by Felicia Lynn
Little Miss Perfect. What could possibly have ruffled her feathers to make me feel the need to come over here and check on her? As I walk up to the playground from behind, I slow, feeling the need to just watch her for a minute. If she’s good, I can get back on my way and do what I need to do, forgetting all about this little interruption in my plans. I watch as she flips her hair around her wrist and somehow ties it behind her head. She then picks up her phone from her lap and just stares into the screen emptily. Sadness? Anger? I can’t tell.
“What’s up, buttercup? What’s ruffled your petals?” I ask. “You look like you’ve got the weight of the world on your shoulders. What could possibly have gone so wrong in your perfect little world?” I finish, the sarcasm in my voice not to be mistaken.
She looks over her shoulder as I approach taking a seat on the swing next to her. She huffs, looking over at me. “Oh … you again? Right! Of course. Perfect.” She’s muttering.
Ha … me again? What in the hell is that all about? I mean we were both there last night. What in the hell did I do? I guess I expected a much different response. Maybe even a thank-you. Hell … a few thank-yous, come to think of it. One, for letting her be my teammate and play beer pong on the winning team so she didn’t get shitfaced. Two, for saving her from embarrassing herself from the panic attack after her friend fucking left her. Three, for not letting her fall on her face and leaving her in the dark yard. Four, for driving her home and walking her to the damn door to make sure she was okay. Five, for not fucking taking advantage of her weak state and taking her back to my place to sink my cock between her legs. Well … let’s be honest, she probably would have thanked me for the last one.
“Well … I guess it’s me again. The yelling caught my attention. Sorry to interrupt your … whatever is happening here.” I stand to leave. Shit. I don’t need this. I take one more look into her eyes, which are holding on to emotions that I can’t read, but then I drag my eyes away and turn to walk.
“Wait … I’m sorry. You didn’t deserve that. I don’t know what’s happening to me,” she says, her voice breaking. And I pray to God that she’s not crying. I can’t fucking handle chick tears. They’re a deal breaker for me. I can’t even believe I’m thinking tears are my deal breaker. This whole thing is a deal breaker. I don’t do this … what I’m doing right now. I don’t check on chicks. I don’t initiate a conversation to find out what’s upsetting them. I’m losing my focus every extra second I’m in her presence. But worse than that, my thoughts lead me to want to take care of her and fix shit; it makes me want to pass over my damn man card.
I should just keep walking and ignore her. I will my legs to move, but they are grounded and heavy as if hundreds of pounds of lead fill my shoes. I can’t move toward my bike. I can’t escape her. “Fucking witchcraft.”
“What? Witchcraft? I don’t get it,” she asks. Now realizing that I muttered those words aloud, I shake off her question. I turn back toward her not wanting to get too close, but my betraying body takes the seat right next to her. I shake my head and laugh at myself. It’s all I can do because I’m not in control of whatever the hell is happening to me right now.
I fearfully look over at her. I’m not sure which part is scarier, the fact that she could be crying, or the fact that her eyes will hypnotize me to start jumping around like a damn monkey, and I won’t be able to do a damn thing about it.
When I look at her, she’s taking in my reactions and trying to read me. Well… good luck with that, buttercup. I’ve had years of experience hiding behind these walls, and while the best therapists have tried to read me, it’s impossible. I smile knowing I will actually win this game.
“So …” I start, “want to talk about what’s bothering you?” I mean she might as well tell me so I can move on with my life. Clearly, it’s the only way out.
She shrugs her shoulders. “It’s been a bad morning. It’s fine. I’ll get over it,” she says simply, obviously not wanting to go into detail. “Thanks, though.”
She’s dismissing me. I don’t like this at all. I might be an egotistical asshole, but for some reason, I want to know more. Not that I want to keep prodding. I don’t. But I also can’t really handle this rejection right now.
I don’t even recognize myself right now. In the past twenty-four hours, I’ve turned into someone else. I’m completely on edge. Is this what happens when you let others set the course of your life? Do you eventually turn into a screaming basket case eating, sleeping, and breathing only to live to the expectations of others?
