And I can’t even hate the bitch for it. She’s lovely. Gorgeous. Sweet. Maybe a little different from what I’d prefer for him, but I can’t nitpick, because if I swung both ways, I’d probably shoot my shot with her, too.
Her face is more oval than my heart-shaped one, her curves are overflowing from her little sundress, and her olive skin and dark hair make her look every bit the stunning model she is. Everything about me falls flat in comparison to her. She’s bubbly, seems kind enough, and I’m struggling to find anything about her I dislike.
So all I can hate right now is myself. For holding a candle for this man for so many years. For deluding myself into believing that we would end up together. That I was the kind of girl he needed. The one he would want if he just saw the light. There isno oneto blame but me. Well, maybe him for being so perfect for me, and maybe a tad flirty?
But, to be fair, he’s never outrightsaidanything that gave me hope. I just always had this part of me thatknewwhat our future held. That sounds insane, right? But I did. I couldseewhat was in the cards for us. And I held onto that through absolutely everything. I never lost hope. Until now. And now I feel like one of those loonies on the street corner who thinks they’re talking to the ghost of Elvis or something. That’s about the level of crazy I’m feeling right now.
A giggle breaks through the noise of the indoor waterfall splashing at the end of the fifth hole, and I’m pretty sure I hear a slap of an open palm on some meaty flesh. I roll my eyes at the flirting going on behind me as we walk to the next hole, and I stand to the side to let them putt first as I whip out my phone to shoot off a text. I don’t usually text during our hangs, not that I have many people to text anyway, but I doubt he’s even noticing what I’m doing with his tongue halfway down Miss Booty’s throat.
Am I proud of the fact that I slipped a little mini bottle of tequila in my pocket before we left the house? No. Am I grateful? Definitely. I knock it back, grimacing at the taste of it straight, without the Topo Chico and lime to balance it out, wipe mymouth with the back of my hand, and unlock my phone (the date Aaron landed his first major role, not easily hackable—his private info in my phone is safe—but something neither of us will ever forget) to send off a very important text.
Me
I’m ready.
Alexandra the Great
I’ll get you a time and place, bb.
At least thenight was unequivocally better than that time he introduced me as his “bro” to that snake of a cow, Mara.
I don’t think I’ve ever folded in on myself harder or faster than when he told his gorgeous, voluptuous girlfriend that it looked like I hadn’t hit puberty yet, called me his bro, and nearly puked at the thought of hooking up with me. Don’t think I’ve ever cried harder than I did in bed that night, either.
That was also the first time I ever called him “kid,” and the nickname has stuck ever since. It was immature, but can you blame me? I couldn’t let them both think I actually had all of my hopes wrapped up in a future with the man who evidently got so sick from the thought of being with me he needed another girl’s tongue in his mouth immediately after it to chase away the thought.
No. I had to fight back instantly, try to convince them all that I was just as disgusted with the thought. Pretty sure he’s had his doubts over the years, it’s not like I’ve paraded other guys around in front of him. The occasional flirt between us, which evidently was one-sided. But overall, I think I’ve done a pretty good job hiding how I’ve really felt. Self-preservation and allthat. Aaron is almost a year older than me, and I know it irks him sometimes when I call himkid, but that’s just tough luck for him.
By the way, Ididhit puberty—I swear. Yeah, I’m slight, I’m wiry, but I’ve got tiny boobs and a little ass there. If I skip a meal, I can no longer fill out my measly B cups, but they are there most days. You can’t hardly tell because I’ve dressed the same since I was eight years old (save for one particularly horrible night of my life) but I swear I have, like, a tiny bit of curves. Not that Aaron would know.
