by Lindy Zart
I, taking a cue from her, also do not bring up the subject of exes. Mia talks about Ben enough on her own anyway. He is the only ex-boyfriend she seems to care enough about to ridicule, and that makes me wonder if maybe she loved him, and possibly still does. It also makes me wonder why they broke up. She never told me the reason behind the demise of their relationship and I never asked her about it. I don’t intend to. Not because I don’t care, but because I do not want to cause her unjust discomfort. It was high school and I guess that means it shouldn’t matter anymore. The thing about high school is that everything seems to matter more during that period of time.
I dip a chicken strip into barbeque sauce and take a bite. It is crunchy and flavorful, a delicious blend of sweet and salty. “Did you really go out with Jason?”
Mia laughs. “No.”
“Then how did you know about the mole?”
“He mooned me once. For that fact alone, I would never go on a date with him, no matter how many times he asked or how horny I was.”
“Nice.”
Taking a forkful of lettuce and dressing, she places it in her mouth and chews. “It worked. So…about tonight? You in or out?”
I shrug. “Sure. I have nothing planned.”
“When do you ever? You act like an old lady and you're only twenty. I’ll come over around six. I’ll bring a dress too.” She eyes my black locks. “And I’ll do your hair.”
“Maybe I should just stay in and you can portray yourself as me so I look decent.”
Mia rolls her eyes. “Don’t be so dramatic. The only time you dress up is when I dress you up. I don’t understand your adversity to being pretty and feminine.”
“I am not opposed to being pretty, nor feminine. I like to be comfortable, not dressed to impress. It’s logical.”
“Says you.”
“Did anyone ever tell you, you care too much about looks?”
“Whatever. You need a man. You haven’t dated in almost six months.”
“I do not need a man. Men equal trouble.”
“Okay, well you at least need sex. Either way, I’ll help make that more possible,” she insists.
“That produces an image in my head of you coaching me and some random guy during the act of having sex. I can just see you standing beside the bed giving pointers, telling me to put more effort into it. Whistle around your neck for when I do something you don’t approve of.”
“It may come to that, I fear.”
“And you say I’m dramatic.”
MIA SOMEHOW THREATENED MY HAIR into obeying her. One half is pulled up with bobby pins and the rest loosely falls down one shoulder in waves. She also took over my makeup, painting me in shades of cream and blush. I have to admit, she knows all the secrets to making eyes pop, cheekbones sharper, and lips fuller. Even my nose seems smaller, less wide. The face that stared back at me when I checked my appearance in the bathroom mirror before we left was a prettier and more feminine version of me.
My friend is talented and her gift of making the average person exceptional is kept undiscovered in the small town of Fennimore. She works in the beauty shop her mom owns; Kalinowski Kurls, mostly perming hair and doing manicures. Her favorite times of the year are Homecoming, Prom, and of course when there is a wedding.
Scanning the crowded street, I take in the lively mass of faces and boisterous voices. I see people I know and wave when greetings are called out to me. I am surprised anyone can recognize me in the tight white and black striped strapless dress and neon pink heels I’m wearing. I feel naked, supremely exposed, in the outfit. I don’t feel like me, but I guess that was the point. Apparently Mia felt I needed a major overhaul. The shoes, of course, are mine, so I do have that minor bit of myself to cling to.
Mia eyes me critically, her next words surprising with the way she is scrutinizing me. Her expression clears as she says, “You should wear more skirts and dresses. You look good.”
“I wear dresses.”
“Okay, dresses that emphasize your figure. You can thank me now.”
Rolling my eyes, I say, “Thanks.”
“Now it's your turn to tell me how good I look.”
I laugh because I know she is serious. “You always look good. Fantastic, even.” A slinky plum-colored dress and silver sandals make up her ensemble, the dress complimenting all her bodily assets. I scan the crowd. “What time is Bethany supposed to meet us?”