I look up at Tyler, his eyes staring into my own, and feel my skin pebble. What is it with this guy? Is this just another side effect? I shake it off.
“So …?” he asks. “Want to talk about what’s bothering you?” What a simple question. However, I can’t answer that question. It’s kinda cute that he’s trying to pretend he cares, though. I’m sure I look like an easy target to him. Poor guy will soon find out what a waste of his time I am.
I shrug my shoulders attempting to make light of my issues. “It’s been a bad morning. It’s fine. I’ll get over it,” I tell him then plaster on my stage smile trying to really sell it. “Thanks, though.”
He nods and looks away into the trees in the distance. Silence among us comfortable enough as I sort through the thoughts in my head and then, in an attempt to possibly lighten the mood, he speaks softly. “I love spring.” I nod my head in agreement.
I should probably finish the run. I’ve been sitting here a good while, but somehow, just sitting here in our solace—not really talking, just sitting, thinking, taking in the breeze and view—I find my thoughts more settling. Everything is falling apart around me. I’m emotionally wrecked. But I’m content enough at this moment for whatever reason. His presence is calming me and allowing me to see the things outside my walls.
“My mother found about the party last night. She’s disappointed.” My voice invades our silence. I’m not sure why I feel the need to open up to him after I already dismissed the option moments ago and we’d moved on, but I do.
“So your parents are really strict?” he asks.
How do I describe the people who hold me hostage in their world under constant public scrutiny forced to live a life that’s not my own?
“Yeah, you could say that.” I’m not really sure how else to describe it without looking like a puppet. I don’t want him to see that side of me. Right now, I feel normal. I want this kind of normal for a few more minutes until I have to go home and face the music. He silently processes my answer as I watch him worry his fingers as he thinks.
“Do you always do what your parents tell you to do?” he asks; the question is innocent enough, but the answer will reveal me.
I want to answer the question. I want to tell him I’m nothing like the girls at that party last night. I want to tell him that everything I do is carefully planned to benefit others. I could tell him that I was born into the world for no other reason than to be photographed and paraded as a showpiece. If I told him that at twenty-one years old, I’ve only ever had a couple of true friends or that my list of life experiences could be written on the tiny scrap of paper that you’d find in a fortune cookie, would he see my dilemma? Would he still describe my little world, as he called it, as perfect?
My voice is void of emotion when I finally bring myself to answer. “Yes, I always do what I’m told. I kill myself to impress them and make them proud, and I fail every time.” Refusing to allow the emotional release, I will back my tears as I finish. “Last night, I wanted to live. I wanted to understand what I’ve been missing. I wasn’t trying to go to the party to get wild and lose control. I didn’t intend to hook up with a guy. I just wanted to experience life, as normal.”
Revealing that information, I feel liberated. I take a deep breath and train my eyes into the forest focusing on a little slither of bright green knowing that looking at him at this point would make the situation and the connection too real.
“La
st night, that was your first experience of a college party, Charlie?” Charlie? His voice permeates the thick walls surrounding my heart and with the simple gesture of assigning a nickname, it changes things between us. I feel different toward this person who I met for the first time less than twenty-four hours prior. Is this friendship?
I know he’s watching me intently. My body feels his gaze even though I’m physically avoiding seeing it for myself, but I nod. “Last night was a first of many things. It was my first real party, not just college. It was my first time drinking. It was my first time playing a game with risks, my first time getting into a vehicle with anyone who wasn’t pre-approved by my mother, and it was the first time a guy ever walked me to my door not just to say good night to my parents to prove they had fulfilled an obligation.”
He stands abruptly and walks in front of me; his hands stretch over then clasp behind his head in obvious frustration. The tensing and releasing of the muscles in his back, shoulders, and arms hold my focus. His body is magnificent to watch, but his silence unnerves me. I take in his form noticing things about him that I failed to see earlier. I guess another side effect of living in a bubble is I’ve only ever been able to see the things that affected my immediate world.
