, journalist, and author. Follow his work on BuzzardDigital.com. In 2023, Jason published the memoir, “The Midnight Coffee Club” about legacy, life choices, and emerging from the shadow of his father.
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