Love's Learning Curve

by Felicia Lynn

  Most of the girls in the house never expect me to attend anyway. They’ve just asked to be nice. Sorority life and the status of it is something expected of me since my mother was a legacy member of this same sisterhood. It was a requirement for me to pledge, and they couldn’t really refuse me even though I would have been fine with not being a part of it. I love the idea of sorority life and sisterhood, but let’s be honest; I’m not really a participant in much of the social aspect anyway. This is just a mutual arrangement with unspoken conditions that I’m able to be a part of the organization and present, but I’m not really. At least, I get to room with Morgan and have made a few friends, like Ashley.

  I shuffle through my playlist searching for my running music as I stretch on the lawn in front of the house. It’s a beautiful day. The weather is perfect for a dusk run. I needed this anyway.

  When the beat of Ed Sheeran’s “Don’t” comes pumping through the speakers in my ears, my adrenaline spikes and fuels my need to feel the soles of my shoes hit the pavement. I start slowly down Greek row; this route and my routine are ingrained in my system just as everything else is. I’m typically a morning runner, but it’s nice to change things up sometimes. The street is alive; it appears every house is full of the same excitement as ours. Prep for this evening’s event is in full swing everywhere. I run harder while the questions of how I can live in this world and be so far removed from it cloud my brain.

  It’s hard to feel adequate in the group of people who surround me, especially when I see Ashley juggle academics and a social calendar. Even being out of my family home, my life still doesn’t feel like my own.

  I was never able to choose my own friends until I left home, and even still, I can count those I’d consider real friends on one hand. I’ve absolutely never been able to choose a possible boyfriend or show interest in anyone. Heck—I’ve never been on a date that my mother didn’t arrange. I’ve never been to any type of party that didn’t begin with a cocktail and include every one of my parents’ friends and associates who were at least three times my age. Even if they would occasionally have their children in tow, it still doesn’t count since it was mostly adult parties. The reminders of missed opportunities to be a real kid fill me with anger. I’ve already missed out on so much, and it will likely just keep continuing into my adulthood if the record shows anything.

  In high school, I took cotillion, a co-ed class where social etiquettes and formal dances were learned in preparation for the debutant ball. For me, it was just another requirement my mother deemed necessary to match her ideals of what a young lady in today’s political society should do. Regardless of her reasoning for making me attend, I was excited. It was something new; a chance for me to interact with new people and possibly make new friends she would approve of.

  I think back on my first day walking into the ballroom of our country club with Morgan after spending a couple of hours getting dressed, choosing the perfect dress, curling my hair, and actually wearing makeup. What a shocker to find that I was surrounded by the very same people who I’ve known forever, the same country club kids who were born into the legacy of the club.

  I was a bit disappointed until I saw Colby Matthews, the boy I’d had a crush on since middle school. He was the son of a senator and someone I’d been introduced to and had interacted with at many political functions. He was dreamy with his wavy blond locks and bright blue eyes, dressed as if he walked straight out of a J Crew catalog. I wasn’t the only girl with a secret crush—even Morgan liked him, but she wasn’t as secretive about it as I was, especially since I didn’t even disclose that information to her.

  The final event at the course end was the dinner and dance that everyone looked forward to. I couldn’t wait since my parents hadn’t allowed me to attend the school dances, and the idea of dancing with a boy, if anyone actually asked me, felt like fairy tale business. I just knew that was going to be the moment I’d get asked by someone, and my mother would be okay with it. I imagined for weeks that maybe whoever he was, he would have been holding onto a secret crush on me. Maybe it would progress to a mutual like, and we would be boyfriend and girlfriend in real life. I mean I felt like I was a pretty average girl and likable enough. It wasn’t too far-fetched of a dream.

  In the weeks leading up to the final dance, my imagination went a little wild with who would make that teenage dream a reality for me. I even went as far as to imagine my first kiss. As the other girls began receiving elaborate invites to the dance and began planning their wardrobe and coordinating colors with their dates, I was still waiting.

