by Ellie Hall
At last, when the teacher has the good grace to move us into the final resting pose, splayed on our backs, she whispers, “Inner peace, inner peace.”
I tilt my head in her direction. I don’t know why, but a faint smile crests my lips. It could be because I routinely have to talk to myself in the final resting pose. Usually, my chant is something like, Don’t fall asleep. Don’t fall asleep.
I feel eyes on me. Like when you’re in a car and look over at the passing vehicle and the driver happens to be looking at you—it’s like a sixth sense.
Catherine’s brown eyes are dark in the low light. My heart thunders in my chest even though we’ve done the cooldown.
I loop my pinky finger around hers and squeeze. This was always our thing. As we continue to rest, I take another one of her fingers and then another. More and more I want to make her mine.
The pinky side of my right hand tingles. It’s like she tattooed her name there.
It’s a dot that connects to her arm where I’d gripped it. To her waist where I lassoed her from imminent peril, involving ice and a bus.
A dot that connects to her heart.
My hand still tingles when we press our palms together and say, Namaste. It still tingles after I get dressed. It tingles when Hazel, Maxwell, Catherine, and I step onto the street.
The four of us make small talk for a moment.
“So, what brought you to the PR firm?” Maxwell asks.
“You mean Albright, Rat, Carlotta, and Associates?”
Maxwell practically chokes on a sip of water. “Rat?”
“Bratte. I meant, Bratte,” Catherine says, fighting between laughter and embarrassment.
The seal breaks and I burst into laughter, pleased she saw me mouth the word when we were at the office.
“Necessity,” Catherine answers after catching her breath. “Why?”
“I have a client that could use an image overall.” Maxwell’s nostrils flare with annoyance. Must be a rich bad boy he has to deal with.
Maxwell has his eyes on Hazel. Hazel bats her lashes at him.
“Dinner?” Catherine asks.
“Starved,” I reply.
“I wasn’t—”
Blinking as if coming out of a trance, Hazel cuts her off. “There is a great farm to table restaurant around the corner. Local, well relatively since this is a city. Shall we?”
Catherine glares at Hazel. Either, she’s not over my surprise appearance at the yoga class, or her friend isn’t acknowledging her dietary preferences. She’s more of a grilled cheese and French fries kind of person. Well, she was.
“Unexpectedly, I have to catch a flight first thing in the morning,” Maxwell says. “Got to jet, but I’ll take a raincheck.” He smiles vaguely at Catherine, but Hazel owns his lingering gaze.
After saying goodnight, we robotically follow Hazel two blocks to a low lit and intimate establishment. Hazel must know the owner because we’re whisked directly inside. Hazel excuses herself to the ladies’ room...then doesn’t come back.
“That sneak. She set us up,” Catherine mutters.
We browse the menu attached to a cedar plank.
“They don’t have grilled cheese,” I say low.
“Just things with truffle butter, Asiago, and sirloin.”
The server rattles off the specials and soon our drinks arrive.
Although Catherine doesn’t seem too pleased that I joined her for dinner, her eyes sparkle. Unfortunately, those sparkling eyes hardly spare a glance in my direction.
“Does Maxwell count as one of your dates?” I ask her.
“Yep. Just want to get this over with.”
“And the results?”
“Pending.”
“Right now? You and me. Dinner?”
“Necessity,” she says, echoing the reason she took the job with Rat. But I detect the hint of amusement on her lips.
It’s been two days since the yoga class and all I can think about is Catherine’s dimple when she smiles. How she used to always smile before my sister, half the school, and I humiliated her by not letting her know that my idiot best friend—her boyfriend—was cheating on her, a lot.
I’ve carried the regret of the past to boot camp, brought it into relationships, overseas, to war, back home, and even now with every beat of my determined heart.
