We see a little more into Maeby. What exactly is stirring inside her. And we get a glimpse as to what ended her relationship with her boyfriend. Whom remains unnamed at this point.
Although, to tell you the truth, most days I didn't blame him for what he did. Leaving, I mean. I can see why he would. God could I. I was always so self-critical. Even from day one I knew it would end soon. It was just in my nature to lose people like that. I did it on purpose. I wasn't fit for any kind of relationship with anyone.
I really didn't deserve him, though. He was perfection. I felt so good with him. I felt so safe and pretty. But no matter how good I felt, I'd ruin it. I'd go off somewhere in my head and convince myself I didn't belong with him. And then it'd turn into an argument. He'd ask me why I kept trying to push him away. But he'd never understand. Sometimes I wonder if I even understood. It made sense in fragments, in seconds at a time. But when I look back on my logic then as a whole, I'm stumped. What the hell did I do?
I loved it whenever we were together. He was older than me but he could be the most immature person I've ever met. And he wasn't afraid of it, either. He wanted to act silly in front of me. I think he thought I wanted him to. Only later did I come to realize he was right. Then he stopped acting silly. It was then that he started growing tired of me. And when we argued it usually resulted in him ignoring me for a while. Like he didn't want to acknowledge that we were having an argument. Like he thought that if he contributed to it I'd get pissed and walk out.
It's funny. To think how he thought he knew me when the truth was he didn't know me at all. If he knew me he'd know I couldn't leave. If he knew me, he'd know all my attempts to push him away were really a cry for him to stay; to cement him in time and stay there with him forever.
"What are you talking about?"
"I'm talking about your attitude. The way you said you were 'fine,' it had attitude to it."
I think he knew what I meant. He just didn't want to admit it. He had a thing with admitting he was wrong. My father did, too, so I was convinced that everyone in the male species did. Or maybe it was just the ones with impossible tempers. Either way, he knew what I meant. He probably admitted it to himself later during his "silent treatment," but never to me. It was rare that I ever got an apology, either. And I was okay with that. I had accepted it. That was how he was. And I loved him anyway.
Even if it was his way of "dealing," I hated when he was quiet. I hated because it never affected him the way it affected me. He could walk away from me and not show any sign of anguish at all. Meanwhile I'd be sitting there in a room by myself waiting for him to come back and either hold up his end of the argument or try and talk with me towards resolving whatever the issue was. But he never did. He'd just walk away and I'd be sitting there alone going out of my mind. Because for me it wasn't over, ya know? To me, I still had something to say. And the annoying part of it was that I never knew what it was I wanted to say. I mean, I knew subconsciously, but I also knew that if I said it to his face he'd be offended or something, and I didn't want that. Still, I was always left unfinished, or unsatisfied. And then a day or so later he'd come around like nothing ever happened between us. So not only did he not get worked up like me, but he forgot. At least it seemed that way.