“This is how I relieve stress,” she told me as we walked into the air-conditioned fitness center. “It’s also how I’m able to eat my feelings and still love myself,” she added playfully.
I’d would have been the first to admit every day was a cheat day for me. My self-control was phenomenal until it came to grease and casseroles. When I worked out, I did extra with the knowledge that I was doing it so I wouldn’t feel bad about eating that extra row of Oreos, or two.
“I don’t want to work out too much and lose my boobs, though.” She was pushing them together in her neon tank top. I couldn’t not laugh at her. “They’re always the first thing to go.”
“I just don’t want to be the first girl who dies in the horror movie.”
Now it was her turn to laugh. “Lex, you’re a tan Caucasian brunette with gorgeous legs and a full B cup. If you wear a white tank top, you’ll be the one to live, always.”
Then we were both cracking up.
After I’d sweated out every drop of liquid in my body, we stopped for ice cream at our favorite shop three blocks down from Lola’s. It was across from the gym, a smart geographical marketing move on their part.
“Can I have the brownie sundae with vanilla ice cream and crushed up Oreos? Extra whipped cream, please.”
My mouth watered just thinking about that brownie. “Make it two,” I told the skinny, freckle-faced boy behind the counter.
“Technically, this is my post-breakup sundae, but it sounded good today,” she pouted.
I’d never her seen her so torn up over a guy. Usually if they confused her this much, she just walked away.
“Miles didn’t call,” she told me after we plopped down into a two-seater near the window. “I had a great time, and he didn’t call.”
“How long has it been? He could just be busy,” I suggested.
“Three days. I know it’s the bro code and all, but I thought he would call.”
“I’m sorry—I don’t speak bro code.”
“They usually don’t call for a few days. They don’t want to seem too eager or desperate,” she explained.
“That’s ridiculous.” I was offended for womankind everywhere. “I want him to be eager. If he’s not eager, I don’t want him to call at all.” She shrugged, as if it was just the way of life, and I supposed it was.
“I mean, we had a great night,” she continued. “I didn’t talk about things I shouldn’t on a first date, and I wasn’t overly eager.”
“What things shouldn’t you talk about on a first date?” Clearly, my dating playbook was severely outdated.
“Well, there are just certain things you don’t discuss while drinking: ex-boyfriends, politics, and any embarrassing story about you or your friends. Sadly, you’re not as funny as the alcohol makes you think you are.”
My mind was replaying all the bad dates I’d had, wondering if I’d committed these dating crimes, when Jules pulled me back to the present.
“What should I do about Miles?”
“No way. I’m not answering that.”
“Why not?”
“You don’t want advice. You want me to tell you what to do so you have someone to blame if it doesn’t work out like you want.”
“Yes. Yes, exactly,” she said, completely unashamed. I leveled her with a gaze that made her whine. “I’m a hot mess.”
“I’ll see your hot mess and raise you a walking disaster,” I told her, swirling the chocolate syrup into my whipped cream. “I’m in love with Ben,” I blurted out, causing a blush to rise to my cheeks, which were already rosy from the workout.
Jules stared at me, a bite of brownie halfway to her mouth. Then her phone vibrated on the table in between us. Judging by Jules’ squeal, I could only assume it was Miles.
“Hello?” She reined in that girly voice pretty quick. Now, her tone was sultry and sweet. Flirty Jules was back in full force, ladies and gentlemen.
I almost wanted to put my ear up to the phone so I wasn’t only hearing one side of the conversation. If we hadn’t been in public, I would have.
“I’m sure you’ll hear from me later when my blood is flushed with alcohol and it seems like a good idea to tell you the night was awesome,” she said with a smirk. “Yeah, we could do a repeat.” Her face blushed, and I smiled at her. Blushing wasn’t usually her style. A date with Miles had clearly made an impression on her. “Tomorrow night works. Seven sounds good. Okay. Okay, bye.”
