Twelve Months of Awkward Moments

by Lisa Acerbo

  “Well, that’s good news.” His blue eyes are bright. “Your roommate’s kind of an obnoxious mess when drunk.”

  My mouth crimps. “She’s fun.”

  Tanya, out hiking the Appalachian Trail for the weekend, promised to return Sunday so I could bask in her delightful company. Tonight, I’m on my own.

  Kyle’s eyes narrow, but he remains silent. I am aware that he believes Tanya is anything but fun.

  “Whatever,” I reply. “What are you thinking?”

  “Tony’s bar?”

  “Why not? But I need a couple hours to put all this stuff away and make myself presentable.”

  “I’ll be off then and let you continue cleaning.” He scratches at the scruff on his cheek. He has the bad habit of shaving once every few days.

  “You’re not staying?” I ask as I take in the small room, a tidal wave of destruction at this moment.

  Considered official campus housing, it had a bed frame covered by a cheap plastic mattress. All the mattress toppers in the world can’t make me stop wondering what happened on it in years prior and what might happen this year. The walls are freshly painted white, but still can’t hide the age of the place. The call to restore it to order resonates deep in my chest. Chaos makes me crazy.

  “Nope. I did my fair share.” He gives me a wink. His blue eyes spark, but his face remains neutral.

  “You sat on the bed the whole time.” I can’t believe he keeps a straight face.

  “I need all my strength for the ladies tonight.” His irresistible smile slips through.

  “Fine. I’ll meet you at the bar.” I glance at my phone to see the time. “How’s nine?”

  “Sounds good.” He opens his arms and folds me in them for a quick hug. He smells of coffee and Axe body spray. I like it and stay a few extra seconds. “Look sexy tonight. I need a good wing woman to help me.” Kyle has a natural way with women. He tweaks my nose with his thumb and finger.

  “Ouch. It’s not all about you. I need to find love, too,” I complain.

  “That’s the problem. You are actively searching out love. You should settle for a good orgasm.”

  “Yuck. Just. Yuck.” I sigh, realizing he’s only half joking.

  “You’re so uptight.”

  It’s true. “Yes, sir.”

  And with that, he’s gone.

  Later that night, I enter the bar at exactly nine P.M. after texting Kyle. I am sure he’s there, and I know where he positioned himself. The ritual eases the tight knots of tension inside me. I hate walking in alone, hate when people stare. I feel like I don’t quite measure up. He sits at a table in the back, saving me a seat. It’s having him waiting for me that makes entering the bar alone possible.

  Tonight, my straightened hair falls to the middle of my back. I pull some of the blonde ends over my shoulder, and it rests against my black spaghetti strap tank top, which displays my average cleavage. I clear my head of negative notions as I weave through the crowd swaying to music.

  I sit down on the sticky vinyl seat, my favorite leather pants, buttery and worn to perfection, clinging to my thighs. I close my eyes, needing to settle my nerves. There’s a laser light show dancing behind my closed eyelids, and my pulse beats too rapidly after making my way through the claustrophobic crowd.

  I don’t want Kyle to realize how bad my anxiety is, so I open my eyes and ask, “How’s it looking tonight?”

  Kyle’s blue eyes anchor below my chin for a few long seconds before rising to my face and flashing a sweet smile, the same one that makes most women swoon. I’m immune. I understand his inner workings too well.

  “A couple prospects.”

  I nod, unable to find my voice because it’s trapped beneath a tornado of self-doubt and tension twists my insides. I peer around. There’s a guy in a gray sweater with a scarf draped around his neck. He’s facing away from me, but his tall, teddy bear-build and short brown hair seem familiar. Too familiar. It couldn’t be Jace, could it?

  I whisper the name, unable to say it any louder.

  Kyle follows my eyes, knowing the story and knowing me. Seeing my shell-shocked expression, he grabs one of my hands. “Just breathe,” he says.

  I gulp in air and focus on his eyes. After a few long seconds, I find my voice. “Anyone new for me?” I run manicured fingers through my hair in a nervous gesture.

  “I’m here. What more could you want?”

