“No. No, I borrowed it. When I went to visit Drew.” I pause and wait for a reaction because I know at least one of them is going to have one. Beth does not disappoint and I flick my eyes to the side when she inhales sharply. I don’t think I’ve even said his name out loud once since the day at the library. “Everything’s so gray inside that place. And I knew he wouldn’t ask anyone for help or anything. So I grabbed the smallest, most colorful thing I could find.”
“And you taught him,” my mom says, nodding her head with a soft smile on her face. She looks almost proud. No, not almost. Definitely proud. “Didn’t you?”
I take a sip of my drink and look down at my plate.
“I didn’t think it was fair for him. And maybe it was because he was the only person I could talk to about it, too, but I still thought he should at least know what the colors he could all of the sudden see were called.”
Beth lets out a low whistle, followed by a scoff-laugh hybrid that sounds like it hurts.
“You put a lot of work into this thing, didn’t you? Into him.”
My mouth falls open and I whip my head around to face her. “I—” I stop and shake my head a little, trying to get my thoughts straight. “You were there when I went off on him that day. You know that’s not what happened. Not why I did any of what I did. I only wanted to help him. I didn’t do it so he would feel like he owed me.”
“I know,” Beth says, looking sheepish and apologetic. I feel bad for about half a second. “I was only trying to go for the whole girl-power-we-hate-Drew-Drew’s-the-worst-rah-rah kind of thing.”
I let out a short, hollow laugh and my shoulders slump as I sit back in my seat. “We don’t hate Drew.” I sigh. “I don’t hate Drew.”
“Yeah,” she replies, laying her head on my shoulder. “I know.”
We’re all quiet for a minute, the noise of the restaurant carrying on outside of our booth. Finally, I guess my mom’s had enough. She clears her throat from her side of the table, and Beth startles. Her head bounces from its spot on my shoulder, back into the wall behind us.
“I told myself I wasn’t going to butt into this, Libby. If there was one thing I didn’t want back when I first met your father, it was my mother’s opinion.” She smiles down at her hand and it’s easy to see how she looks straight at the wedding ring on her finger. “But I have to know. You don’t hate Drew, that’s obvious. But, honey, how do you feel about him?”
How do I feel about Drew?
I feel frustrated. And irritated, along with every single synonym for the word. And sad. Curious, with a dash of misunderstood or maybe an unexplained sort of loyalty. Protective. Angry. Stretched far too thin. And in spite of all of those things, an undeniable pull toward him I can’t seem to shake. Attraction. Worthy and unworthy, both at the same time.
I actually laugh a tiny bit because it’s shockingly obvious exactly how conflicted I really am.
“Mom, I don’t know how I feel. I don’t even know where to start.” I sigh and feel like all of the air I’ve expelled is still stuck there inside me, not allowing me a bit of relief. “How about I think it over and get back to you?”
She laughs at the joke, even though it’s not really all that funny. Or a joke.
“It’s okay to not know how you feel, sweetie. That is totally okay,” she says, and pauses. I get the feeling whatever she’s gearing up to say might not be something I really want to hear. “As long as you afford him the same courtesy.”
It is suddenly far, far too quiet. A serious, almost somber, mood fills the air. I would start to worry, but Beth, as usual, saves the day when she pops a tortilla chip into her mouth and talks around all of the crunching.
“That’s great, Mrs. Carmichael. Now can you lay some relationship wisdom down on me?” She plops an elbow onto the table and leans her chin into her hand. “Lord knows I need it.”
I immediately want to ask what she’s talking about considering she’s seemed so happy with Ryan over the last couple of months. He’s ridiculously, head over heels, in at least very deep like with her. She hasn’t given a bit of indication that something might be wrong, and I’d be a real shit best friend if I’ve missed any blatant S.O.S. signs. But the look she’s giving me now clearly says “Hey, I’m only trying to lighten the mood … mostly. Maybe ask me about it later.” So I keep my mouth shut.