All this time, I’ve had her number. Couldn’t bring myself to call. Mostly because I knew I’d face the same rejection I’d forced upon her. When she changed it, all I had to do was ask her mom for the new one. I don’t know if Mrs. Kittredge knew everything that happened between us. But she must have known my intentions were honest otherwise she wouldn’t have given it to me. I’ve nearly pressed dial a thousand times over the years.
I can’t erase the disappointment in her eyes, in the way she faded into her armor, into anger and hurt.
She was brave. I was a coward, even as I fought for our country.
When I saw her the other day, I almost didn’t recognize her shadowed, sad face, but then she flashed that dimple. I knew I had to fix things. It appeared when I squeezed her finger, took her hand. She needs to know she didn’t do anything wrong. It was all me. All stupid, jerk face me.
I don’t expect her to forgive me, but I’ll try. Saying a weak, I’m sorry for the hundredth time won’t do it. Even if she found happiness with Maxwell or one of her other dates, she deserves to be free of the burden we share.
If I know Catherine Eloise Kittredge and I do, or at least did, I know she wants to be loved and adored. She deserves to be—whoever she ends up with. She should be treated like a princess and a queen. She’s smart, beautiful, creative, and everything losers like Zach and I don’t deserve—not that I’d ever cheat.
I never had a long-term girlfriend in high school or college and that was to distract me from who I couldn’t have. Meaningless dates were easier than to long for the girl who could never be mine.
While I was in Europe, I learned I prefer a quiet night in, a warm fire, maybe a movie, a game of cards...
If any of my brothers or buddies caught me right now, sitting alone in a café, daydreaming like this, they’d have the laugh of their lives. Likely, they’re off the south coast of France, in the Caribbean, or on the slopes, waiting for a snow bunny or two. Why wasn’t I with them?
Because a girl named Catherine won my heart.
What I want more than anything is to help rid Catherine of the shadows in hers. She has one foot in the past—I’ve known her most of my life and saying she’s stubborn is an understatement. And a good thing too. She wouldn’t let us go swimming during a lightning storm one summer. Three trees caught fire that could have been three Connolly boys. She petitioned and picketed when developers wanted to build a brand new high school, demolishing the historic one for condos. It turns out it was attached to a Native American burial site, and she saved a beautiful old building and sacred land. Despite everything that happened during her senior year, she offered the most beautiful and moving words at my sister’s funeral.
It’s time she lives her life, without pain and guilt—and me if she wants, but first I have to make it right.
Whoever she falls in love with is a lucky man. I’ve dreamed and fantasized about being with her more times than is decent. I imagine the feel of her skin under my fingers, her lips on mine. It’s always her.
But she hates me.
I don’t blame her. I’m not a good person.
Over the years, when my sister’s death and my sudden departure into the military comes up in conversation, people try to explain it away. It was a lot to deal with. Overwhelming tragedy and so on.
They don’t know the full story. I know without a doubt that Catherine hates me. But what I learned during my time in the Marines, reinforced by the years in between, and in the wisdom passed along to me from Grandma Connolly before she passed away, is that hate only hurts the person who hates.
I don’t like the fact that she despises me, but more than anything, it’s
taking away from her happiness. Sucking away her energy and keeping that dimpled smile from her face. I don’t want her to feel that way.
I don’t mean to sound arrogant. She doesn’t have to love me or like me even, but I want her to have closure. To know that I was stupid, not her. She wasn’t at fault even though I know she carries the burden of guilt. I don’t want her to avoid holiday gatherings back home because of me. Or the clambakes in the summer when she visits her parents.
I click on my phone with my thumb hovering over the call button. I’ve come this close so many times. I have to man up. We’re in the same city. We’ve run into each other repeatedly...
Without making the call, I walk back to the claustrophobia-inducing Airbnb I’m renting while in town for meetings. I’m making it my mission to help relieve Catherine of the things that keep her from smiling that amazing dimpled smile.
After grabbing a container of leftovers from the fridge, I turn on Sports Center, glancing at my phone every few minutes.
I lay down on the crisp sheets with my thoughts whirling with what-ifs, maybes, and that brave moment when I squeezed her hand in the near dark.
