But it was unpleasantly different now. We definitely would not be resting on the grass together. And unfortunately, I wouldn’t feel his fingers on my skin. And neither would he be whispering in my ear. And now I would never stop wondering if our little rituals had turned into theirs.
Still standing, debating how to proceed, twiddling my thumbs in the process, I heard him say in a wry manner, “Are you going to sit down?”
His off-hand tone made me grin, in spite of myself. “Bossy,” I pressed back, taking a seat on the bench and then brushing the non-existent lint off the front of my jeans. “So,” I pushed on, “how are things going with you?”
“They’re going,” he answered after leaning over and plucking a little dead stem from the ground.
“Did you know I decided to go back to school?”
With a light, careless attitude, he responded, “Is that right?” He sat fully relaxed with his legs spread out, which for some reason fed the little flame already working inside me. The longer I stared at him and the longer his attention remained on the innocent little stem in his fingers, the harder it was to tamper the flame. Right then I realized I was done with the proverbial bush beating and suddenly ready to have a few questions answered.
“So how long did it take to get over me?” I found myself asking, trying to copy his same careless manner.
His face twisted into a sneer. “You never were the subtle type.”
“A few weeks?”
He leisurely shook his head, either not wanting to answer or not wanting to have this particular conversation altogether.
“It’s okay, you can tell me. I want to know the truth. A month? Two? And then what, you decided to ask the first girl you met to marry you?”
He kept his attention on the busy blade of straw weaving through his fingers. “Your second false assumption.”
“So you’re not getting married?” I challenged.
“I am.”
Outwardly I allowed no emotion to show. Inwardly I cringed, the dart landing right on the jealousy mark. “When exactly?”
“Already told you.” And the little blade of grass went into his mouth like a toothpick.
Into his mouth! Like a toothpick! Like he could care less!
“Already told you,” I mimicked back like a four-year-old. If I had been watching the scene from afar, I would have fell down laughing. The response was completely ridiculous coming from a grown woman; I was so lame around him.
No laughter came from Nick, which probably meant he was also thinking I was lame. It almost looked like his lips were fighting a smile, though. But the look didn’t last and not a second later, he said, “Knock it off, Heather.”
Though his words were a command, his tone was relaxed, almost as though we were still together, still intimate, still able to squabble and play, and then kiss and make up. Instead of consoling me, it burned.
“Do you live with her?” I was ashamed of myself, but all the more relieved to finally get answers to all the questions plaguing my mind over the last few weeks.
“Where are you living now?” he said in response to my question. “With your guy-friend?”
I shrugged.
“You married yet?” he followed up.
That unhinged me.
I knew it wasn’t fair to start springing blunt questions right in his face, and one part of me said, You started it. Now cool it before you lose it. But the other, more vigorous part said, It’s too late, you’re already flipping irritated. I tried to hold my tongue, knowing my next comment was a once idle thought gone discarded. But it was no use, and out came, “You’re just like every other pickle-head. You thought I dumped you and your pride couldn’t handle it so you went out and grabbed the first girl who showed the slightest bit of interest. And you have the nerve to ask if I’m getting married?”
He gnawed on the blade of grass while absorbing my words, and then finally said, “Pickle-head, huh?”
With a stiff attitude, my back turned away from him. But if it hadn’t, I might have seen rather than sensed the twitch of his lips, and might have known rather than felt that it was the first time in months someone had sparked his humor.
But I was too angry to care, recalling how he used to be able to drive me crazy on a whim. I wanted to pummel him!
Conveniently, the tip of his forefinger was right there, nudging my chin. “Look at me, Heather,” he insisted.
And that’s when I smacked his hand away. “Don’t ever touch me again,” I exclaimed.
His splutter of laughter turned me fully to him. “Or what?” His eyes glistened with something close to satisfaction.
“Or I’ll…I’ll…fight back!”
“Will you?” He looked as if he was about to laugh outright.
“Stop it!” I roared. Stop acting like your old self! The memories were still too painful to revisit. And this was an old, appealing habit of his: to find my temper amusing. He still knew how to provoke me, all right. “And stop saying my name,” I demanded as an afterthought; his voice alone was driving me over the edge. I recognized with discouraged certainty that my feelings for him had only intensified since I’d been in the coma, intertwined between love and hate.
And even though we were doing something close to fighting, I couldn’t help but feel a rush of joy. It was reviving, glorious. His expressions were as entrancing as they used to be, and his smallest touch still gave me a surge of pleasure, and he was so much man to handle, and I was with him again, talking to him, a part of his life—though what part was the unspoken question.
As I found myself wondering how one person could divide us so absolutely, pain began seeping through my shell of anger, and my joy quickly faded. “Why did you invite me here anyway? To pick a fight with me? To upset me? To—”
“To invite you to a banquet,” he broke in. My head turned toward his unexpected reply. “I won an award,” he continued after a while, “for something I built. And since you were the inspiration behind it, I thought you should come.”
“What did you build?” I asked, instantly sobered.