****
A clear plastic bag covering my prom dress is hanging on the outside of my closet door and I can’t stop staring at it as I lie in bed. The color is deep and rich, and while there are certainly brighter, bolder shades out there, it’s still the most colorful thing in my room.
Aside from my hair of course. Honestly, I still haven’t gotten over that realization. It’s there in my peripheral vision almost all of the time, but mirrors and other reflective surfaces still manage to freak me out a little.
The longer I lay here looking at it, the dress, not my hair, the more I keep thinking of that one visit I paid Drew. Well, the end of that one visit.
“Do you have a date?”
Technically Ryan had offered to serve as both Beth and my date for the dance. Hell, even Beth was okay with it and told him so, as long as he realized he’d only be getting lucky with one of his companions for the evening. Incidentally, it was the same sentence that had me shaking my head and vehemently denying the offer. Sharing a dance partner and a ride is one thing. Being sexiled from whatever nearby hotel they end up at is something entirely different.
Looking back at the dress, I’m tempted to snap a picture with my phone and upload it to FriendSpace. And, yes, I’m tempted to do this solely for the purpose of getting his attention. Because I’m a terrible person with no sense of shame apparently. I could blame Beth for putting the idea in my head, I suppose. While we were at the second store, she snapped a shot of me in a truly God-awful satin and sequined number. I’m talking the poufy, capped sleeves and a slit with ruffles running along the side kind of God-awful.
She posted the picture to her FriendSpace page, going as far as tagging me in it, along with a caption of something along the lines of “No wonder she hasn’t got a date!” or “Still dateless. With a dress like this, I can hardly believe it!” Of course, I didn’t realize all of this until I got home and saw the notification on my phone. The vague threat I sent her via text was answered with a flippant “Oh, whatever. Maybe it’ll knock some sense into You-Know-Who.”
I glance at the dress once again and more or less throw myself onto my side and shove my head beneath the covers.
Two posts from me—okay, so maybe they both wouldn’t be from me, but involving me—about prom in one day? Desperate. Or verging on at least. Even if it may be exactly what I’m feeling at the moment. I still haven’t decided. Everything in my life is a mess and I’m allowed to be confused, okay? It’s the last thing I want to seem.
Instead, I open the FriendSpace app on my phone, type out some inflated, excessively happy status about how I’m looking forward to my campus visit at Southerland next weekend, and hit submit.
Chapter Twenty
One (1) Unread Message from Andrew McCormack:
Sent @ 7:48am: Hey.
I take my hand off the door handle and slide fully back into the driver’s seat. I glance at the clock on the dashboard despite having a probably much more accurate one right on my phone screen.
7:57.
Less than ten minutes ago, Drew apparently thought it was in his best interest to finally reach out to me. Via FriendSpace. With a message composed of precisely one word and only three letters. And, okay, I get it. FriendSpace is the only way he has of even attempting to get in touch with me, but ‘hey’? Really? That’s all he has to say? Surely he realizes there are better openers out there.
I stare at the phone in my hand like it’ll be able to tell me what Drew actually wants to say. Of course, the screen remains the same. His profile picture is still the one he was using when I first looked him up, and though I haven’t clicked on the link to his
actual page so far this morning, I’d be shocked to find anything new there either.
Why, yes, I am a hypocrite. The only interesting thing actually posted to my page in months is probably the stupid picture Beth tagged me in over the weekend.
Another quick glance up tells me I better get my ass into gear if I want to make it to first period before the bell. I turn the ringer off on my phone, toss it into my purse, and do my best not to think about that one-word, three-letter message as I book it into the building.
****
In the girls’ bathroom, between first and second period, I let out this weird little squeal that makes a couple of underclassmen jump and look at me funny. Almost as if they don’t understand I just noticed yet another message from Drew on my phone, or something. In all honesty, I wouldn’t even realize they’re in the bathroom with me if it weren’t for one of them dropping a book on the floor. I give them my best ‘oops, sorry’ smile and slip into a stall, sliding the lock into place behind me. I don’t know why—privacy feels like a good idea right about now.