She doesn’t have a Facebook page, never has. She dropped out of touch with my brothers and the people we knew back in high school. At family get-togethers, my mother has gleaned from hers that she’s still single, much to Mrs. Kittredge’s disappointment.
Once more, my finger hovers over the call button. I can’t bring myself to do it. I don’t want to ruin her night, inspire more anger, or keep her from sleeping.
Instead, I lay there in bed, sad, alone, and thinking about how to fix this.
I want her to have closure, but I’m a Marine. A romantic one at that. I won’t give up without a fight. A sweet, gentle Valentine’s Day Date Double Dare-worthy fight.
Blogs and Sausages
Catherine
It’s not too late when I return to the apartment, but Hazel isn’t here. I sink onto my bed. Glimpsing myself in the mirror, a smile spreads across my lips, lighting up my dark eyes.
I can’t predict the future or that Hazel and Maxwell will someday walk down the aisle, but there was something about the way they looked at each other. My hand lifts to my mouth with shock, slapping a little too hard. “Ow.” Remind me not to slap someone unless I mean it. Not that I endorse violence, but sheesh.
What I sensed in the look Hazel and Maxell exchanged was familiar because it was the same one I’d shared with Kellan countless times. It was the look that prompted us to make a crazy decision that would’ve changed our lives forever. Instead...well, our lives changed forever.
Like little fireflies blinking in and out of my vision in the dim room, the hurt that morphed to anger that I’ve carried for so long flickers.
“For years, I felt like my life was ruined because of what happened that fateful night, but then I might not know Hazel. My parents may have disowned me. So much could’ve gone wrong.”
Mew rubs against my legs. I crouch and pat him. “Never thought about it that way.”
He burrs as if in agreement.
“Now, about your mommy. She and Maxwell seem like they could have something more than a fling. I’m going to give it my best shot. If my best friend can get me onto the dating scene, I can get her into the relationship scene.”
After tucking under the covers and closing my eyes, instead of drifting off to sleep, Kellan’s chiseled jawline, the perfect balance of rugged and polished good looks floats into my mind like that resting pose at the yoga class. His sly, knowing smile lingers, teasing. Taunting.
I groan in frustration. If only I could erase his face from the whiteboard of my mind. If I could delete everything that happened. A wave goodbye—see you never. But to do that would require the use of my lips and my hand and it’s like he marked me with his touch in the coffee shop, at the yoga class...before that.
I can’t pine over Kellan. I won’t allow it.
I open the box of high school memories and dig around for my yearbooks. Finding the one from junior year when Kellan graduated, I flip to the Cs. With a permanent marker, I blackout a few of his teeth, give him an eyepatch, draw some stink lines, and add a wart to the end of his nose. Then for good measure, I circle his photo and then draw a line through it.
“That’s better,” I huff and toss the book back toward the box, but it glances off the side. As I reconfigure the contents, the spiral wire end of The Boyfriend Book stabs my finger.
“Figures.”
Memories of Claire pinch the corners of my eyes. She went a little boy crazy and dragged me along for the ride. I open to the first page. She was head over heels for Mikey Dunlap. He needed to floss. Then it was Adam Edmonton. He fell asleep during Mrs. Smythe’s health lecture and started drooling. After that, she moved onto Noah Finnigan and he broke it off when a senior asked him to the prom. Turned out to be a joke. Claire’s boyfriend, the driver, is dead too.
I wipe my eyes. I didn’t have my first kiss until eighth grade and that was with my best friend’s brother during an ill-advised game of truth or dare. Yes, Kellan was my first kiss. Maybe I should go a little boy crazy and take up Hazel’s dare for real.
In a rush of exhausted frustration and determination, I open my laptop. The Boyfriend Book Blog. Yes, I’ll recount the experience of date number one, etching it in digital ink with the hope that it will delete Kellan’s presence from my mind.
After a tutorial and a few false starts, I create a blog.
