My face must give me away because Maren is all over it. “Are you okay? You know I’m only giving you a hard time, right?”
I nod, unsure of what my voice would sound like if I used words.
Her eyes feel like they’re looking into my soul when she gently says, “If you’re thinking about Nick, don’t. It’s been more than enough time and that dickbag deserves no more of your energy.”
Like a true hype girl, Maren makes sure to include an insult for one of her least favorite people. I wouldn’t say she was ever a Nick fan, but she was happy that I was happy. They bickered whenever we were together and she loved standing up to him, having the upper hand.
A few months before he called off the wedding, she brought it up a single final time. It was like I was living in a romcom and the maid of honor was giving me an out, telling me she’d drive the getaway car. No questions asked. She promised she’d never say “I told you so,” a promise she’s still kept. When she asked, there was a seedling of doubt, one I chalked up as normal, something everyone harbors when entering into a new phase of life.
Turns out I should’ve listened to my intuition, because it wasn’t long before he was telling me that he loved me, but he fellinlove with someone else. Have you ever heard such a thing? The casual “I love you, but” and saying it in a way that was meant to feel it wasn’t that bad.
Spoiler alert: it was that fucking bad. For some reason, all the feelings of not being enough creep up, like when you’re trying not to be embarrassed but everyone can see the crimson of your cheeks like the biggest fucking tell.
Maren lightly shakes me, bringing me back to the moment. “Babe, quit doing that. I can see it. No need to relive, especially now. You’re having a fabulous hair day, some hot professional athlete with biceps you could fall into is about to meet you, and Cherry Pit serves booze.”
She shrugs and pinches my cheek, touching where they ached a minute ago.
“You’re right.” I try to shake off the depressing trip down memory lane, like I’m willing myself back to the moment.
She’s smiling, looking at my phone, where the unread notification lights up my screen. “Go! Before he thinks you bailed and starts emotionally spiraling like the sensitive king he is.”
I smack her arm. “He does not spiral.”
“He absolutely spirals.”
Her hands land on my shoulders, steadying me. “Deep breath. Have some fun tonight. You are allowed to do that every now and again.” Maren wraps me up in a hug.
“Okay,” I exhale. “Okay. You’re right.”
She grins. “Text me updates. Or emergencies. Or if you see him naked!” She’s halfway out the door, yelling the last part over her shoulder.
“Maren!” I yell after her, trying not to laugh.
I come back to the mirror, running my hands through my hair another time and solidifying the choice to leave it down for once. It’s like the universe knew I needed a pep talk, or whatever Maren was trying to accomplish.
Still blushing, still nervous.
Still hopelessly, stupidly excited.
fifteen
Colson
We’remeetingatCherryPit because the thought of asking Sadie if she wanted me to pick her up was enough for me to break out in a clammy sweat. Instead, I suggested we meet there. Safer.
I know I’m reading into this much more than anyone should. She’s being nice. Last week she watched me have a fairly public meltdown and she’s trying to make sure I’m not going to spiral. She wouldn’t want to lose her assistant coach.
Or that’s what I keep telling myself.
I’m walking up to the street, looking for a bench where Sadie said she’d be. The streets are busy with a mix of locals and tourists for the summer. Everyone has somewhere to be, a plan to get to, but there’s smiles and an easy type of energy surrounding us.
I love Chicago. It was the first place that ever really felt like home after Michigan. But the energy there, most days, is chaos and business. Nowhere near as much as New York or LA, but people are trying to get to the next thing.
Not in Golden Harbor. People move slower here, walking hand in hand, lingering at a restaurant’s host stand set right on the street, smiling as they ask how long for a table. String lights flicker on above the patios. Somewhere, music drifts out of an open door, soft and familiar.
It’s only a few more steps until I see her.
Sadie’s sitting on this bench, the wind off the lake whipping through her hair which shines with the help of the sun. She’s wearing a dress, long and loose, the top kind of scrunched and pulled together. It’s this light green color and shows the rosiness of her skin where the tops of her shoulders have been kissed from the sun.