  One day when I came home from school, I found my mother giddy with excitement. She was bubbling over with news, and she made me sit down as she prepared to make an overzealous announcement. I can remember it like yesterday. “Charlotte, you’ll never believe who I spoke with at the luncheon today. Are you ready for this?” I wondered who could possibly make my mother this excited about life. Angelina Jolie? This was out of character for her, and it made me a little nervous, but I was happy if she was pleased and not picking me apart.

  I was excited about her news hoping it would be someone famous. I waited for her to make a cup of tea and sit to tell me. It was a rare moment when my mother had news she was happy to share with me. I actually thought for a moment that the tides were turning now that I was growing up, and we could have a relationship more like the one Morgan and her mother shared, which I was green with envy over. Oh … how wrong I was because the first thirty seconds into the conversation, she shattered me.

  “It was fate. When I ran into Katherine Matthews today, and we were chatting about the cotillion dance, she told me that Colby didn’t have a date to the dance because he just wasn’t interested in any of the girls attending. So he was planning to go alone.” I never expected to be Colby’s date choice and that in and of itself was a little sad, but it was okay. I figured that out already, and I knew I wasn’t the prettiest girl in the sea of options.

  Then she continued, “And his mother and I agreed that it would be just darling for the two of you to attend together.” Just. Darling. “I can see it now, the children of South Carolina’s political powerhouses. It’s newsworthy. We’ll even submit the photo to the newspapers. It’s just perfect for publicity. Aren’t you beside yourself with excitement?” she finished.

  With her announcement went any chance that a boy, any boy, would ever like me for me. It would always be arranged dates for publicity. Political Dating 101. Publicity first. True love or even genuine LIKE, never.

  I was never officially asked to the dance. I never even spoke with Colby about it until the night of the actual dance when he arrived to pick me up, and we had to endure a professional photo shoot arranged by our mothers. We said very little to each other the whole night. Everything we did was staged for publicity photos.

  Every other event that required an actual date from that point forward was handled the same way. My dates were always carefully chosen and arranged by my mother for me, not with me. I never chose.

  Escorting me was considered a favor to our parents, his and mine. We never had any mutual interest. There could have possibly been chemistry under different circumstances, but the arrangement sucked all the joy out of it. My chosen escorts were all handsome, high-class gentlemen, but it was known that I was off-limits for anything other than appearances. We had no dinner conversation or getting to know you period, and definitely, no moves were made to steal kisses.

  My knowledge of passionate moments begins and ends with romantic movies and romance books. At twenty-one years old, it’s sad to admit no boy has kissed or touched me. My mother never took the time to arrange that for me, unfortunately.

  Running helps me escape and get out the sometimes-overwhelming anger that lives deep in me from the years of missed experiences. All because my parents conceived me to look the part, to show they were family people. How insane is that? Most people plan families because they feel a need to nurture and love. Not my parents. Ron
ald and Sandra Baker planned a family to further his political career and appear to outsiders as a ‘Typical American Family.’ Insane.

  When “How to Breathe” by Matthew Mayfield comes on, which is usually my cooldown song, I realize I’ve been running for an hour. But with my frustrations and anger still exuding from my pores, I know I’m far from ready to wrap up the best form of therapy for me.

  Run until your body aches and you can’t think about the hell of your unfulfilling life. Run to chase away the never-ending expectations. Run. Run. And run some more then just keep running.

  “Yeah, dude. I’m going.” I smirk at Jason, my teammate, as I walk out of the locker room. Practice today was hell. My shoulder is sore as shit already, but it’s an ache I welcome and enjoy. Nothing an ice pack and twelve-pack can’t repair anyway. The season is about to start, and the practices have been constant and long, but you won’t hear any complaints from me. I have a point to prove again. It’s my senior year, and even though some say it wasn’t smart, I refused the early offers to sign with the majors. I want to graduate. I’ve worked hard to get where I am and make a name for myself. I want my name to mean something, even if the people who brought me into the world did everything in their power to fuck up any possible legacy.