I tap the bubble with the number one in it, and hold my breath as I wait for the message to load. What feels like a good minute passes, and I have to gasp and suck in a mouthful of air. Reception is not great here in the girls’ bathroom in the east wing apparently. The screen finally changes … only to remain blank for another thirty seconds or so.
Sent @ 7:59am: It now occurs to me ‘hey’ wasn’t the most brilliant of opening lines. And waiting more than ten minutes to correct and acknowledge that also goes to show you how much I thought this through. You know what? Maybe I should stop while I’m ahead. Not that I’m ahead. At all. I suck at this. I’m sorry. I should have opened with that. I’m sorry.
Holy shit.
Okay, I’m too busy trying to decide if this is the longest string of words he’s ever shared with me to even begin to focus on the fact he actually offered an apology. I decide he’s probably said more at once in one of our visits, but this is still more than I ever expected.
There. Now I can hone in on the fact he apologized.
Apologized for what though? a nasty little voice inside my head I didn’t even know existed before this moment whispers.
Well, not necessarily nasty, but definitely inconvenient and more sarcastic than I’d like. It gets its point across though. Now it’s all I can think of. Sorry for what? For ignoring me for the last month? For deciding it was best for me if he stayed away? For doing either of those things, or for the way he did them? I mean, he can still have the same intention, but feel sorry for the execution of them, right?
The bell rings before I even remember I came in here to actually use the bathroom.
****
For someone who was pretty uninvolved with social media even before being locked away for two months, Drew seems to be on some kind of weird, FriendSpace boom this week. And at really weird times, too. For instance, he’s posted several pictures of the soccer goal he put together in their new backyard, but at 1:53 on Tuesday afternoon. And he’s apparently managed to get his old job back, but checks in there in the middle of the school day.
It’s almost enough to make me reach out to him. To make me send a compulsory ‘hey, shouldn’t you be in class?’ message. But I don’t.
During our second to last prom committee meeting, my phone buzzes with another alert. I casually lean down to the side, hoping it looks like I’m … stretching, or something, and thrust my hand down into the side pocket of my purse. Making sure Taryn is facing the opposite direction, because she is still totally on a warpath against phones during her meetings, I pull it out and try to hide it in the folds of my skirt underneath the table.
Sent @3:48pm: Your mom didn’t happen to drop by the hardware store today, did she? Hair as red as yours, but nowhere near as … large? Not nearly as tall as you either?
I blink and almost miss Taryn calling my name. I pass a spreadsheet her way, and zone out again. I’m half-tempted to reply to his message immediately, but know that’s probably exactly what he wants. Not that I’m opposed to doing something on the mere principle it’s something he would benefit from. That’s not it at all. I just… I really don’t know if or when I’ll be ready to talk to him. But I really don’t think the first thing we should discuss is whether or not my mom’s been shopping at his place of employment.
I check the time on my phone once more and note how it’s entirely possible it was her. She got off a little early today because she had a doctor’s appointment a couple of towns over a little after lunch. She’d even mentioned wanting to look at paint swatches for the living room this past weekend. Something about being able to take advantage of contrasting colors even more now that there’s someone else to appreciate it.
Would she have gone to that particular store though?
I know without having to ask. Yes. Yes, she would. My mother is a lot like me in the way she doesn’t like to go into things unprepared. Or maybe I should say I’m a lot like her. Either way, this means I’m almost positive as soon as I left the room after she found out Drew’s name, she practically tore the Internet apart in her quest for information. And where he works, or I guess worked at the time, would have been included in that readily accessible info.
I don’t reply to Drew’s message. And when I get home and see the paint swatches on the kitchen table, I don’t ask my mother if she decided to pay his particular hardware store a little visit. But it drives me nearly mad wondering what she thought of him.