Another squeal came out after she’d disconnected. After a few calming breaths, she turned her attention back to me, pinning me with a knowing gaze.
“You know you’re in love with Ben. I know you’re in love with Ben. Does Ben know you’re in love with Ben?”
I shook my head. I was already fumbling with my emotions. Just the thought of saying those three words made me nauseous.
“I’m guessing he hasn’t said it to you.” No, he hadn’t, and that little fact chipped away at my heart on a daily basis. It’s human nature to want to be loved. We crave it, and I was no different. I wanted love, and not just the word, which was now thrown around as more of a farewell than a reassurance. I wanted the connection, the devotion.
Just the thought of saying it to him and him not returning the sentiment made my heart seize up, like it refused to work without the confirmation of his love. I didn’t know if I could take that risk.
“You can wait—to tell him, I mean,” she said, shrugging.
“I love him. I know I do,” I told her, straight-faced and serious. This was first time I’d been able to say the words out loud, the first time I’d admitted it to anyone but myself. “But every time I try to say the words, it feels like vomit is going to come up instead. At the same time, not telling him almost feels like a lie at this point.”
The world seemed like a damaged place from where I was sitting as a senior in college. Dating was damaging to the point of destruction. We break ourselves to give to another who more often than not isn’t the one for us. When I loved Ben just the way he was, it felt dishonorable not to tell him.
“Are you afraid he doesn’t feel the same way?” she asked me, finishing off her sundae.
Concentrating intently on my own ice cream, I tried to explain where my fears really came from. “I’ve always been in a very serious relationship with my independence. And I know, right now, I’m surrounded by this cloud of first love and nothing is realistic. I’m not living real life. I’m sliding down rainbows, cuddling with puppies, and all these other unrealistically happy feelings.
“So, I’m afraid he doesn’t love me, yes, but I’m also afraid that even if he does, he won’t forever. The same things he likes about me now could turn into things he’ll hate later. My love for macaroni and cheese, which seems endearing, will turn into childish immaturity. These traits that currently seem feisty and vivacious will change and start being domineering and rude. My dream of being a writer, which now seems passionate, will turn into something that’s impractical.”
Jules listened thoughtfully. Before she could speak, which I knew she was dying to do, I went on.
“You know, I always wanted to name ice cream sundaes,” I said, willing her to let me change the subject. “That’s a job I could be fantastic at. ‘He’s Not Worth It,’ ‘You’re Better Off Without Him,’ ‘Size is Just a Number,’ oh, and ‘Ice, Ice, Baby.’”
“Don’t forget ‘It’s Not You, It’s Me,’” she chimed in, scooping up the rest of her almost-melted ice cream, mercifully allowing me to veer off topic.
After tossing our trash, Jules pulled the car across the street into the pharmacy parking lot. “I’ve got to call my mom, but why don’t you run in and get some whipped cream and chocolate syrup. We’ve got ice cream at home, and I thought we’d make our own sundaes and name them later.” She grinned. It was a pretty awesome idea. If there was something that was going to make me feel better, it was that.
When I was about to check out, my phone vibrated with a text from Jules: Pick me up some con
doms, please.
Seriously? Did she not remember how awkward I was?
I didn’t even really know what I was looking at. It didn’t make matters easier that every time someone came near me, I had to pretend I was looking at something else. I wondered if I should get the ones labeled ‘for her pleasure.’ That seemed kind of selfish to me, but then again, I doubted Jules needed any help for his pleasure. I settled on a purple box, purely for the packaging.
Loaded down with whipped cream, chocolate syrup, and a jumbo box of condoms, I went to stand in the only open line.
“Ms. Baxter, it’s a pleasure.” I turned and came face to face with my British literature professor. Mortification was written all over my face. It could be worse, I chanted in my head. I’m not sure how, but it could be.
