What's a Soulmate?

by Lindsey Ouimet

  I take a step back, stopping only when I feel the bumper hit the back of my legs. They drive away, and I’m left standing here in a parking lot, in a stupid dress I never should have taken the time to even think about wearing.

  Chapter Eighteen

  So this is the part where I go on and on about what life is like after being blown off. Right? I talk about wandering around in a haze and not being able to eat or sleep. And like, I don’t know, stalking him online and calling his number over and over only to hang up. Right?

  Well, I don’t even have his phone number and it’s not like he had a friend request waiting in his inbox on FriendSpace from me when he got home. So those are out. And the wandering around in a haze thing. Is it really all so different from the haze I’ve been in for the last couple of months? Not really. Now I’m sad on top of confused and scatter-brained. And my sleep is about the same. That’s to say, the amount I’m getting? Still not enough. The quality of it? Sub-par at best. So no real change there either. I am happy to say my appetite hasn’t been affected. If anything, I’ve actually managed to up the number of toppings added to my weekly intake of froyo.

  But yeah, despite my new and impressive use of almost every available topping at Frenchie’s, everything kind of… Well, it kind of sucks.

  It’s ridiculous and I’ve tried to talk myself out of this funk, but saying something shouldn’t matter and actually being able to convince myself it doesn’t are two very different things.

  I even try the route of reminding myself that while this thing might have started off as a way to prove to myself the person the cosmos saw fit to stick me with was more than some common criminal, that’s not the way it ended. It became about much more than only me and my potentially—okay, definitely—wounded pride. Something bigger than me.

  So yeah, it began as an almost completely selfish act and ended—oh God, ended—it sounds so final—in something not entirely, but I’d like to think mostly, selfless. So I shouldn’t make that ending about me, should I? I accomplished what I wanted to. I proved to myself Drew is so much more than a boy in a jumpsuit heading to a room behind bars. And I’ve, I’d like to think in maybe a round-about way, helped to get him out from behind them.

  So I should be okay with this. I should be. I want to be.

  It was never about my happily ever after.

  But it’s hard. Because if I’m happy with the person my Soulmate actually ends up being … even if I’m happy to be proven wrong for once … it doesn’t really matter when it’s all followed up with a heaping helping of rejection. It can really turn that whole ‘mostly selfless’ ending into something that feels extremely personal and absolutely about me.

  So yes. Long story, short.

  I wander about in a haze. And I don’t get much sleep.

  Oh, and I take that awful dress and give it to my mother even though her birthday is still a month away. I’m almost positive I never want to see it again.

  My dad worries about me, and is very vocal about the fact. My mother worries just as much, but lets me wallow a bit. I think maybe she understands the rejection part a lot more than my father does, and I appreciate that. Beth goes about her normal routine. I could not be more grateful because, no—I really don’t want to talk about it.

  One week passes by, and then another. I do the school thing, go to the prom committee meetings on Wednesdays, and spend a lot of time hanging out at the library when Beth’s on the clock. I don’t bother her, but having her close makes me feel better somehow.

  There’s this huge window with an overstuffed armchair beside it on the second floor where I waste most of the early afternoon hours. It doesn’t look out over anything spectacular, half of the parking lot and the tennis courts of the recreation department next door. I sit there, riveted, regardless.

  It’s through this window that I watch the last signs of winter slowly fade away. The branches on the trees are starting to fill in with leaves and it feels like the world is suddenly filled with every shade of green imaginable. I try to count them one day, but the sun shining through the glass makes my eyes tear up and I keep losing my place.

  I also find out during a week straight of rain how even seeing them in color doesn’t make mud puddles appealing.

  I take my dad dinner on Friday afternoons. I don’t forget the drinks anymore. If I never step foot into the room with the vending machines in it again, I’ll be perfectly okay with that. There’s an almost awkward encounter with Officer McElroy when I’m on my way to the ladies room, but I duck around a corner in time to miss her and the inevitable look of pity, sympathy, or whatever I want to call it that she’s bound to give me.