  The loud music makes it hard to talk, so I yell instead. “Seriously?” I laugh at his lame joke and smile, even though it’s shaky. I focus on Kyle. “I mean, you have nice hair, but it is already starting to recede a little. Blue eyes are sexy, but I also recognize the dirty thoughts that lurk behind them. And, yes, you have a good body, but you’ve been with so many woman, I’m sure the dazzle and shine are close to used up or worn out. No thanks.”

  “Ouch. I’m wounded,” he yells back. “Should I inventory your assets, Miss Thing?”

  “Please, no.” My heart falls to my feet. “Are you really wounded?” My eyebrows rise in disbelief, brown eyes wide as insecurity lingers. I would never intentionally insult Kyle. His friendship helped me survive my college years and my family.

  “No.” He pats my hand to reassure me. “We’re good.”

  I let my breath out and relax only to have my phone buzz. I glance down, certain it is Tanya texting to get a status report, but I’m surprised by unexpected messages. One is from Rickey, saying he loved working on the lab and he’s done with the data. It’s a long text telling me to read the email, and we can discuss it tomorrow when we meet. I don’t reply.

  The other text message is from an unexpected source: Shami.

  I met Shami on Tinder in June, but I never heard from him again. Initially, he had sparked my interest as another Connecticut Central State College student. His profile showed him as tall, dark, and handsome and enticed me to swipe right. We had one date. One very odd date, which ended with me wanting to lock myself in a room for months, but my mother had forced me out and back into therapy.

  Our date began on a balmy June night in New Haven, Connecticut, at a hookah lounge. Two of his friends tagged along making it an extremely awkward experience. I said two, possibly three words, all night as he and his friends inhaled smoked, traded banter and inside jokes, and drank abundant alcoholic beverages. I drove myself, so I remained sober. Afterward, we held hands as we strolled along the street, only to be diverted down a side alley by the police who informed us of a fatal shooting that happened blocks away. His friends had drove Shami to the lounge, so after our date, I had the honor of driving him home. There was a shed on the back of his family property, and he asked me if I wanted to hang out there.

  Definite no thank you.

  We kissed goodnight in the car.

  “Is that it?” Shami had asked me.

  That’s as far as it went. And then I never heard from him again until now.

  “What are you doing?” his text tonight asks.

  “Who is this?” I write back, even though I know exactly who.

  “Shami. We met this summer.”

  “Right.” I text back, not sure I want the conversation to continue.

  “You want to hang out? People at my place.”

  “Where are you living?” Curiosity gets the best of me.

  “Mansfield apartments. 35. Just relaxing and thinking of you.”

  Even though I recognize a line of bull hockey when I hear it, I text back because he is my neighbor. I’m shocked we haven’t bumped into each other before now, but this also complicates matters. I might have to pass by him all the time. “No shit. I’m in fifty-seven.”

  “I thought I saw you at your apartment the other day.”

  “Are you stalking me?” It’s a joke, but I do find him having my address a little concerning. I gaze up from my phone.

  “What’s up?” Kyle asked, able to read my expression so well.

  “Remember weird guy I had a date with this summer?”

  He grins.
“Weird guy describes every one of your dates.”

  There are moments when I hate Kyle, and I’m sure my exasperation shows.

  “Stop it.”

  Kyle puts a hand to his chin and pretends to be in deep contemplation. “The one that took you to the hookah lounge.”

  “That’s him. Surprise.” I toss both hands in the air. “He lives in my apartment complex now.”

  “Shit.” Instantly, Kyle is my ally in combat.

  “I agree.” I stare at Kyle, agony written like bad poetry on my face. “What do I do?”

  Kyle shrugs.

  “Thanks for the insight.” What would it be like to live near to this guy for the rest of the year? What if we end up hating each other? “What do I do?” I repeat more to myself than Kyle. “He just texted me. I bet I’ll bump into him all the time now.” I take a large swallow of the hard cider that Kyle had waiting for me when I first arrived.

  “You worry too much about this stuff. I run into my exes all the time. Just play it cool.”