“Just some final project for school; like a thesis paper for architecture majors. And it’s being featured at a banquet next weekend.”
Though still curious about the project, I asked instead, “What kind of banquet?”
“Every year the architecture department throws an awards banquet to honor the grad students.”
“What about your fiancé?” The words slipped out, poison to my lips.
“She’s going too. We’ll pick you up.”
My face turned horrified. “I don’t think so,” I cried in disbelief.
“Don’t be stubborn, Heather. It’s fine. Paige knows I’m inviting you. I’ll pick you up first if you want.”
How my look of utter disbelief could make him chuckle, especially in light of the situation, was beyond me. His own easy response was what compelled me to take it down a notch and ask, “Don’t you think that’s a little weird? The ex-girlfriend has shotgun while the fiancé’s in the backseat?”
“Do you want to go with someone else then?”
What I wanted to do was pinch myself to be sure this conversation was really happening. Was I actually having a rational conversation with Nick about me, him, and his fiancé? Who was named Paige. A name I would now never consider for a future child!
At the same time, another not-so-petty part of me wanted to simply support him. Of course, everything he did meant life to me, literally. He played so central a role there. But I had to be realistic; I could barely stand to listen to him say her name, let alone tag along on their date, see them sit together, watch him hold her hand like he used to hold mine. It went deeper than a simple ‘ouch’, even deeper than an ache, past tears, past being past feeling. It was feeling everything at once: love, hate, jealousy, guilt, confusion, all bouncing in my head until a headache formed. A fun way to spend an evening.
“Will you come?”
He wanted me there; he wouldn’t have
asked otherwise. And besides, I was tired of mediating the hostility between my head and my heart.
“All right.”
*******
Naps on my little green hillside were becoming habitual for me; especially since lately I was always fatigued. In conjunction with my afternoon rests, I’d pay a visit to Teacher Jerry’s counseling office. Sometimes I’d get lucky and find him there.
“Afternoon, Professor. What am I interrupting?” The door closed slowly.
“You’re never an interruption!” His papers were placed to the side. “Come, have a seat.”
“He invited me to a banquet,” the conversation started that fast. “And I told him I’d come. But now I’m having second thoughts.
“And he was so carefree and casual with me at the park. What does that mean? Does he really not care anymore? Was it so easy for him to let go of all those feelings from the past? Is it really over, just like that? Seriously, I’m now wondering if he ever felt anything for me.
“But then there were moments at the park where I felt like we were back in the past, and it was just like it used to be. The way he looked at me, for instance. So deeply at times. Or how he felt at my cheek, like he wanted to touch me as much as I wanted him to. Is he hiding behind some careless façade just to protect everyone involved? Would we be back together if she wasn’t in the picture? Or is it really over? Ugh, I’m just…ugh…sorry, I’m rambling. I’m just not sure if it’s such a good idea to go. What if I can’t handle it?”
“I see. That is a bit of a dilemma, isn’t it?”
“What I really want to do, if I’m being brutally honest, is go to the banquet and steal the show. Beat her out! I want to walk in there and make him wish I was his fiancé instead of her!”
“Yes, I can see how—”
“Say all the right amusing, witty, intriguing things. I want to have him tongue tied, speechless, falling over his own feet.”
“Well, that would be—”
“Wipe that ready-fake smile off his face and make him feel a type of hunger that he’s never felt before! I want him to—”
“Aren’t we getting a little ahead of ourselves?”
The wind settled the sails when the daydream was broken into. “Sorry.” It was a whisper compared to the enthusiasm in the previous words. “Sometimes I get a little carried away when it comes to him.” Thankfully, there were no fronts with Professor. One could be themselves and go unjudged and understood. “I do know that’s wrong, isn’t it? You don’t have to answer, Professor. I know it’s wrong to think like that.”
“Now wait a minute,” Professor lifted a halting hand. “Let’s back up here. If you’ll permit, perhaps I might point out the error in your logic with a quick, little story?”
“I can do stories. As long as they have happy endings.”
“Once upon a time there was a couple. Their names were Adam and Eve. You’re grinning. You know this story?”
“Professor.” A joint chuckle.
“Now if you recall, Eve had a pretty difficult dilemma too. Eat the forbidden fruit and be cast down to Earth, or leave it alone and remain where she was. Well, you know how it goes.”
“Yeah. She took a bite.”
He agreed with a knowing nod.
“And was punished for it.”
“Yes, well, I believed the benefits outweighed the punishment,” he confirmed.
“Professor? You’re not advising me to do what’s wrong?”
“It’s never right to do wrong. What I’m challenging you to do is be honest with yourself. You say you’re right for each other. It’s not yet too late to find out if that’s true.”
“But what about her?”
“Some good, honest competition is not a bad thing. You, of all people, should know that.”
*******
Paying attention in Health class was impossible when my mind was bombarded with all the ideas Liz was presenting on how to get Nick back. It wouldn’t be easy, doing things in such a way to get him to let down that thick, apathetic guard of his. One point was on my side however, I’d had a lot of practice in the past.