Worthy of a scene from one of my favorite novels, I explain the dare and skim over the date with Maxwell, leaving out the part about his interest in Hazel. This brings me back to the couple’s class and Kellan on his mat next to me.
“Go,” I whisper. “Get lost.”
Something silky-soft brushes my ankle followed by a meow. “Not you, Mew,” I say, picking up the cat and scratching behind his ears. “I was talking to this stupid guy I’ve had a crush on since I was old enough to know what a crush was. You know what? He turned out to be not so great. I’ve heard him belch. I’ve watched him pig out on nachos, talk with his mouth full. I’ve seen him sick, sad, tired. I practically grew up with him. I’ve seen enough to know he can be a jerk. Mew, never, ever date a jerk...or the cat equivalent.”
When I realize I’m talking to the cat again, I turn back to the computer. Then I make a list. I’m a world-class, A+ list maker. But mine aren’t ordinary, bullet-point lists; they’re detailed with pros, cons, intricacies that assist in decision making and action. Sometimes they involve a Venn diagram. I should probably make one to find a replacement for my current employment situation. (Note to self.)
I open The Boyfriend Book and copy down a system Claire made to assess our crushes. I type up the ABCs: appearance, behavior, and connection. It turns into more of a summary but helps me put Kellan out of my mind. Sort of.
Date #1 The Hottie in 7G (name changed for privacy)
Appearance: fit, tan, chiseled features, brown hair, and a drool-inducing physique usually covered up in a three-piece suit and tie befitting his investment banker status, a near-perfect 10.
Behavior: charming, confident, respectful, engaging conversationalist.
Connection: minimal. Not exactly my type and vice versa. That’s okay. It was a learning experience.
Overall: Exceptional but better suited for someone else.
I go a little deeper into the sort-of date, scanning my mind for details the way Claire obsessed over her crushes. When Maxwell was in downward dog at yoga, I noticed he had incredibly tight hamstrings. While talking, it also seemed like he was looking over my shoulder, scanning the room for someone...someone like Hazel.
I write these down in a notes section of the summary. If I’m going to involve myself fully in Hazel’s dare—going on several dates leading up to potentially spending Valentine’s Day with one of these guys—, I need a system to keep track of each of them. Lucky for me, I co-created one back in junior high school.
The most important pa
rt of Claire’s assessments was the star rating. For a first date, I’d say it was four point five stars, but if I’m looking for the perfect date, then it’s only right to count a few detractors: he’s a well-dressed professional and we’re neighbors, which complicates things.
I tap out four and a half asterisks next to his name. I tilt my head, feeling the overall aesthetic is lacking, especially when compared to Claire’s perfect five-pointed stars in The Boyfriend Book.
I fool around on Photoshop, creating gold stars. The blog should have a proper banner at the top. I get carried away creating one for the Boyfriend Book Blog in soft navy blue and gold with a touch of pink to underscore the Valentine’s Day component.
I write up a brief explanation of Hazel’s dare for me to date the first five—no four—guys I saw the day after we moved into our apartment. I emphasize the dating dry spell and how this was a clean slate.
In a questionable brainwave, mostly because of the late hour, I invite readers to vote for the best guy, like my own little version of The Bachelorette. I’m loyal to the Bachelor, and won’t deny watching every season. I’ve never missed an episode of the Bachelorette either.
I scrape together a bio: college graduate, an assistant at a PR firm, living with her best friend and a cat. Not exactly the New York City dream, but I’m not in my parents’ basement. Yet.
I lean back in my chair. I don’t know what my dream was. Is. Could be.
There is so much well-meaning encouragement for people to their follow dreams. However vivid they once were or whatever they are now, I can’t remember them in the morning.
I wake just after dawn to the beeping of something that isn’t my alarm clock. The first thing I see is my sleeping computer screen, and when I peel my cheek from the keyboard, it lights up to The Boyfriend Book Blog page revealing how I spent the wee hours.