  “And him texting me after no contact?”

  “Ignore it for now.” Kyle covers my hand with his own. “Let’s have some fun.”

  And fun we have for about an hour until Kyle moves to the next table, flirting with the women there. I have been a good wing woman extolling his virtues, and now I’m left alone in the corner of my table, prospects dim. I glance at my phone, which has been buzzing repeatedly.

  Shami is persistent, I have to give him that. “Come over. It’ll be fun. We need to hang out.” That and a half dozen more messages litter my screen.

  I peer at Kyle, who’s engaged in meaningful dialogue with a buxom blonde. He’s forgotten me, mind focused on getting his hands on her goods. I check Instagram and see a picture of the beloved ex, Jace, with some of his friends.

  The picture pushes me into action. I shrug. The cider gives me some courage and justification. Shami is attractive and obviously wants to see me. Maybe there’s a valid reason for the blow-off this summer. I slide off my seat, say my goodbyes, and head back to Hansfeld Apartments.

  Shaded under the dim porch light, Shami sits outside in a black jacket at a picnic bench near his apartment. He’s surrounded by a few friends but stands out as he is a good head taller than those around him. I’m confident as I saunter toward him in leather pants and strappy wedge sandals that highlight my long legs. My jacket is unzipped, exposing my lace-trimmed tank top. A bathroom run before leaving the bar showed my long hair remained under control, no frizz.

  “Hi,” he says as I arrive at his side.

  “Hi, yourself.” I sit down on the bench next to him, my long legs draped in front of me. His friends quickly get up and disappear.

  Do I offend? The words run through my mind as I watch them scamper off.

  “How was the bar?” he asks.

  “Good, you should have joined me there.” I run a hand through my hair for show.

  “No car.” He smiles sweetly.

  “So sad.” I grin.

  The two cans of hard cider leave me less than drunk but give me a bit of an edge. I feel good, which usually leads to trouble, and consider switching to beer. I hate the taste, so I’ll drink less and remain more in control.

  Small talk swims like a school of minnows as we catch up.

  I pose the question I really want the answer to, and I realize why I need the hard cider. “What happened after our date?” I really mean, “Why didn’t you text me?”

  He squirms over, and his movement reminds me of a caterpillar. I work hard to stifle my giggle. His hand finds my leg. “I had to go to Israel and was traveling.”

  “Really? You couldn’t text from there? Or once you got back?”

  “I guess I should have. Sorry.”

  Silence invades for long seconds. I’m out of conversation topics and sobering up. I close my eyes as the brisk night air pushes against my cheeks. I hear the bench squeak as we adjust ourselves on the uncomfortable wood seats. I taste the awkwardness of the moment in my mouth. Finally, we throw out questions to each other to cover the disconnect.

  Shami stands and stretches. “You have a car, right?”

  “Yes.” I’m reluctant to say more, realizing where this is heading.

  “Let’s go for a ride.” His white teeth shine in the darkness.

  “I’m not sure that’s a good idea. I’ve had a couple drinks.”

  “I haven’t. I’ll drive. Plus, it’s super close.” He holds out his hand.

  I hesitate, but then dig through my purse and hand him the keys, already understanding I’ll hate myself in the morning for doing this.

  We take off. I’m relieved Shami is a capable driver, but I smell his excessive cologne. To my overstimulated senses, it reeks. The fact he is in control of my car makes me feel like a cornered animal, yet I did this. I’m confused when we enter the dark parking lot at McDonalds. Shami cruises into a spot in the far corner away from the entrance. An awkward silence ensues as he remains in his seat.

  With the heat blasting, the interior of my tiny Toyota Matrix warms quickly, and my leather pants stick to my skin. Shami takes his jacket off, revealing a gray T-shirt underneath. His hand slithers to my thigh, and I ask myself where the polite, sweet college student who held the door for me at the Hookah lounge has gone and who has replaced him.

  “What are you doing?” I ask as I remove his hand from my leg, placing it none-too-gently on his side of the car.