Tyler is tall and incredibly handsome, but not like the guys I’m accustomed to seeing. Tyler is rougher around the edges. His fingers are callused, and his face isn’t clean-shaven. He embraces the scruff, and for the first time ever, my body reacts. I realize I like the roughness. It’s real.
“Tell me about the panic attack.” Concern fills his features.
I don’t want to tell him about the panic attacks. I want to forget they exist. I have for years and haven’t had any episodes until last night, but it was a bad one.
“They used to be frequent. That was the first in a while. I deal. I’m fine, though. I just need to work harder to hold myself together when things are hard. I looked up techniques on the Internet that I use and work, but I was just too overwhelmed to use them last night.” He nods, and I’d give anything to see his face. I want to know if he believes that I’m really okay and not a mental case.
“Okay, Charlie, let’s go,” he says turning back to face me. Reaching for my hand, he takes it pulling me off the swing toward the empty parking lot, except for one motorcycle. I ready myself to say good-bye to my new friend, hoping deep down that he is actually a friend.
When we reach the motorcycle, seeing it up close, I’m fascinated. It looks like a space mobile. It’s matte black with Stone written in a strong masculine font on the side and the number 11 under it with flames shooting out of the coolest baseball graphic decal I’ve ever seen. The lines of the motorcycle itself are all curves. It looks powerful and matches the personality of its owner. He takes the helmet off the back, staring down at it for a moment.
I take advantage of the voided silence and begin to speak my departure. “Thanks for the talk today. I know it probably doesn’t seem like much to you, but it meant a lot to me.” His eyes peer up from the focus of the headgear he’s holding and meet mine.
“So I’ll see you around. Maybe? Hopefully.” I turn quickly not knowing what else to say. I don’t know or understand new friendships. I especially am clueless to how friendships work with the opposite sex. Scared that I’ll say the wrong thing, I decide to part ways and finish my run.
His fingers lace around my waist, and he pulls me back to him. Without saying a word, he places the helmet on my head and adjusts it to secure it tightly. No questions. No offers of his plans. Just doing what he wants as if I’m a doll. He could be dragging me to an empty alley to kill me, and I’ve put up no fight.
Once he’s satisfied with the fit, he climbs onto the front of the bike, holding out his arm to help me on and telling me where to place my feet. I act on complete impulse. The unknowns of what’s happening flood my thoughts and abilities to ask questions or even speak. But my acceptance for whatever is going to happen is in my actions. I do exactly what he tells me.
The engine vibrates to life between my legs. Before pulling his dark sunglasses over his eyes, he reaches back, pulling me snuggly into his back, before wrapping my arms around his middle. My closeness to him and the way my body responds sends a rush of heat through my core and every single inch of my extremities are touching him. He balances the machine between his straddled legs as he begins to walk it backward out of the space.
When his path is clear, he yells over his shoulder. “Hold on tight, Charlie. I mean it. We’re going to go fast.” And even if I could find my words to respond, I wouldn’t have had time. True to his word, once out of the lot and after a few quick turns taking us onto a country road, we’re going fast.
I realize my original thought that it looked like a space mobile was probably quite accurate. I’ve never been on a motorcycle. I don’t know if this feeling is normal, but I feel like we’re flying, floating on a high-speed cloud on a mission to nowhere. The wind brushing past me leaves me feeling light and frees me from the weight of the world that was burying me alive moments ago. He drives like I run. Faster. Harder. Pushing the limits. I’ve never felt so aware of the world around me, of the things that pass me by daily, the things that I miss while unintentionally focusing on achieving the glass ceiling of expectations I’ll never reach. No more. I’m awake now, and I don’t want to miss anything else. I want to LIVE.
