Free An Untamed State by Roxane Gay Page B

pretended to not understand the exact nature of her objections to our relationship. We finished our tea and cake. When I offered to wash the dishes, she groused, “I can handle washing a couple plates and mugs. I don’t need any damn help.”
    On the drive home, Michael turned to look at me. “I’d love for us to live out there, someday. We could help my folks out, have a real nice life.”
    The seriousness in his voice frightened me. The bucolic scenery frightened me. I stared out my window at the passing cornfields. Every few moments some terrible insect made a new, wet mess of itself on the windshield. After a while, I said, “You do know we could never live out here, don’t you?”
    He laughed. “You’re kidding, right? The farm is my home. It’s the one place where I’m the most me.”
    We didn’t talk for a few miles, just listened to the rumble of the highway. “How would you feel if I asked you to move to Haiti? That’s my home, at least in some ways.”
    Michael cleared his throat. I closed my eyes and hoped we wouldn’t say things that couldn’t be unsaid.
    “That’s different,” Michael said.
    My fingers numbed. “Different how?”
    “The farm has running water and reliable electricity. The farm is not a hellhole. The place isn’t run by criminals. Come on, babe. It’s not the same thing.”
    I had not known Michael capable of saying unnecessarily cruel things. Normally I was the one who said unforgivable things and he was the one who forgave. This shift intrigued me.
    I shoved my hands beneath my thighs. “I see.”
    We were quiet for the rest of the drive. When he dropped me off, he tried to kiss me. I turned my cheek, didn’t let him touch me. He didn’t ask if he could come in, knew he had crossed some kind of line. He sat in the driveway for hours. I watched from behind the curtain, waited for him to muster the manhood to apologize. He didn’t. I turned off the lights and still I watched him. He went home eventually. Before I went to sleep, I sent him an e-mail—“You, sir, are an asshole.”
    Days would pass before we spoke again, days during which I stared at my phone and willed him to call, willed him to apologize, willed him to plead for my forgiveness and make whatever was wrong between us right. I willed myself to make a similar gesture but I couldn’t. I hold grudges. When he didn’t call, I focused on my studies, on being excellent. I should have never let him distract me with his pretty shoulders and talk of swooning. The law made sense. Michael did not. Days turned into weeks. I vowed to never speak to him again. I wrote irate e-mail drafts I did not dare send where I called him terrible names and detailed his failings in increasingly petty ways. I sent him an e-mail asking, “What the hell are you doing?” He wrote back, “I’m thinking, trying to decide if we can make this work. We come from different worlds.” I replied, “Don’t bother coming back to my world.”
    We had not spoken in twenty-seven days. I was very unpleasant to everyone I encountered. I didn’t answer my parents’ phone calls. When I spoke with Mona I answered her questions in terse one-word answers. She said, “Should I come visit you, kid, and beat this guy up?” I told her not to bother. I told her I was done with him. I wrote even angrier e-mails that went unsent. I was done with American men as a dating species.
    And then Michael found me in the law library. I didn’t need to look up to know he was standing over me. The warmth of his body was too familiar. “I am so sorry,” he said. “It’s been way too long since I’ve seen you.” His voice cracked. I was not interested in his acts of contrition.
    I stood knowing I was going to speak without thinking. I couldn’t stop myself. I refused to look him in the eyes. He tried to reach for me but I slapped his hand away. “Don’t,” I said. “Don’t you dare.”
    “I have behaved very badly. Let me try to explain; I needed some