“Not that I really care, but can you think of anything else you might know about them?” I petitioned Liz when we broke into partner discussions.
“Not that you care,” Liz’s eyebrows grew as if to tease me, “But, okay, let’s see. I’m pretty sure I’ve mentioned everything I know about them. She’s a tennis player, and I remember at the time seeing Nick playing basketball a lot, so they probably met by the field house. Once in a while I’d see them playing tennis together when I’d come to campus to exercise. Oh, I think her dad’s some famous, local heart surgeon or something like that. Um…thinking…thinking…”
I tried and succeeded avoiding the picture of them playing tennis together. And I reminded myself to eat a candy bar later as reward. “How long do you think they’ve known each other?”
“My best guess is that they met a little over a year ago. That’s when I first saw them together. After that, I’d see them around town once in a while. But I think we’ve talked through all the details of every time I saw them. Where they were, what they were doing…”
“I know, I know. I just thought you might have left something out.”
“Okay.” Liz got up unexpectedly, stormed toward the door and pretended to leave, and then walked back to her chair and sat. “We share clothes, money, I always tell you when you’re having a good hair day, do you really think I’m going to keep even the smallest detail from you?”
I laughed sportingly, and then pretended to cough when our teacher ordered the class to stop fooling around and get to work. “Okay, you’re right,” I whispered. “It doesn’t matter anyway. I just need to think all of this through.”
“I’ve thought a lot about it too,” Liz said in a serious tone, going into ‘The Thinker’ pose. I held in another laugh. “Here’s what you’re going to do. You’re going to storm into that banquet room shaking it like there’s no tomorrow and looking so hot that every guy in the room won’t be able to keep his eyes off you, including Nick.”
I caught my lower lip between my teeth.
“Don’t give me that innocent look,” Liz said. “You know that’s exactly what you want to do.”
“Yeah, and in my head it goes down perfectly every time. But in the real world it never happens like that. And I don’t think Nick has ever seen me try to act that loose. He knows I’m not the flirty type.”
“Extra credit, baby! He won’t know what’s come over him. You need to infiltrate their relationship until she’s ancient history and you’re all he can think about.”
Oh, wow. If I was going to pull this off, I’d need Liz there in the trenches with me, reminding my why I was compromising my standards, participating in this risky game, and aiming to steal back my old boyfriend while ruining another girl’s dreams in the process. Never had I done something so shameless. “This is wrong, Liz.”
“So is losing what you two had together. Now come on, all is fair in love and war. Everyone knows that. It would be different if they were married. But they’re not. For the love of Pete, they haven’t even known each other for more than a year. And engagements are called off every day. I think I remember hearing somewhere that it happens to over twenty percent of all engagements.”
Liz could tell that her lecture was having sway. And that’s probably why a spark of victory fell in her eyes when she said, “I’m game. What about you?”
Liz’s words cracked open the door to my memory and something Nick once said. It was during one of our first dates and he was giving me a hard time about the promise ring on my finger, given to me by Creed. “If you’re not married,” he had said, “you’re fair game in my book.” The memory infused a little drop of hope in my soul, the cloud of darkness dispelling for the briefest moment.
Liz was leaning into me, waiting for my response. “Well?”
The long-ago words tugged on my will, and with tender conviction I res
ponded, “Game on.”
*******
As it turned out, the School of Architecture had extended banquet invitations to all the alumni faculty, including former adjunct teachers. Which meant Creed’s roommate, Peter was also invited. And since he didn’t have a date, I offered Liz as a stand in. Though at the moment I was wondering if that had been a wise move on my part, considering the effect Peter and Liz were having on my pent up and current state of anxiety.
Creed and I were in front trying to carry on a relaxing conversation, but the nonsensical debate in the backseat was compromising our efforts.
“Women all around the world are hating on you right now,” I heard Peter say to Liz.
“I’m not saying that women are inferior to men,” Liz explained. “We’re actually the superior gender. We mature faster, we have higher IQ’s, we’re cleaner, we have stronger immune systems, we live longer, and even in the womb we develop at a faster rate. Oh, and we’re born healthier too.”
“If you believe what you say, and statistics do prove most of it, why wouldn’t you want a female pilot?”
“Because along with our overabundance of superior qualities, we are emotional. And if the plane I’m on is about to crash, the pilot better suck it up, keep their wits about them, think only mechanics, and land that piece of tin safely on the ground. Between a man and a woman, a man would do a better job at that.”
“I beg to differ,” Peter stated. “First off, the dynamics of a plane are such that it can practically lands itself by gliding in. Second, I’ve known several female pilots who would keep their heads on straight during an emergency landing.”
“I feel the same way about firefighters,” Liz continued to quarrel. “If I’m asphyxiating on the top floor of a burning building, a large, strong person of the male variety better lug me over his broad shoulder and carry me to safety.”
“You are the first female male chauvinist I’ve met.”
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