“Not particularly.” I take a bite of my food, some mustard dripping onto the plate—a perfect built-in dipping sauce for my fries.
Stephan glances over and chuckles. “Just like old times, you were always my favorite mustard girl.”
Right, I think to myself. As Clara always preferred ketchup. No other reason.
I continue, “I am often subjected to research and supportive roles, as I haven’t taken the Bar Exam yet. While I finished my JD with a 4.0 in the spring, I don’t want to fail the Bar like I did my driver’s test the first time – stupid traffic cones, I still can’t parallel park.”
He says that his last art showing in North Charleston went well and that he was considering doing another in three months or so. He asks if he can stay with me again, clarifying that he can still sleep on the couch unless I would truly prefer the closet, but that he’d specifically be scheduling the art showing to see me this time, as he wants to reconnect with me.
“We were such great childhood friends,” he says, and adds that he doesn’t have any good excuses other than that he made a mistake in not trusting my judgment with Amelia, and not getting to know me when he still had the time.
More evidence that he only likes me as a friend; he quite literally just emphasized that we were childhood friends.
Late into the evening, I continue my denial, trying to convince myself that I don’t actually like him and feeling as if I know full well that he doesn’t like me romantically.
The next day, after a grueling 9 hours of inspections and research, Stephan picks me up, and then he parks his rental under the tree he had mentioned. Of course, he probably just wants another set of eyes on his next art piece. After a few minutes of awkward conversation in his car, he asks me if I’d like to go sit under the tree on some towels he brought. Multiple towels. Because we are friends, I rationalize. No other reason.
We sit on our separate but almost touching towels, and he begins to paint the tree with his rental car under it. I pick up my copy of the latest in a 12-book-long series of Christian small-town romance books when I receive a text. My phone buzzes far too loudly for the quiet serenity of the field, and Stephan asks who the message is from.
“Just a guy I went on a few dates with recently,” I hesitantly reply.
Before I can finish my train of thought, he responds with “Oh.”
Trying to finish my sentence, I quickly respond with unintentional uptalk in my tone, “I’m not interested in him, I’ve been meaning to tell him that. I hate to say this or even think like this, but he was just a distraction. I’m going to let him know that I’m not interested, and while I wish him the best, he won’t hear from me again.”
Stephan doesn’t respond, but he gulps loudly before returning to his painting. I hope he doesn’t understand what I meant by distraction, unless he feels the same way. But I know he doesn’t.
When I glance over a few minutes later, I notice that a woman lying down on a picnic blanket has made it onto the canvas. “Is that me?” I scooch over and ask, while approaching his separate towel. “But I’m not on a picnic blanket, I’m on a towel!” I exclaim.
“Well, you are here. Are you not?” he responds.
“I guess I am,” I respond. Maybe I’m too literal of a thinker when it comes to artistic expression, but I know his drawing of me doesn’t mean anything. Artists draw people all the time. My shape must have just been needed to balance out the picture—no other reason.
At that moment, his phone buzzes as mine had a few minutes ago. “It’s just Clara. She wanted me to tell you she says hi,” he says.
“Your sister knows you’re with me right now?” I respond.
“Of course she does. Why wouldn’t she? Actually, let me show you something…” he says, and then he pulls out his wallet and removes a picture. He passes it to me, saying, “Here.”
It was a picture of him, his sister, and me when we were all little kids. It was taken around the time his sister had mentioned wishing that we were sisters. Clara is a few years older and was holding me, and Stephan was sitting next to us with a smile so big it nearly touched his ears.
I tear up slightly, and ask, “You still have this? And you keep it in your wallet – why?”
“It’s one of my favorite memories, and both of my favorite people together in one photo. I really wish we could have stayed in touch, Phoebe. I still wonder what might’ve happened.”
He pauses before asking, “Actually, I’ve wanted to ask you something. When I was walking around earlier, I noticed that a branch of my church back home is having a dance tonight. It’s not too far from here. Would you like to go with me? And maybe tomorrow we can go check out those pine trees?”
“Of course, I’m so glad you remember me mentioning I like to dance,” and then I laugh before continuing, “I actually went to the grove of pine trees with a guy I dated in my early twenties, when I visited my grandparents for a few weeks. They’re beautiful. Honestly, I had no words for how lovely the experience was.” I mentally face-palm after mentioning yet another guy I had dated in his presence. I feel like I seriously need to get myself together.
He seemingly doesn’t want to touch on the second half of what I said because he responds, “I don’t just remember you saying you liked to dance, Phoebe. I remember the two of us in kindergarten, dancing to ‘Macarena’ at that one school dance. Remember? You were wearing a blue and purple dress, and you fell. I helped you get back up so that we could finish dancing, and Mrs. Kennedy made a comment about how we’d get married one day. Fun times,” he says. He then follows upwith, “And you literally danced in your kitchen when I came to visit. Don’t you remember the saxophone?”
“Yes, I love the song you played in the kitchen. And oh, well, I still like dancing to ‘Macarena.’ I’d be down to go tonight, that sounds fun. Do you think they’ll play ‘Macarena’?” I ask, while daydreaming about what could happen at the dance if he feels the way I do. But of course, there’s no way he does. He only mentioned the dance and the marriage comment because he saw those flyers for the dance tonight.
He laughs and says, “If they don’t, I’ll have to request it.”
After he finishes his painting and I’m about halfway through my book, he remarks that we should probably get ready. He drops me off where I’m staying and says he’ll be back in an hour. I only have business clothing and a sundress, though. I didn’t think to bring anything dance-appropriate or formal attire. I settle for my blue sundress, which modestly covers my shoulders (as all my clothing does). I then put a black blazer over it to make it a bit dressier. I had just finished putting in my sterling silver dangling earrings when I hear a knock at the door.
He’s there to pick me up, wearing black dress pants with a dark grey button-up long-sleeved shirt. Seemingly at random, he says, “I have a question for you, Phoebe.”