Hopefully Spencer, as Alex has told me his name is, doesn’t mind rangy gals. She hasn’t told me much about the guy, other than he’s even nerdier than Aaron, an absolute wizard with prop design, and that she thinks we’d be great for one another. He’s nice, apparently, but what does that even mean? These generic descriptors for human beings you’re considering for a partner can mean so many things, they cover such a wide range of actions. “Nice,” “sweet,” “funny,” and “good-looking” can describe practically anyone on Earth at one time or another. Probably even Charles Manson if you asked his followers. It sure doesn’t help me form any sort of picture in my head of what to expect when I meet this guy.
Is he nice like he’d give a stranger a sandwich if they were hungry? Nice like he wouldn’t fuck your friend behind your back if you were dating? Or nice like he gives you a dozen compliments every time he sees you? There are infinite shades ofnice, and I have no idea which apply to him.
The fact that Alex has apparently been “keeping him in her back pocket” for me for years is a little startling. Why hasn’t she mentioned him sooner if we’re really that great for one another? Have I really needed to waste the last three years pining away for the same guy I’ve spent my entire youth romanticizing? I’m gonna be twenty-four before long, and my dating history is beyond pathetic. A few guys here and there, none who’ve lastedlonger than a few weeks, and nowhere near serious with any of them.
I was too busy keeping my heart set on one guy, while trying to keep my mind off the fact that he was constantly chasing another skirt, never mine. Why I thought that it would somehow, magically work out someday, I have no idea. There wasn’t a heck of a lot of evidence to back up my hypothesis. It was mostly blind faith.
And now I’m grappling with the fact I’ve wasted some of the best years of my life fixating on a dream of a future with the man I spent all my presents with rather than working to get over him, find someone who I had a chance with, and spending my moments with them, too (or perhaps, instead of withhim).
Surely spending my mental energy looking backward isn’t helping me move forward. I chastise myself internally, and come to the decision to focus on my right now, and my immediate tomorrows. Like my job. Keeping things platonic, and normal, with Aaron. And looking forward to the blind date with Spencer.
Obviously, I’m terrified of dating, period. I can’t tell if my date being with someone I’ve never met before is helping or hurting my nerves. Sitting here obsessing over every thing that could be right, wrong, or possibly traumatic with this mystery person is driving me nuts. But so would the act of having tomeetsomeone out in the wild, actually talk to them, hit it off to the point we want to spend time together, alone, in the future. And of course that’s when my social anxiety would kick in. I’d be that bitch who dissectedeverysingle word, look, andbreathafter that initial meeting, trying to read between the lines to see if by “can I take you out” he really meant “you’re fucking nuts, stay away from me.” So maybe the fact that we haven’t spoken directly yet isn’t a bad thing?
Alex got back to me with a time and place—this Saturday night at a retro bowling alley in a trendy suburb outside of Atlanta.
She alsoinsistedthat I create a Tinder. Something about getting over someone by getting under someone. I dunno. It made no sense to me, especially because I’m already agreeing to see someone. But she said this is what it will take to get over Aaron, and I need all the help I can get with that, so listen to her, I shall.
I will do whatever it takes to get over my best friend. Even if it means getting onto a—shudder—dating app. Because Aaron Stone and I willneverbe a thing, and it’s time I stop harboring that particular dream. From today on, I won’t look at Aaron like that again. I vow it. Or at least, to try.
SEVEN
AARON
“Cut!” The director’s voice breaks through my concentration on staying in character and I let the mask fall, allowing Aaron to break through again now that he says we're done for the day.
A hand slaps my back in congratulations at nailing the scene in one take, earning us the early quitting time, and I smile at the crew members who have crowded around me as they take back the equipment and props they need, leaving me to head back to my trailer and get out of wardrobe and back into street clothes in relative peace and quiet.
My eyes scan the set for Gem; she’s usually on standby with my cell, a protein smoothie and updates for me on where the rest of my life stands. I find her against the far wall with Alex, assistant to the gods and lifesaver of this whole damn show. She hasn’t started coming my way, so I make my way over to her and try not to grumble internally about the inconvenience, because this is probably the first time it’s ever happened, and I don’t need to be a total prick about it. See? Famous people. They really are just like us.