  “That’s why we’re on this date, right? You want to hook up, right?” He touches various parts of his own body. “I see the way you’ve been appraising the Shami. You want this.” The muscles under his T-shirt flex.

  Now I’m repulsed. His third-person reference to himself sounds stupid, conceited, and immature.

  “What I want is to get to know you.” I eye the McDonald’s sign and wonder if “The Shami” takes all his super-fun dates here.

  “You got me. I’m the best thing at the Connecticut Central State College.” He leans over and tries to kiss me.

  I give him my cheek and then jerk back. “I’m beginning to doubt that.”

  “You’re not giving away any sugar?”

  I feel my eyes bug out, wide open. “Here in the parking lot? Are you kidding me? Who does that?”

  His cocky expression sours. Clearly, he knows I’ve called him a male slut because he seems to like lurking in dark corners of fast food joints.

  “You’re turning out to be a drag. Man, I’m hungry.” He focuses on the building.

  Shami opens his car door, and the scent of fries wafts through the air. Without a word, he leaves me in the passenger seat.

  I wait, unsure of what to do. I want to leave. Unfortunately, he took my keys with him. The jerk. The hopeful part of me perks up. Maybe this date will be salvageable. He probably darted inside to get us milkshakes. I’m almost correct. Shami arrives with a milkshake, fries, and quarter pounder for himself. I watch as he devours them.

  My stomach growls.

  “That put me in a good mood,” he says as he finishes his food. His snake-like hand embraces my arm, but I am certain he was aiming for another part of my anatomy. He squirms closer.

  I scoot away, my butt colliding with the door. He doesn’t notice. I attempt to avoid him as he angles in for a beef and onion-flavored kiss. It’s sloppy at best. I shove him away.

  My stomach growls again. “We could go out for drinks and dinner?”

  “I just ate.” I smell the pickles and special sauce as he talks, his lips transforming into a dour frown. “Listen, if this isn’t happening tonight, I think I’m going to hang with the boys.”

  “I think that’s an excellent idea.”

  We drive home in silence. In the parking lot, he hands me my keys and heads off without a backward glance. I sit in the car, stunned, and realize I get to look forward to an entire year of running into him in the complex and on campus. My life is just one happy merry-go-round of fun. As I make my way back to my apartment, I felt a cool br
eeze on my thigh. I gaze down to witness the long split in my leather pants.

  All I want now is to inhale some left-over veggie Pad Thai, curl up under my Target comforter, and cry.

  The crazy part? This isn’t the worst date I’ve been on.

  #goingvegetarian

  Chapter 4

  November 3

  Dating around is normal. You probably know someone who has multiple partners, perhaps even meeting up with them on the same day. It’s not until you realize you’re a serial monogamist that you also come to terms with the idea that there’s a whole bunch of ways to find one, singular mate or multiple companions. Maybe sister-wives or pluralism works for you more than monogamy or screwing every guy on campus. You take what you can get or make what you want to take.

  * * * *

  I sit in my Public Speaking classroom, staring out the window at a dull, gray morning. It was supposed to be an easy A, but it’s the class I struggle with the most this semester and the one that makes me anxious. The knots of tension inside are tight enough to sail a ship. I’m working hard to keep an A- grade right now. No other students are present, and I like it that way. That and the fact my anxiety makes me fifteen minutes early to each and every class so I can get a seat in the back and hide.

  I ignore a text from Rickey about our latest lab, which isn’t due until next week. I’ll text him back tonight. I watch a few dying leaves fall to the ground. They accurately represent my state of mind. Not only am I falling down and dying due to all the work in this class, my genetics, physics, and social science classes, but I’m slowly withering away socially thanks to limited funds. Not that it matters, since I haven’t had a date since the weird McDonald’s incident with Shami. I’m seriously considering giving up boys. But even chill nights watching the Walking Dead with Tanya and Kyle take funds for booze and munchies. I need a job. Then I’ll no longer have to rely on the mother’s semi-regular donations.

  Our latest conversation, only that morning, had not gone swimmingly.

  * * * *

  “You do remember I had to pay more than six hundred dollars for books in September,” I remind her.