“Hi, Dr. Griffith,” I murmured as politely as I could. His eyes crinkled as he smiled, and then he did the unthinkable. He noticed my three purchases. Being the polite gentleman of culture he was, he didn’t say anything, but he knew, and he knew I knew he knew.
I wanted to say, for the record, the chocolate syrup and whipped cream had no correlation to the condoms, but it wasn’t like I could bring that up. So I stood there, talking to my sixty-five-year-old professor, pretending I wasn’t buying contraception and dessert toppings. I was fairly certain my face was as red as a ripened tomato, and also that I would be dropping out of college.
CHAPTER 33
IT WAS GOOD news, right? It should have been. I should have been happy that the flattering words I’d presented on paper in the form of a resume had made someone actually want to hire me. It should have been a moment of relief. I’d been working for three-plus years to get a good job.
I’d been staring at my computer for over thirty minutes, trying to decipher what I should feel about the potential job offer. Decisions were hard, so I did what any emotionally stable, adult girl would do. I put the letter in the top drawer of my bedside table where I kept all the important stuff: car insurance papers, passport, and chips. I’d ignore it until the decision was easier. Maybe after a long, midafternoon nap I’d have a clear head and would be able to decide if this good thing was actually a good thing for me.
Unfortunately, as soon as I woke up, the thoughts of future employment bombarded me. Satisfaction swelled in my chest, but fear crippled my breathing. I now had a job offer.
I was confused about how to feel. My dad would be happy. Sherri would be happy. I should have been happy, but I wasn’t, at least it didn’t feel like I was.
Jules came in to me sulking on the couch, surrounded by pillows and food wrappers.
“Uh-oh,” she said while examining my garbage. “I would say this is breakup wallowing, but I was just at the fraternity house with Miles and Ben did not look like he’d died a slow painful death, so what is it?”
“I got offered a job.”
“What? Lex, that’s great!” Her fist pump in the air was a little much, but I appreciated the enthusiasm.
“It’s in Chicago,” I mumbled, watching her face drop.
“Well, you may have to expand your winter wardrobe,” she joked lightly.
Chicago was a long way away from Sparksville, seven hundred and sixteen miles to be exact. It would take over eleven hours to drive between the two, and I could not see myself enjoying that. Originally, when I’d applied for the job in Chicago at Sherri’s insistence, I had thought getting out of South Carolina would be a plus, at least for a few years.
Even though this job paid poorly, it still beat running a cash register or waiting tables for minimum wage. It was an internship, an assistant to the assistant position. I’d be getting coffee, filing papers, delivering mail, and any other task that fell to the bottom of the totem pole. It was technically in the literary field, though professional journalism had never been my ideal choice. Also, living in a big city would surely come with adventures.
I felt like I needed to take the job, mainly because I didn’t have any other prospects. I had no money of my own, no way to pay for the necessities of life. I had no plans. Every time I considered taking the assistant position, though, my chest hurt. That didn’t seem like promising employment to me.
I stared at the email, willing it to give me answers. If it had any, though, it was keeping them locked up. This job checked off three of my wants in the job category: be in the literary field, make money, and gain new experiences.
“Why aren’t you more excited about this?” Jules asked, examining me closely.
“I don’t think I want it,” I replied honestly.
She hummed. “Why not?”
“I just want to bloom,” I said in defeat.
“Bloom?” Jules typically tried to keep up with the trails of my varying thoughts, but I could tell she was having trouble understanding. I was having trouble explaining.
“Bloom, you know?” I repeated, as if those words were somehow more clear.
“No, I’m sorry. I’m not sure what you mean.”
“I. Want. To. Bloom.” A breath separated each word. “I want to grow, to sprout wings. Flourish. I don’t know what other word to use. I just want to bloom.”
Her face didn’t change. “Bloom?” she questioned again, her brow still furrowed in confusion.
“Yeah, bloom.”
“Okay, so assuming I get the metaphor, you’re forgetting something. Flowers don’t bloom all year. Give yourself an off season. Rest. Recover. Redirect. Bloom again.”