  ****

  My phone is going nuts.

  I’m sitting in our weekly prom committee meeting, the third since what I’ve come to think of as That Day. And my phone is ringing for the fifth time in as many minutes. Since we’re really getting down to the wire and have only just decided on our theme—Old School Hollywood—thanks to a suggestion from yours truly, Taryn’s really starting to rule these meetings with an iron fist. I don’t dare reach into my bag for fear of having my head bitten off—in the nicest way possible because, let’s face it, she really is one of the most insistent, but nicest, people I’ve ever met.

  Oddly enough, if there’s one thing actually helping to keep my mind off Drew, it’s been this stupid committee. Since I tossed out the idea for a Hollywood-themed dance, I’ve thrown myself into making it the best damned Hollywood-themed dance that ever has and ever will be. I’m talking film reels, a fancy schmancy marquee above the entryway, photographers hired as paparazzi for the ‘red’ carpet that will be decidedly gray instead, feathers, roses, and glitter. Was there an abundance of glitter in Hollywood’s ‘hey day’? Hell if I know, but it seems to be a running theme with school dances so why not?

  The meeting’s called to an end, but I manage to get so caught up in a conversation about, of all things, feather boas, I almost forget all about the racket my phone’s been making for the last half hour. So, in an effort to remind me, of course it starts to buzz as soon as I settle into the driver’s seat to head home. I dig it out of my purse and see the text is short enough it shows in full on the notification screen.

  Beth: Woman. Check your inbox.

  I slide my finger across the screen to unlock it and tap on the messages icon. The one with a nice, red seven on top of it. All from Beth. Of course. The four most recent messages all say the same thing.

  Woman. Open your inbox.

  Woman. Open your inbox

  Woman. Open your inbox.

  Woman. Open your inbox.

  I smirk and scroll farther up to read her first message, sent roughly thirty-five minutes ago.

  So I’m pretty sure that Drew, yes, your Drew, is in the library as we speak. As I text? Whatever. He’s here.

  My mouth falls open and I hate the way my heart stutters in my chest at ‘your Drew’ because I’m pretty sure he’s let me and anyone else privy to our Soulmate status know he’s not mine.

  Next message.

  Yes, it’s him! He had to sign in on the community service/volunteer hours sheet & I’m practically Nancy Drew and was smart enough to think of looking.

  And the third.

  I’m only going to say this once. You need to get your ass here. You may not get another chance and I know you want to see him even if you say you don’t. You’re not that good an actress.

  I sigh and, before I can talk myself out of it, hit the home button. There are also five missed calls and three voicemails. I don’t have the nerve to listen to them though. Nope. I decide I’m going to have to save up all of the nerve I have for when I walk through the library doors.

  Beth is basically glued to the giant glass windows waiting for my car to pull in. As my shoes eat up the walkway to the door, I see her glance behind her really quick and then dash outside to meet me. I’m pretty sure stepping outside, if three feet away from the building can be considered outside, for
less than thirty seconds isn’t going to get her in trouble, but I don’t tell her that. I’ve seen her Mission Impossible moves and remember her spy mode all too well.

  “Libby,” she basically hisses my name at me. She grabs my arm and pulls me inside, almost getting my skirt stuck in the door. “He is cute. You didn’t tell me he was so cute.”

  “You’ve seen his picture before, doofus,” I mumble as I make sure all body parts and articles of clothing have come through unscathed.

  And I don’t want to talk about how cute he is. I know how cute he is.

  “Picture schmicture.”

  She rolls her eyes at me. Rolls her eyes. Like this isn’t something that should be taken seriously.

  Okay, so maybe in the long run, how cute he is and whether or not we’re both going to acknowledge it isn’t that big of a deal. It’s beside the point that everything about him and about this seems like a very big deal at this precise moment.

  I roll my eyes right back.