A makeshift stage is set up on the other end of the road a quarter of a mile down from where we stand. Charlie Brown is the entertainment and I smile when his twangy voice croons over the sound system, reaching out to lull all of us within hearing distance. All sides of the main road have been cordoned off, businesses looking out of place and forgotten on the other side of the limelight. It reminds me of a cattle pen and all of us milling about within the gates are locked inside. We aren’t really. I know this, and yet I feel slightly claustrophobic. There are too many people and not enough visible exits.
Mia brushes away a wildly curly lock of strawberry-blonde hair as a warm breeze picks up and blows it into her face. “Eight. What time is it now?”
Though people of all ages have flocked to the fundraising event involving food, drink, and music, the majority are young adults, which strikes me as odd. Usually these kinds of things draw an older crowd, teenagers having better things to do. Even stranger is the tension—excited energy zinging through the air to the point the atmosphere seems alive with it. Even I am not immune to it, though I don’t understand it. It thunders through my veins in rhythm with my heart.
Good or bad, something big is going to happen.
I glance at my cell phone and drop it back into the bright yellow clutch accessorizing my dress. “It’s almost eight, about ten to. Where are we supposed to meet her?”
“Near the fire department. Come on.” She tugs at my wrist and I follow, weaving through the throng of bodies. An eclectic mix of scents hit me as we walk—perfume, body odor, alcohol, and greasy food. “She has a new boyfriend she wants us to meet. She met him at the pharmacy they work at together and they’ve been dating for about a month. He’s from Kentucky, and apparently, she is in love.” Mia glances over her shoulder at me, perfectly tweezed eyebrows lifted.
“Good for her,” I state firmly, though a spark—microscopic and fleeting—of jealousy swoops through me.
Arching a look at me, Mia smirks. “That’s what I thought, only with more sarcasm and less sincerity.”
I snort and turn toward the brick structure that houses the town’s firetrucks, immediately bombarded by hands over my eyes, vanilla perfume, and voice saying loudly into my ear, “Guess who.”
“Dad?”
“No.” Bethany gently shoves at my back. As I face her, she demands, “Do I sound that ancient?”
She is my oldest friend. Our parents sent us to the same daycare when we were toddlers. We also shared 4K and kindergarten classrooms. Bethany offered me a chocolate chip cookie the first day of kindergarten and the friendship progressed from there. I could almost say she is my best friend, but there is Mia and even though she is tactless and all the other adjectives one could use to describe her, she has a fierce, unwavering, unquestioning dependability. To summarize—she always has my back.
When things are rough, Bethany is somewhere in the background, observing and sympathizing; while Mia is the one starting things, in the middle of things, and ending things, which kind of supports the theory of her being my best friend. She's badass.
I laugh at her crestfallen expression, giving her a quick hug. “I would be worried about sounding manly, not old.”
Bethany is tall and perfectly curved with blue eyes and dark brown hair. With her long legs and smoking hot body, she is totally rocking the short jean skirt and green crinkly tank top she’s wearing. I am getting a little nauseous looking at her. I’m shorter, flatter in every area, and my eyes are some indescribable shade that fluctuates between gray, blue, and green. I can’t even tell people the pr
oper color of my eyes when they ask.
“What’s worse? Sounding like a man or sounding like an old man? Yeah. Exactly.” She flips her silky hair and eyes Mia. “’Sup.”
Mia cackles and slaps Bethany on the rear end. “’Sup? Really? Is that Kentucky slang? Where’s your boyfriend, you whore?”
“What the hell?” Bethany looks at me. “I move to Kentucky and now I’m a whore? Did I unknowingly sleep with a bunch of guys on the way there?”
“I don't know, did the plane make frequent stops along the way?” Mia answers.
Bethany ignores that, asking me, “Did she forget her Prozac at home?”
I shrug. “It's possible.” Who knows why Mia says and does the things she does? No one is immune to it. Envy could be part of it, but we won’t go there, not tonight.
“Where’s your man?” Mia asks again, loudly smacking her lips against Bethany’s cheek.