“I don’t want to have one season of growth and then die out, though. What if I take this job, move away, and it’s the wrong decision? What if I never write anything or do anything worth doing? And what if I stay and then Ben breaks up with me and I’m dying to get out of this state?
“I can’t plan my life around a boy. What happens if the relationship ends? What am I supposed to do? Call Chicago and say, ‘Hey, excuse me, I made a terrible mistake putting my trust in a boy who is known for having multiple casual relationships, so could you please ignore my stupidity and hire me to get your coffee?’ Even if I am pathetic enough to make that call, I have some serious doubts they’d be willing to hire me.”
My best friend waited for my breathing to even out before she responded. “Maybe you’re right.” Okay, I didn’t want to hear that. My flinch told her so, and she shrugged. “I can’t predict the future. Maybe you’ll be together another month. Maybe another year. Maybe you’ll get married and have kids and live happily ever after. I don’t know. I can’t tell you what will happen to prevent you from making a mistake, because I don’t know, but I do know that any day you don’t choose your happiness is a mistake. Maybe that’s Chicago. Maybe that’s Ben. Or maybe it’s Ben for now but not later. People change. You’re afraid of him leaving you, but you could just as easily be the one to decide you don’t want a future. Happiness is a revolving emotion. It changes. We don’t know the future, but every time we don’t choose to follow our joy, that’s when we make mistakes.”
She was on her way to her room when she turned back. “And since we’re talking about gardening here, you know there are complementary flowers you plant next to each other so both can prosper. You’ve bloomed this year, Lex. You’re this bright, beautiful flower, and even if you grow a little taller or open a little fuller, he’s not going to stand in front of you and block your sun. Sometimes, in this world, we’re loved for the wrong things, loved when we aren’t really known, and sometimes when we’re truly known, we’re not loved. It happens.” She shrugged, making me think this wasn’t the first time she’d thought about this. “This generation discards perfections, so to find someone who loves you when they really know you, inside and out, that’s the closest thing we get to pure happiness.”
CHAPTER 34
THE SPRING WEATHER had brought the students of Dixie College out of hibernation. Jules and I were sitting in the sun in the courtyard of campus, next to the engineering buildings, waiting for Ben to be finished with his late class. The small picnic area was overrun with students,
so I didn’t notice Hillary until she was right in front of me, blocking the sun.
“Lex, Jules.” She greeted us with more of a sneer than a smile. “What are you two doing on this side of campus?” she asked with a toss of her hair over her shoulder. I wondered if there were some kind of mean girl school that taught girls how to do that. It was seriously an art form. Perhaps they offered an online class for it.
Granted, we didn’t usually hang out there because our classes bordered the east side of campus, but she knew we were there for Ben, so the words rubbed me the wrong way, like porcupine needles in your undies kind of wrong way.
“Just waiting for Ben,” I answered in a sugary sweet voice my mother would have been proud of.
She scoffed. “I don’t know why you even bother—he’s just going to find another girl when he’s had his fill.”
I stood, coming eye to eye with her. It pleased me that I was taller.
“He’s mine,” I declared, stabbing my pointer finger into her chest. We’d caught the attention of the courtyard, students stopping to see the argument unfold. People with nothing better to do gathered closer to be part of the drama. Hillary thrived on it.
“For now.” She shrugged, pushing my hand away. “He’s still at the early stages—holding hands, long make-out sessions, whispering he loves you over and over again.”
I stilled at that, because Ben hadn’t told me, let alone repeated it. That one word, the one I longed for, had never fallen from his lips no matter how many times I’d wished for it.
Words are described as both fruit and poison, and now I got that. I’d thought when I heard Ben and love in the same sentence, it would be fruit, sweet delicious fruit for a starved heart, but when she said those words, all I could hear was him saying it to her. All that came to mind was peanuts. Salty goodness, a beloved snack—for most. But me? I was allergic, and they were poison.
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