  “Whatever, Beth. Yes, he’s cute. Doesn’t change the fact he’s been a ginormous jerk,” I say as I break away from her and walk farther into the building. I scan the room from one side to the other even though it’s impossible to see where anyone is over the rows of tall shelving units. “Where is he?”

  “Second floor, near the elevator. He was there when I texted you anyway. Should still be in the general vicinity.”

  I nod and turn to face the elevator bank. I can’t make myself move though. I glance back over my shoulder at Beth and purse my lips while letting out a shaky breath.

  “You want me to go up with you? I’m pretty good at the moral support thing,” she offers. She does this weird little shoulder shimmy she hopes will make me laugh and loosen me up. I know because I invented it for her.

  “Nah,” I say. I smile so she knows her shimmy isn’t unappreciated. “I’ll be okay. I think I’ll take the stairs though.”

  Because Beth is exactly the kind of person who takes an elevator to go up one floor, she makes a face before she waves me on.

  The Clarkesville Public Library staircase is wide, and open, and anyone passing by the entrance at the top can clearly see whoever is on their way up, but I convince myself it’s better than having an actual ding, followed by the scrape of the metal doors opening, announcing my arrival. At least there’s a chance to reach the top undetected. And God knows I’m going to need these extra few seconds to clear my head.

  With the high ceiling and hard-tiled floors, I’m extra careful in keeping my steps light. Someone stomping up the stairs would attract a lot more attention than a single, soft ding in my opinion. And, okay, maybe keeping my steps quiet also makes me move slower which also gives me more time to pull myself together.

  Or to over-think everything. I haven’t decided yet.

  I take the last few steps to wonder how hard I’ll have to look for him, but once at the top, I stop in my tracks. Because he’s right there. Well, not exactly. More like right there and to the left a little, but still. No tip toes or craning of the neck required.

  There’s a cart of books in the aisle behind him and I stand still, watching him for a few minutes. Given my track record with being caught staring at him, one would think I’d be more apprehensive, but there’s no way I can look away now.

  He’s facing away from me, his shoulders a little hunched as he bends to place a book on its shelf. A little hunched and a lot straining against the material of the gray thermal shirt he’s wearing. The waffle-knit fabric is thin and clings to him enough to show the movements of each individual muscle in his back. I didn’t even know there were so many individual muscles in a back.

  Do all seventeen-year-old guys have backs like his? Do the guys who go to my school have backs like this? I feel like I’m watching one of those movies where they use all twenty-something actors to play high-school students. Maybe he plays baseball, too. Baseball players have really defined shoulders, right?

  He turns to the side and I have a very strong urge to press myself back against the wall. One I very nearly give in to. Like that’ll help him not see me or something. He doesn’t look my way though, and I realize if I had taken a step back, I’d have broken my neck by falling down the stairs since there’s no wall actually behind me. I take one giant stride to the right to assure my safety and continue my observation from afar.

  His hair falls into his eyes and he pushes it back even though it’s obvious with the way his chin’s tilted down that it’s only going to fall right back. After the third time, he keeps his hand threaded into his hair, his elbow bent at a forty-five degree angle. With his arm like that, and the way it showcases his muscles and forearm where his sleeve is pushed up, I start to wonder even more about whether or not he plays baseball. I trace the vein running along the outside of his forearm, the one that seems safe and familiar, with my eyes, but even it seems new and different in this setting. Nothing seems safe here.

  I watch for a few more minutes. I take in how he looks in this place, not in a jumpsuit or hospital gown. I admire the way his face looks free of all the bruising. I watch the crease between his eyebrows as he narrows his concentration onto each individual book he picks up. I become more than a little fascinated by how he runs a thumb along their spines, tracing the letters of each title lightly.

  My focus is on his fingers still when he drops the book he’s holding back onto the cart, letting it land on top of the others, spine down and pages splayed open. I wonder for a split second what’s happened, but then realize it’s probably exactly what I fear the most. I look up and, yep, once again I’ve been caught staring. Daydreaming really this time, so that makes it feel even worse somehow.

