Once upon a time, a heartbroken 17 year old went off to Boston for college. The heartbroken girl had never been particularly popular with boys, but during her first week at BU, all of a sudden it turned out that boys thought she was pretty.
This was a new turn of events!
She was still homesick and heartbroken, but being constantly hit on did take a fair amount of the sting out of it.
One night, all of the South American girls on her floor invited her to a party. They were offended that she didn’t want to go. She was sick. She wanted to crawl into bed. The South Americans wanted her to party with them. They wanted to teach her to do the salsa.
Victoria and Deborah dressed her up in a silk jumpsuit and did her hair and makeup. She did not recognize herself in the mirror, and went upstairs to twirl in front of the cute boy from Manhattan. He said “holy shit, you look amazing!” and didn’t even ask about the girl he had a crush on. So she knew she looked as good as she thought she did.
Off they went into the cold Boston night. It turned out they had the wrong address, so they walked several blocks in their pretty high heels.
By the time they got there, she had a fever. She was radiating heat. She could hold her hands in front of her own face to warm them.
When they walked in, someone took her elbow and led her across the room and said “I think you know Murat, but have you met Omer?”
She hadn’t.
Omer was older. Maybe 25. Tall. Wide shouldered. Short beard. Dark brown eyes with thick black lashes, curly black hair, pale skin. Intense. Their eyes locked. Really locked. He said “I’ve never seen anyone with eyes the color of honey. You are too beautiful for anyone here. You’re also sick. Come with me.” He took her arm, and led her out to his car over the protests over her friends and his.
She didn’t protest. She felt like she would follow him anywhere. She also felt like she was burning up.
He took her home. To his house. He showed her a picture of the girl his parents wanted him to marry. Gave her hot, sweet Turkish coffee and aspirin. Then hot tea with honey and whiskey in it for her cough. He kissed her forehead to check for fever. Then he put her in bed with a million pillows propping her up, wrapped his arms around her and stroked her hair while she coughed. When she finally stopped coughing, he kissed her. Then they wrapped themselves around each other completely. Then they went to sleep.
When she woke up coughing, she grabbed a blanket and went into the living room and sat on the sofa so she wouldn’t wake him up. She drank some more tea.
A man walked in, and said he was Omer’s older brother. She was too feverish to be shy, or even embarrassed that she was in a stranger’s living room wearing nothing but a blanket. She introduced herself. He told her that Omer belonged to someone else. She told him she’d seen the girl’s picture. They chatted for a few minutes. Omer heard them talking, and brought her back to bed. He made her soup the next day, and made sure her fever stayed down. He brought her back to the dorm the next night.
Her friends congratulated her for snaring the uncatchable Turk everyone had been after. They said how romantic it was that they’d stayed up all night talking. Talking? She didn’t feel like she needed to tell anyone how little talking there had been. She only told them he had taken good care of her.
He had.
They spent every minute outside of class together for 3 weeks. Then his parents and his fiancée’s parents decided to send his future bride to America. Or so he said. His brother said it would be bad for the family for her to try to stay with Omer. She should do the right thing for him, not be a selfish American girl.
She didn’t cry. She didn’t ask him not to leave. She let him go.
She floated away. She didn’t eat. She didn’t sleep. She sat outside in the cold, smoking.
The last time she saw him was walking out of a T station. Her coat unbuttoned, no hat or scarf in the freezing wind off the Charles river. No gloves. It was snowing.
He stopped her. Said she was shivering. She hadn’t noticed. He took her face in his hands, brushed her wet hair back out of her face, tears in his eyes. Looked at her for what seemed like a long time. Not long enough. Then he zipped her coat, put his stocking cap on her head, brushed her hair back out of her eyes one last time, wrapped his scarf around her neck. She stood like a doll being dressed. She didn’t dare move or try to talk.
Afraid if she moved she would break down completely.
He told her that his heart was breaking but he couldn’t go against his parents’ wishes. She nodded that she understood. He kissed her on each cheek, then on the forehead and told her she still had a fever.
“Please take care of yourself,” he said, and walked away.
He looked over his shoulder once, and she waved goodbye.
She will always wonder if any of it was real or if it was just a fever dream.
