This undoubtedly sounds conceited, but I'm extremely attractive. I know I can walk out the house in sweatpants and a tank, look good, and get no less than three guys to seriously hit on me.
I spent at least two hours this morning trying to figure out what to wear, how to do my hair, whether to really go at it with the make-up. Even now, in the cafe, I'm catching glimpses of my reflection in the front window, still nitpicking my choices, even though there's nothing left to be done about them.
Winter break, and we're both back in our hometown, seven months since we've seen each other, face-to-face. It's funny, he wouldn't even have a reason to come back to this place if he didn't have a son by the ex-girlfriend I was so wildly jealous of only a few years back. Ah, high school. Those were the days. Where black-and-white never went out of style, and I could sleep through all of my classes but still come out on top.
I look at my cell to check the time. Again. Only about two minutes have elapsed each time I check. Outside, it's snowing lightly. Icicles hang threateningly from tree branches, threatening to break off and plunge into a foot-deep patch of snow, or shatter against nearly invisible ice on the sidewalks. There's something ridiculously depressing about winter; I always want to hide out indoors until everything melts back to sane temperatures.
So. Teagan.
He's driving up from his brother's place; he has a car, now. He'll stay for the weekend, like he does at least every other week, but actually nearly all of them. Part-time student, part-time worker, part-time dad. There's no room for girlfriends in all that. Ironic, since his sudden turn towards responsibility is wildly attractive. Of course, if he had been responsible back then, all the girls probably wouldn't have thrown themselves at him the way they did.
I refused to be one of them.
But here I am, holding onto impulsive promises made at graduation that could never be upheld. Everyone is growing up; I'm growing down, it seems. Sure, I wasted days away watching tripe like Grey's Anatomy, but I didn't actually touch drama with a ten-foot pole in real life. I never got swept away by whatever passes for romance in high school. You know, until that last minute.
I check my cell again and wonder if I can back out.
We've been friends for years. Just think of it as seeing an old friend again. Because that's what it is. Really.
Even though in the pit of my stomach, the back of my mind, deep in my heart (and a few more interesting places), I don't want to see him. If he would just call and say he can't make it. Or I can lie and say I'm sick. It would be so much easier. Because staying here means forgetting his pile of discarded girlfriends and train-wreck relationships. A year isn't enough to change, not in important ways. And it hasn't even been an entire year.
The romance is dead, and it hasn't even started. But it probably died the moment we were out of each other's eyesight. Not exactly a promising beginning.
My cell tells me it's on the dot of our agreed meeting time. I start gathering together my things; I can just stand him up. Brush it off later like I forgot, like this isn't a big deal. He'll be disappointed, then he'll be busy, and then we have no choice but to put off the reunion until the spring. Maybe even summer.
Or, not, considering he's already here.
I freeze, as though he can't see me.
His hair's shorter now, I guess since he can actually afford a haircut. He still dresses abysmally; I thought his brother's fashion sense would rub off on him, at least a little. Of all things, that's what's running through my mind. While I remain motionless and awkwardly bent over. This is the part of the movie that's supposed to have dramatic music playing as the audience watches with bated breath - what will happen next? The movie would be predictable and have perfect-yet-slightly-stilted dialog, ending with a fireworks-inducing kiss. Credits roll with the latest hit pop song.
In the real world, I get him cautiously walking over as I try to remember how to stand upright, like a civilized human being.
"Hi," both of us say, stumbling over each other's words. Word. Singular. The rest of the English language has apparently abandoned me. Great timing, really. Talking is overrated, I've found - pesky communication.
"Cass," he says. "I've missed you."
"Me too." It just falls out of my mouth. I'm not really sure whether I mean it. But I have the sudden urge to kiss him, crawl under some warm blankets, and wake up with him the next morning. All right on the floor of this cafe, if need be. Even though that means buying into the fairy-tale of being the one he really wanted all along, even though he's never acted half as crazy for me as he did for Charlotte. Or that he's even less put-together than I am.