  I grab my helmet and straddle the seat, feeling a rush when the engine hums under me. It’s fucked up that I feel more love and affection toward this machine than I’ve ever felt for any human—even a chick who blows me. I realize it’s been a while. Maybe I need a reminder of that tonight since my shoulder aches too much to fuck my fist in the shower. A warm set of lips is better than my hand anyway.

  So it’s done. That’s all it takes to make up my mind that I’ll definitely attend this frat party shit tonight. I normally agree to attend these things but never actually show up. Tonight, I will. A deed needs handling.

  Driving out of the lot, I’m happy the weather is finally nice enough to enjoy my bike again. It’s not cold enough that I have to wear layers of leather to protect myself from the crisp winter air, but it’s also not too hot so I can finally ride more. Even though I love my truck, I was getting sick of it. I need the wind in my face. Riding clears my head and eases the tension of my pressures.

  I pull to the stop sign and stop, watching a chick running as she approaches an intersection across the street. It’s as if she’s in her own little world and she owns the roads. She didn’t even bother to look up before she started across the street. I shake my head watching what could have been a bloody scene if there were a car coming. A car or truck could’ve hit that stupid ass girl. To make it worse, she has earbuds in and can’t even hear anything. Who fucking runs watching the pavement in front of them instead of keeping their damn head up?

  When she crosses my path at the exit of the field lot, I turn the handle forcefully while holding the bike steady in neutral. The engine roars, filling me with pride at the purr. Even though the first time was probably enough, I do it again to make sure the vibrations from the engine on the pavement get her attention and successfully scare the shit out of her. Hell, it’s a public service duty to help, and I’m happy to drive home this lesson to teach her to fucking pay attention to the world around her.

  Clearly, no one’s had an opportunity to deliver that lesson, so I’m glad to have the chance, and it works like a charm. She jumps a few feet into the air and rushes out of my way. I can’t help but laugh. The shit is funny. Ha—I guess I am as big of an asshole as people around me say. Just as I’m thinking this to myself, I hear the same words fly out of her mouth.

  “You are such a fucking asshole. What did you do that for?” she yells over the wind down of the engine. She yanks the earbuds out of her ears and furiously marches toward me with her glare trained on my head. Yep, it worked all right.

  She’s pissed and trying to be tough. I admit she looks tough as shit right now. Her stare down could probably give any superhero with laser vision a run for their money, but I find the situation entertaining. I was trying to teach her a lifesaving lesson. She should thank me, but I won’t hold my breath on that.

  She marches over to the bike and stands close enough that I could reach up and touch her before I finally see it. I mean I noticed her and knew even when she was fifty yards away that she was hot as hell, but now, I fucking see her. Her bright sapphire blue eyes meet mine, and it changes everything. Holy fuck—they stun me for a moment, and I’m unable to focus on any of the words coming out of the little ball of fury. Fuck me sideways—those eyes. I take a moment to evaluate the rest of the package before I attempt to concentrate on her words.

  She stands with her arms crossed under her amazing tits. She’s wearing a tight sports tank so I can tell they’re not too big and definitely not flat. Perfect. She releases one arm and uses it to point inches from my chest, still ranting through the labored breath from her run and, I suspect, adrenaline from the scare, but I’m not listening. I take in more of her. Long, lean, tanned legs that I think would look amazing wrapped around my waist.

  I always thought I was a guy who preferred blondes, but this brunette in front of me just flipped that switch leaving my cock aching for a dark-haired beauty.

  I hide behind the full wind guard on my helmet glad she can’t see my reaction to her as she stands with one leg propped and her finger still directed at me. I have nothing. Normally, I’d have a response but not today. I pull myself together and lift one foot off the ground and onto the peg as I lean to the right and move to drive the fuck away from the first chick who’s ever stunned me to silence. God—I wish I had paid closer attention to her voice and to what she was saying. Who is this girl?