When he pulls up in front of George’s, my mood is now drastically different than it was before the ride. I couldn’t keep the smile from taking over my face if I tried; therefore, I can’t play it cool. I can’t pretend that a fast ride on the back of his motorcycle down country roads hasn’t changed things for me, and more importantly, I can’t pretend that he hasn’t fueled an intense desire in me to experience more out of life, fearlessly.
The engine turns off, and he reaches his hand out to balance the bike while instructing me again where to place my feet to hop off. I do as he says without question. I hop off literally bouncing on the balls of my feet, filled with excitement and adrenaline. I fumble with the helmet, trying to figure out how to release it. He smirks as he gets off the bike. Walking over to me, he faces me as he takes it off and places it on the seat. I laugh. Not a quiet giggle. Overwhelming joy.
“Oh. My. God. That was incredible,” I tell him the first chance I can string together a sentence. As I find my words and my courage at the same time, I launch myself at him wrapping my arms around his shoulders and embracing him. He not only accepts my embrace but also does one better, squeezing me tightly and holding me up with my feet dangling off the ground. Instinctively, my legs want to wrap around his waist, and I crave the need to touch his lips to mine, but somehow, I restrain myself from both and soak in the moment.
He holds me effortlessly, and his deep voice almost causes a loss of all control. The urge to feel his lips consumes me when he begins speaking into my ear over what I’m sure is a matted mess of hair from the helmet. “I had a feeling that was just the medicine you needed.” Then he releases me slowly from the embrace, and I slide down to my feet. He continues. “It helps me sometimes too.” His face softens as he watches me, our bodies still close but not attached. It still feels like a loss, and I miss his touch when his fingers brush along my cheek to push the stray hairs away. My head leans into his touch.
“Thank you, Tyler, for everything,” I tell him honestly, hoping he understands. The sparkle in his eyes right before the quick wink tells me he does. I laugh as we turn to walk toward the doors of my favorite restaurant.
When we walk in and Sue greets us both, I realize Tyler is also a regular here. That all on its own is huge to me. It’s nice to know we do have something in common. I head for the corner booth before even considering the possibility that he may have his own favorite spot, but he follows and doesn’t seem to mind.
We place our orders after a quick chat with Sue, and it’s during his interaction with her that I realize Tyler Stone is actually a hotshot baseball player. It now makes sense w
hy his motorcycle adorns the name Stone with his jersey number 11 and the flaming ball. Sue leaves us to go put in our order, but not before she leans in to me whispering quietly that she approves of Mr. Stone and is very happy to see me here with a new friend.
Sue doesn’t have it in her not to find a redeeming quality in anyone. She accepts everyone as they are with the exception of my mother. My mother came to visit me on campus my freshman year for parents’ weekend. I was completely mistaken in thinking my parents would enjoy the family-style meals Sue and George put together so the students and their families could enjoy a home-cooked meal. It was really special, but in true Sandra style, she treated the whole experience like it was beneath her.
Sue likely would have overlooked that, but she accidentally overheard a private conversation between my mother and me, sealing the fate of Sue’s disdain for Sandra Baker forever. I’d had years of listening and dealing with my mother's harsh critiques and learned to build a thick skin and somehow not allow her words to define me. Sue did not, and what she heard broke the heart of a lady who not only had two daughters and a son of her own but was also a step-in mother to all of us orphaned college students when school was in session.
Sue walked out of the restroom that day with glassy tear-filled eyes, and if looks could kill, my mother would have been dead. After washing her hands and not taking her eyes off my extremely embarrassed but unapologetic mother, she walked right up to me and embraced me in the warmest hug I’ve ever received. I loved Sue before that day. I knew her heart was bigger than most, but I’ll never forget her unashamed words in those four walls while my mother had no choice but to stand aside and hear.
“You, Charlotte, are one of the most amazing young women I’ve been blessed enough to meet in all my years here at this restaurant, and I’ve met a lot.” She reached down taking my hand in hers and giving it a gentle squeeze before she continued. “You’re gorgeous without realizing the magic of it. You’re smart, and you’re a hard worker. But the best part of you is a part I didn’t understand fully until just now.”