I don’t even bother to put my phone away. Compulsively, I open and close various apps to give my fidgeting fingers something to do without drawing too much attention. When the notification dings in, I swear my heart stops.
Derick
I’m the new social media marketing intern for the summer Didn’t Earl tell you?
This. Can’t. Be. Happening.
Earl is notorious for forgetting to tell me important information, but this is by far his worst offense. Not that he knows about our history. Nor would he care if he did. I only wish that for once, he’d loop me in on major decisions like I’m an adult and not the brace-faced fifteen-year-old boy he hired back in the day. I’m a manager now. The promotion was formalized with paperwork! I deserve to know these things!
Panic pings up into my throat. If he’s making a drastic change like hiring a social media marketing intern for the summer, it must mean the lot is doing worse than it was last season. Wiley’s can’t meet its demise. Not now that I’m finally getting the opportunity I worked so hard for. That fear is strong enough to overwhelm my lingering embarrassment for now.
Are you sure? That doesn’t sound like something Earl would do. He thinks Twitters are for birds and TikToks are for clocks.
Wiley’s is my last bit of normalcy. When this ceremony ends, I will be free from the clutches of academia, but I’ll also be booted from the only routine I’ve ever known. School for nine months out of the year, the drive-in for three. It’s the only math that computes in my brain.
Derick
More than sure. Haven’t you seen the Instagram feed I made already?
I haven’t. I went social-media dark after my freshman year of college. One of the many reasons my friends badger me about being agrandpawho refuses to get hip.
I’m not the selfie type. I don’t duck-face. I don’t shirtless shot. I don’t ring-light. Call me old fashioned, but I fight the urge to share as much as possible because my self-conscious nature can’t handle having to steal my supply of serotonin from likes and comments.
And maybe a small part of me couldn’t handle Derick’s nagging presence on every app imaginable. My phone became a torture device each time I opened it, watching his life, in perfect pictures and memes, marching on without me. It was brutal.
The next text that comes in contains a screenshot of Derick’s formal offer of employment. Limited pay, minimal hours, but extensive duties pertaining to “building our personal brand.” (Not Earl’s wording, I’m sure of it. The only branding he knows about is branding livestock.)
Underneath, Derick has attached another photo. It’s a selfie.
He’s taller (genetically), more handsome (improbably), and at Wiley’s (unfortunately).
He’s standing in front of the squat, neon-pink snack shack shooting the camera a thumbs-up. His thick hair practically glistens during golden hour. It’s my favorite time at the lot, right before the madness of the evening breaks out. It’s weird that at one time he was my favorite person, maybe even above Avery, but that era has long since passed. Now, he’s the guy whodidn’t think of me like that.
In the end, I miss the cap toss, trapped in the middle of drafting the right response to Derick. Cheers, robust and ecstatic, erupt around me, but I can’t quite bring myself to care.
***
“I’m quitting Wiley’s,” I say to Avery as soon as we sit down. Our parents are paying for a celebratory lunch at a fancy restaurant with plum-colored chairs and golden accent decor. The real adults are down at the other end of the long rectangular table, chatting about our stellar accomplishments, so they can’t hear my firm declaration.
Mateo has his face stuck in his phone, texting Brandon. As Mateo tells it, they didn’t even end up having sex that first night. They split a chicken-finger basket from the 24/7 food truck parked by the Student Life Center and discussed Ryan Murphy’s oeuvre at length, laughing over their favorite Sarah Paulson characters.
My well-worked-out jealousy keeps coming back for more.
“What? That’s so stupid. Don’t say that,” Avery says. She rips a piece of fresh bread from the basket and dunks it happily in the garnished olive oil in front of us.
“No, I’m serious. I can’t go back there.”
Avery stops chewing and squints at me. “Is this about what I said about it not being an adult job? Because I didn’t mean that for, like, now. I meant that for the future,” she says, fiddling with one of her turquoise-beaded boho earrings.
The server begins asking for drink orders. I request a glass of sparkling rosé even though the idea of alcohol makes me queasy. I stayed dry all through finals week to keep a clear head and a solid focus. Finish strong, and all that. But, really, alcohol is part of the reason I’m in this mess. Though alcohol is also part of the reason I was forewarned about Derick descending upon the one place I hold dear. So, thanks, alcohol, I guess?
“No, it’s because Derick is working at Wiley’s now…”
Mateo looks up long enough to utter, “The one from the Polaroids in our freshman dorm?” Derick was featured in more than a few of those photos I displayed on a strand of twine above my bed. I nod heavily. “The Derick who ghosted you? The Derick who you’ve been pining over forever?” More reluctant nods. “The Derick,” Mateo continues, “who’s staring at us from across the dining room?”
My head whips around so fast I fear my skull might roll off like a bowling ball. A pair of eyes the color of ocean mist pierce me from two tables away. His large hands are raised, dwarfed utensils standing at attention. The sleeves of his maroon blazer are pushed up and ruffled, and his floral tie is hanging limply from his unbuttoned collar. He’s the doodled-upon composition book in a family of Moleskines.
A memory vortex opens, and I’m sucked inside.