  I know for a fact our paths have unfortunately never crossed. This campus is huge. I sure as fuck hope that changes, though. I wouldn’t complain a bit about having her in my view. I smile under the mask of the wind guard. Again, I shake my head and laugh, but this time at myself. Maybe there was a lesson in this situation for both of us.

  Sliding the bike into gear, I accelerate leaving her standing there shocked by my silence. The wheels roll across the pavement exiting the lot. I race toward home thinking about her and am anxious to shower to get ready for the party. I will be on a mission to find a brunette’s mouth to wrap around my cock tonight. Thanks to her lesson, I know now that I really fucking like brunettes.

  I can’t even believe I allowed those words to escape my mouth. I should be embarrassed, but I’m really not. I’m too mad to be embarrassed. What kind of asshole needs so much attention that he’d try to scare a girl who was running just so she’d look at him? UGH—I huff, turning my body in the opposite direction of the path the attention-seeking douchebag went. What is wrong with people?

  He didn’t even respond to my question or attempt to defend himself when I yelled. He just drove off. I know he was laughing too. Even though I couldn’t see his face, I saw his shoulders bouncing. I move to the sidewalk and out of the road, continuing to walk instead of resuming my running pace rudely interrupted by the ass on the motorcycle. I take a few deep breaths to settle my heart rate. It takes a moment longer than usual to regain control of my breathing mostly from being startled but also from the run. Well, so much for working through my earlier frustration by pounding the pavement. It’s now multiplied by a million and turned to pure anger, thanks to Mr. Attention Seeker.

  Whatever. I decide not give Mr. Attention Seeker any more of my energy. Ha. The asshole didn’t win today, I did. Pride fills me, and shockingly, I feel the signs of a smile sneak up on my face. I put the earbuds back into my ears and head back toward the house. With the adrenaline still coursing through my veins, I can’t help but enjoy the satisfaction of being able to stand up for myself against the jerk. Even if it wasn’t polite or ladylike, it felt good to tell him exactly what I thought of him and his behavior. He deserved everything I said; it’s not as if I harmed his ego since he just laughed at me.

  The only thing that could make this outcome better would be a face to put with his
new Mr. Attention Seeker name. Maybe it wasn’t so much the run I needed to work out my frustrations since my running time was spent rehashing old stuff, which had the opposite effect. Obviously, I just needed someone to push me to my absolute limit at the right time to learn the joys of having a backbone.

  If he only knew he was just one more person in a long line of assholes, he probably wouldn’t have gotten as much joy in scaring the life out of me. But that’s okay because the faceless Mr. Attention Seeker hiding behind his helmet like Zorro is now on my permanent list of people to secretly hate. What’s one more person to quietly wish terrible things on? If I had known that it was going to actually help, I would have thanked him. But whatever, his loss, and surely, he doesn’t need my gratitude to fluff his ego anymore anyway.

  When I approach the huge white colonial house that feels more like home than anywhere, I glide my body to the cool grass on the front lawn. I feel the tremble of my legs and realize that the vigor of this evening's run was more intense than usual. My muscles spasm as I attempt to relieve the strain by easing into a gentle stretch then deepening it as I feel some relief. Fearful of an injury that I don’t have time for, I also know I need the time I spend running to avoid a serious mental breakdown. Like probably institutionalized breakdown. Probably not that bad but it’s not worth the risk. I can’t even imagine all the emotional dust that would be filling my headspace if I didn’t have this time to clear all those cobwebs and sweep it back under the rug where it belongs. Need I even recognize the fact that running burns many calories allowing me to consume all the amazing food I want. I seriously love food. So it’s settled, an injury would suck, and because of that, I mentally lecture myself to be more careful not to push my physical limits just because I’m angry.