Yes, I'm smart. And yes, I'm ambitious. My brains are just the product of lucky genetics. My ambition is purely the result of growing up lower middle class, the third daughter of a single mom. But I am not beautiful. Not by society's standards, at least. I'm too curvy, with more extra padding than it is acceptable. No, I'm not a troll, but between my glasses, my stutter, and my general reserve, I've always just blended into the background. Mousey Meg.
And it's okay. I don't mind blending into the background. I don't particularly like being the center of attention, anyway.
Right now, for example, with Keegan focusing all of his attention on me, I feel ... jittery. Like that time my chiropractor used a TENS unit on my back and slowly increased the electric current buzzing through my muscles.
Afraid I might actually die of electrocution if he keeps looking at me like this, I pull away.
“Best-friend-colored-glasses? What's that supposed to mean?”
“You know what I mean.”
“Maybe you better explain it to me.”
“You’ve essentially microdosed my presence long enough that you don’t see my weirdness.”
“I don't even know what that means, Meg.”
“You're not exactly objective, are you? I'm like a homeless puppy you started feeding a decade ago, and now you can't get rid of me.”
He rolls his eyes like I'm being ridiculous. “That isn't true.”
“Don't get me wrong. I appreciate it. I love that you always have my back. And some day, when I'm ready for a real post-Ollie relationship, you will be the first person I call to give me a pep talk so I can work up the courage to get back into the dating pool.”
Keegan makes a noise of either disbelief or frustration, and I can't quite tell which.
I turn to see him leaning against the island, his legs stretched out in front of him, his arms crossed over his chest in a way that shows off his biceps and his chest muscles.
Not for the first time, I wonder when he finds time to work out.
But I push the thought aside, because he's still just looking at me, something in his expression that I can't read but that rackets up my concerns about my potential electrocution.
After a long moment, he pushes away from the counter and walks over to me, his eyes still searching my face. Something in his expression makes me feel nauseated. It's that jumbled feeling you get in your tummy when you're on a roller coaster and it's about to reach the crest of the first big climb.
Which makes sense, I guess, given that I just admitted out loud for the first time that I used to have a crush on him. This is the roller coaster of untold secrets. The big drop is fraught with awkwardness. I know how this story ends because I've imagined it too many times.
He's not attracted to me and never has been. I don't need to hear him say it aloud. No, I can't stand to hear him say it. To hear the pity in his voice.
I hate being the object of pity. As someone who's stuttered my whole life, I've had more than my fair share of pity and it's the fucking worst.
So, yeah, this story ends with him feeling shitty and me resenting him.
How could we recover from that?
Short answer: we wouldn't.
I just can't let him say the words out loud.
When he stops in front of me, I blurt the first thing that comes to mind.
“Well, I guess you need to be going, huh?”
He gives me another one of those slow blinks, which makes me think I've made things worse.
So I just start babbling. “You need to get to work since it's Saturday night, and who knows what traffic will be like! Austin traffic is the worst. I swear it gets w-worse every day. Can you imagine how bad it will be in ten years? But maybe we'll have flying cars or something by then.”
Keegan lets out a huff of laughter, his mouth quirking in that half smile of his.
Gah.