Yeah, it's probably - almost definitely - a bad idea.
But here I am. Still not moving.
April 2009
I spent at least two hours this morning trying to figure out what to wear, how to do my hair, whether to really go at it with the make-up. Even now, in the cafe, I'm catching glimpses of my reflection in the front window, still nitpicking my choices, even though there's nothing left to be done about them.
Winter break, and we're both back in our hometown, seven months since we've seen each other, face-to-face. It's funny, he wouldn't even have a reason to come back to this place if he didn't have a son by the ex-girlfriend I was so wildly jealous of only a few years back. Ah, high school. Those were the days. Where black-and-white never went out of style, and I could sleep through all of my classes but still come out on top.
I look at my cell to check the time. Again. Only about two minutes have elapsed each time I check. Outside, it's snowing lightly. Icicles hang threateningly from tree branches, threatening to break off and plunge into a foot-deep patch of snow, or shatter against nearly invisible ice on the sidewalks. There's something ridiculously depressing about winter; I always want to hide out indoors until everything melts back to sane temperatures.
So. Teagan.
He's driving up from his brother's place; he has a car, now. He'll stay for the weekend, like he does at least every other week, but actually nearly all of them. Part-time student, part-time worker, part-time dad. There's no room for girlfriends in all that. Ironic, since his sudden turn towards responsibility is wildly attractive. Of course, if he had been responsible back then, all the girls probably wouldn't have thrown themselves at him the way they did.
I refused to be one of them.
But here I am, holding onto impulsive promises made at graduation that could never be upheld. Everyone is growing up; I'm growing down, it seems. Sure, I wasted days away watching tripe like Grey's Anatomy, but I didn't actually touch drama with a ten-foot pole in real life. I never got swept away by whatever passes for romance in high school. You know, until that last minute.
I check my cell again and wonder if I can back out.
We've been friends for years. Just think of it as seeing an old friend again. Because that's what it is. Really.
Even though in the pit of my stomach, the back of my mind, deep in my heart (and a few more interesting places), I don't want to see him. If he would just call and say he can't make it. Or I can lie and say I'm sick. It would be so much easier. Because staying here means forgetting his pile of discarded girlfriends and train-wreck relationships. A year isn't enough to change, not in important ways. And it hasn't even been an entire year.
The romance is dead, and it hasn't even started. But it probably died the moment we were out of each other's eyesight. Not exactly a promising beginning.
My cell tells me it's on the dot of our agreed meeting time. I start gathering together my things; I can just stand him up. Brush it off later like I forgot, like this isn't a big deal. He'll be disappointed, then he'll be busy, and then we have no choice but to put off the reunion until the spring. Maybe even summer.
Or, not, considering he's already here.
I freeze, as though he can't see me.
His hair's shorter now, I guess since he can actually afford a haircut. He still dresses abysmally; I thought his brother's fashion sense would rub off on him, at least a little. Of all things, that's what's running through my mind. While I remain motionless and awkwardly bent over. This is the part of the movie that's supposed to have dramatic music playing as the audience watches with bated breath - what will happen next? The movie would be predictable and have perfect-yet-slightly-stilted dialog, ending with a fireworks-inducing kiss. Credits roll with the latest hit pop song.
In the real world, I get him cautiously walking over as I try to remember how to stand upright, like a civilized human being.
"Hi," both of us say, stumbling over each other's words. Word. Singular. The rest of the English language has apparently abandoned me. Great timing, really. Talking is overrated, I've found - pesky communication.
"Cass," he says. "I've missed you."
"Me too." It just falls out of my mouth. I'm not really sure whether I mean it. But I have the sudden urge to kiss him, crawl under some warm blankets, and wake up with him the next morning. All right on the floor of this cafe, if need be. Even though that means buying into the fairy-tale of being the one he really wanted all along, even though he's never acted half as crazy for me as he did for Charlotte. Or that he's even less put-together than I am.
Yeah, it's probably - almost definitely - a bad idea.
But here I am. Still not moving.
April 2009