“Over by my dad.” Bethany cringes. “I left him to look for you two. I was about to go back and rescue him, but then I saw this flashy chick over here and was pretty sure I knew her. You look amazing, Lily.”
“You know you shouldn’t say things like that to me, right? People will think we’re in love.” Bethany procures a Dove chocolate bar from her silver sequined purse and silently offers it. I snatch it away. “I am so in love with you and I’m not afraid to admit it.”
“So easy,” Bethany murmurs, winking.
“I made you beautiful. You should be in love with me.” Mia sniffs, casting her gaze beyond us.
Bethany rolls her eyes at me.
I smile. “Chocolate always wins, Mia, you should know that.”
“Is she really going to compete with me over this?”
“I wouldn’t doubt it,” I say to Bethany at the same time loud whooping and shouting breaks out farther down the street toward the stage, drowning out my words. Screams, excited and out of control, follow, and I crane my neck to see what the cause of it is. “What’s going on?” I ask loudly.
“I don’t know. We should get closer,” she answers. Mia’s already left us and Bethany motions that we should go after her.
I bounce on my feet to try to see around all the vertically normal people, but it’s no use. Even with my heels on, I am still too short to see over the crowd. A swarm of intermixed males and females head down the street, bumping into me and anyone else who isn’t moving fast enough. Taking pity on my diminutive height, Bethany loosely grips my wrist between her fingers and tugs me along behind her so we don’t get separated.
“There’s supposed to be a surprise guest performer or something,” I call out to her.
Bethany nods, glancing back at me. “Oh yeah, I remember seeing a sign saying that. Nice of Mia to ditch us.”
“Nice and Mia do not go together. You know this.”
“I do know this.”
“What about your dad and your boyfriend? Shouldn’t we find them?”
“They’re in the beer tent and I’m pretty sure they have no plans on leaving. I’ll find them later.”
“Oooh, an older man,” I tease just as we reach the back of the horde of collected warm bodies. It’s no use trying to see over the top of them because the lights on the stage have gone blinding, so even if I was tall enough, I couldn’t see them anyway. Story of my life.
She laughs. “By a whole year.”
“And you love him?”
Bethany goes still as this strange, glowing expression captivates her features. “You have no idea how much. He is so good to me, Lily.”
I hug her tightly before pulling away. “I’m happy for you.” And I am. But I’m a little sad for me too. I try to hide it by averting my face, but she notices and an arm wraps around my shoulders in silent comfort.
“You’ll get your happy ending too,” she informs me in a soft voice.
I nod, but don’t respond. I already had mine.
A drumbeat, slow and steady, thumps through the speakers, and the crowd goes insane, jumping up and down, stomping their feet, and uproariously shouting. I’m pushed forward as more preteens, teens, and young adults arrive behind me. Soon I am in the middle of sweating bodies, the air charged with anticipation and impatience. I search for Mia and Bethany, but have lost both of them. I turn my attention back to the stage, the tempo of the drum pulsating through me, and as an electric guitar joins the drum and harmonizes, awareness shoots through me like a messenger of doom.
I recognize this song.
I tell myself it is a cover band, but I know it’s really not. It is Thrush. It is Grayson. I feel sick, my stomach continually swooping, and it is hard to breathe. The air is hot and thick. I need to escape, but it is pointless to try and I know it. I can never truly escape him; partly because I don’t want to and partly because I don’t know how, or even if I can.
He is in me, a part of me, flowing through my veins.
And when he steps out onto the stage, the platform lights illuminate him, casting him in gold and making everything around him dim. I literally cannot breathe, gasping for air with raspy sounds leaving me. It’s really unattractive, but luckily, no one is paying attention to me—not even Grayson. I am just one in a mob of adoring fans.