  I push myself off the wall and take a few steps in his direction. He doesn’t run, so I guess that’s maybe a good sign. He’s obviously surprised to see me here, with his brows raised but his eyes guarded. He pushes the cart off to the side and steps around it, making his way to meet me at the end of the aisle.

  And then both of us say a whole lot of nothing as we alternate between looking at each other and our own feet. After I’ve come to the realization he’s a lot taller than I first thought and that there’s a scuff on the toe of my right ballet flat, I decide I can’t stand the silence for another second.

  “So I’m going to go out on a limb here and guess that since your case was thrown out, this community service of yours is a voluntary thing? Setting a good example for Blake maybe?”

  I know it’s the wrong thing to say, like so many of the things I choose to say around this boy, as soon as the words are out of my mouth. No taking them back now though.

  Silence. Metaphorical crickets are currently chirping. His gaze is practically burning a hole into my head, but I refuse to back down. I don’t have anything to lose, so I don’t break our eye contact.

  “You’re not stalking me or anything, are you?”

  What the hell?

  “God, really?” The words are spit from my mouth like a bad taste. My voice goes up, shrill even on the last syllable, and I think I see him almost flinch.

  This was a bad idea. It is a bad idea.

  I turn on the heel of my shoe, not an easy task on this weird paper-thin carpet over concrete combo they’ve got going, and start toward the elevator. Maybe I should take the stairs again so I won’t have to waste precious seconds waiting on the elevator doors to open, but I’m so mad I’m not sure I can even see straight at this point. I’d surely kill myself on the stairs.

  That’d be a lovely image to leave him with, right? Ass over head, rolling down step after step. Landing in a crumpled heap at the bottom.

  His touch makes me pause, bringing me out of and away from my internal tirade. It’s light, nothing more than the tips of his cool fingers laying against the inside of my wrist, but I might as well have had a shackle slapped onto me. I freeze.

  “Stop,” he says in a voice that sounds both exasperated and pained at the same time. We’re both looking down at the spot where his han
d still rests on mine, and he moves it away like he’s been burned. “I’m sorry. It’s just… It’s really hard to be around you. That’s all.”

  Ah, yes. Because that really makes me want to stay. That clears up so much, doesn’t it?

  “What does that even mean?”

  For a minute, I don’t think he’s going to respond. He keeps flexing his fingers at his side and looking at anything but me. I watch his knuckles go from red to white, and try not to linger on how without him, it would only be shades of gray. When he finally drags his gaze up to my face again, he opens his mouth, but nothing comes out.

  The way he’s looking at me reminds me of the day in his hospital room. He trails his eyes up from my feet, taking in the full skirt of my dress and the alternating stripes of black and white that cover it. It’s still a little on the cool side out, but I’m grateful I left my sweater in the car, as he brushes his gaze over the freckles on my shoulders. There are a lot of them there, more than anywhere else, but he doesn’t seem surprised to see them. I guess it’s safe to assume a fair-skinned redhead would have freckles somewhere.

  He focuses a little on what I think might be my mouth before moving on. How do people always seem to know when others are staring at their mouths in books and movies? Maybe there’s something hanging out of my nose or he’s trying to figure out if my chin is too pointy. Sometimes I think it is.

  I swear I see the tiniest, quickest hint of a smile that slides across his lips as he makes his way up to my hair. And up even farther, letting me know I probably resemble something closer to an electrocuted clown than someone with a mild case of the frizzies. Or it could be my normal hair. It’s not all that different really.

  I go to tamp it down with one hand and his eyes snap back to mine. His face is all serious again and I brace for whatever’s about to come.

  “It means that thinking of you is a big, giant reminder of the kind of thing I don’t deserve, okay?” He runs a hand through his hair and tugs on the ends a little in frustration. He turns in the opposite direction, but spins back around just as fast. “And being around you? Looking at you? That makes it even harder.”