Instead I tell her I think, yes, mint-green would look kind of adorable in our kitchen.
****
My phone buzzes twice in a row, falling off my desk and clunking onto the floor with a thud I can’t possibly ignore. I put down my French book and lean as far as I can without actually getting out of my chair. After nearly falling on my face, I almost decide it’s not worth it. Surely whatever it is isn’t important enough for me to have to get up. It buzzes again, and I sigh.
There’s a text from Beth and one new notification from FriendSpace. Beth’s message came through before the notification, so I open it first.
Beth: So guess who’s back @ the library today?
Well, I guess that answers the question of what the notification is about. Because I totally did not do the super creepy, web stalker thing where I have FriendSpace notify me whenever a certain person on my friends list does, well … pretty much anything on his page. No. I totally did not do that.
Okay, I did. I totally did do that.
I don’t even bother replying to her and go straight to the notification to see exactly what it says.
Andrew McCormack is @ CLARKESVILLE PUBLIC LIBRARY.
That’s it. Nothing fancy. A simple check-in. People do it all the time. Hell, Beth does it every single Saturday we go to Frenchie’s FroYo. So I shouldn’t read anything into it. It’s not like he decided to let his audience of friends on FriendSpace know where he is solely for my benefit.
I bring the conversation with Beth back up and my fingers start to fly across the onscreen keyboard.
That’s great. Make sure to give him a hug and a kiss for me, k?
I immediately think better of it, and delete the message before my smartass fingers decide to hit send. She would take it far too literally to spite me.
Good for him. Maybe when he’s done being a martyr, he can give me the time of day.
Nope. Delete, delete, delete.
I mean, it is good for him. I guess. And it’s not like he hasn’t tried to give me the time of day via a stupid social media website. That counts for something, I suppose.
I know.
Even worse. Then she’ll know I’ve been doing the super creepy, web stalker thing.
Maybe I can ignore her and hope she thinks I don’t have my phone on me!
Beth: You can’t ignore me, Libs. I can see every time you start to reply to my message.
Damn it.
Does he look miserable? Unwashed hair and rumpled clothes? Look of des
perate longing in his eyes?
Might as well go for broke.
Beth: No, sorry. Still looks pretty hot.
Beth: …to be fair, you don’t really look like that either.
Beth: Anyway, sorry. Call me when you get back into town on Sunday! Maybe we can squeeze in froyo before Frenchie’s closes.
I put my phone face down on top of my desk and rub the heel of each hand into my eyes. Mostly because I don’t know what else to do.
****
My dad pulls our car into the parking lot of the Student Information Building, and I’m hit with the overwhelming realization I probably—read: definitely—should have spent the last several months giving this whole college thing a lot more thought.
Like, a lot more thought. Any thought would have been good.
The drive here took four hours. It doesn’t sound very far away, and I guess, in the grand scheme of things, it really isn’t. Those four hours felt long though. Long in a way I’m not sure I’ve ever experienced.
When I applied to Southerland, I did so because it’s a good school. A school that isn’t too far away from home and offers a variety of programs I can see myself becoming interested in. I say becoming because, like so many other college freshmen every year, I still have absolutely no idea what I want to do with the rest of my life. I have an inkling, but an inkling is not something I can depend upon to guide me into choosing the right major. And, yes, I know I’m able to change my mind. However, I also know I am incapable of committing to a decision one hundred percent before I’m positive it’s something I won’t regret or renege on.
It’s me, after all. If I didn’t take the time to research before making the best possible decision, hell might freeze over.
So yeah, a good school with lots of choices and lots of great programs and educators behind each of those choices. And then I looked at pictures of the campus and fell a little bit more in love. ‘Nestled in the heart of the mountains’, as the campus website described, Southerland is even more beautiful in person than any photo online could have prepared me for.
What's a Soulmate? Page 22