My feet unconsciously pull me toward the person I always want to be near, no matter what. He’s grinning, soaking up the attention, his eyes roving over the crowd of people like he is searching for someone. I want those piercing blue eyes on me at the same time I want them to never look upon me again. I openly gaze at him, my eyes drinking in the man who used to be the boy I knew. A plain red shirt and torn jeans hug his tall, lanky form, hiding the muscles I know are underneath the fabric. A glint of metal near his eyebrow has my mouth going dry. Oh my—his eyebrow is pierced. Why is that such a turn on? I briefly close my eyes and inhale slowly, trying to steady my thundering heartbeat.
It’s been so long—too long—since I have seen him in person. His first concert was the last time I saw him, around a year ago. I was crazy to go there, but I was going crazy staying away. So I went. I saw him. And I left. One of us always leaves. It was supposed to be goodbye, but can you ever really say goodbye to someone who holds your heart? Longing scorches my throat, my blood, everything in me.
I love him.
The truth singes me and I don’t even try to deny it to myself. I wouldn’t want to. I owe him that, at least. But that love is suffocating, consuming, and scary. It is endless, it knows no bounds, and it is wrapped tightly around my heart, keeping it Grayson’s.
And I hurt from loving him.
He begins to sing; his voice soft and thick with emotion. I close my eyes, letting the words, letting him, wash over me. If I keep my eyes closed, I can pretend he is singing to me, that he never left, that I never pushed him away, and that we are still together. A small smile curves my lips as euphoria seeps into me. This—seeing him, hearing him—makes me think maybe, just maybe, losing him was worth it.
The beat of the song picks up and he misses his cue. The smile falls from my lips as I slowly open my eyes only to lock gazes with him. I freeze, nausea pounding into me, taking the air from my lungs. His brows lower and his eyes drill into mine for one short, catastrophic instant where everything disappears but him and me. The amount of loss I feel is unbearable and I realize, no, nothing would be worth losing him.
Quickly looking away, he finds his place in the song and continues. The exchanged look was only seconds long in duration, but infinite in its devastation. Dizziness waves over me, again and again, until I sway where I stand. My face heats up as attention is taken from him and put on me and those around me as people try to decipher who or what made Grayson falter.
The urge to flee is too great to withstand. I turn around and begin pushing my way through the pack, trembles running up and down my body. I have to get out of here—now. It doesn’t matter that I rode with Mia and have no idea where she went. It doesn’t matter that I live ten blocks from here or that I am wearing heels. I just need to go.
At the
end of the mob, I kick off my heels, scoop them up, and hurry down the cool, uneven street; away from the music, away from the people, and most importantly, away from Grayson.
Why is he here? Why didn’t he stay away?
Instead of taking the route to my apartment, I aim my shoeless feet five blocks in the opposite direction. The music quiets the farther I go, his voice turning faint and unintelligible. The affect of it does not lessen any. It’s thrumming through me, binding me to him once more, making me want what I gave up, what I can’t have, what I am no longer allowed.
I pass lighted houses, the sky going from day to night as I walk, the temperature cooling as the sun goes down. My footsteps slow and instead of rushing for my destination, I take my time. Maybe I’m secretly hoping he’ll chase after me—a thought I squash as soon as it forms. I know it’s stupid to wish for things that can’t be and won’t be, but I can’t seem to completely snuff out the hope that somehow, someway, we can start over. Calmness slowly finds me with each step I take. My heart rate steadies and the shaking in my body and hands begins to dissipate.
The scent of grilling meat permeates the air. Laughter and the sound of children playing periodically erupts around me as I go. I walk past my parents’ house, my eyes on Grayson’s instead of theirs, looking for a sign that shouts his inhabitance of the home, but finding none. Maybe he isn’t even staying at the house that holds a lot of sorrow and not enough happiness. I don’t blame him. And that’s the thing—I don’t blame him for any of it.
I remember the broken look on his face when I told him we were over, I remember the pleading in his eyes, the tears that shamelessly trailed down his cheeks, the crack in his voice. I remember the way he couldn’t let me go and went after me when I tried to leave. I remember the shattered boy I walked away from. I walked away; as he cried, as he begged, as he fought to keep me; I walked away.