Checked Again (11 page)

1.) When is your
flight?

2.) Are you staying
at a hotel?

3.) Are you sure you
don’t want me to come?

I
stare at number three. And for just a moment, I let my mind go where it
shouldn’t…to a just built hotel with a brand new, spotless room and an
immaculate, untouched bed—well, untouched except for the person between the
sheets. Dark hair. Heated blue eyes. Arms reaching out. So close…so—

CALLIE!

I
blink my eyes a few times to try to evict the image from my mind. I try to
think instead about what it’d really be like—me standing in the middle of a
gross, infested hotel room, trying not to touch anything…and him standing
outside the room, knocking on the door every ten minutes or so to make sure I
haven’t killed myself yet…

I
quickly count and hit reply.

1.)
Don’t know yet

2.)
Yes

3.)
Yes

Count.

Send.

BEFORE
I KNOW IT, IT’S time. Time for my meeting with Tony. Mandy stops her car right
in front of Dawson’s Grille. It’s 3:45 p.m., which is perfect. Tony shouldn’t
be here for another fifteen minutes (at least—he was always late when we were
dating). There is no way that Mandy should see him.

Before
I close my car door, Mandy smiles over at me. “Enjoy your soda.”

I
just smile back and shrug before closing the door. Mandy thinks it’s funny that
I’m meeting a friend (so she thinks) for a drink when she knows I won’t have a
“real” drink in a bar that pretty much only serves beer. She probably wouldn’t
find the situation very funny if she knew what I’m really up to…

As
I walk up to the door of the restaurant, I do my best to avoid all of the
people walking around me. Such a crowded street. College students are
everywhere. I stand by the door and wait, holding my purse close to my body and
praying that no one accidentally brushes up against me…or talks to me…or spits
on me…

I
don’t know how long I stand, how long I pray, but it must be long enough for
God, because he grants my request. No one touches me. No one talks to me. No
one spits on me. And Tony is coming toward me now, a big, stupid smile on his
face.

I
continue to stand, both hands clutching my purse, now worrying that Tony might
try to touch me.
Please don’t touch me. Please don’t touch me. Please don’t
touch me.
God only knows what he’s been up to over the last few years.
Dirty stuff. Disgusting stuff.

He
walks closer and closer, still smiling. He’s only a few feet away.

My
stomach feels like it’s just been punched. My body doesn’t move.
Please. No
touching.

{Cue
Carrie Underwood with
“Jesus, Take the Wheel
.
”
}

Tony
takes a few more steps toward me, and—

And
he stops right beside me. Not touching me.

Thank
God. {And thanks for your help, Carrie.}

My
body releases a tiny bit of its tension.

Then
the tension comes right back because I realize that I am obviously the one of
us standing closer to the restaurant door…so I am the one who should probably
open it.

And
I do have tissues in my pocket…but I can’t use them in front of Tony. I won’t.
He’ll make fun of me…like he did in the past…and I don’t want to hear that
right now. Or ever again.

So
I make myself do something else instead. I speak. “What—no chivalry?”

I’m
not proud of my method here, but it works. Tony gives me a silly smile and
rushes in front of me to pull on the door handle.
{How about a nice church
choir rendition of
“How Great Thou Art”
? Let’s send this one up, way up,
as a thank you for another answered prayer.}
We go in, and Tony asks for a
table. I hear him request to sit downstairs so we can talk…and hear each other
(the bar area is surprisingly busy for a Sunday—I’m sure it has something to do
with football). The waitress smiles and leads us downstairs. Tony nods for me
to walk ahead of him and then he follows behind. Still no attempt at touching
me.

{Let’s
do another verse of
“How
Great Thou Art”
…because, really, Tony could’ve tried to hug me, or touch me,
or take my hand…and, seriously, I haven’t seen him in years…he could’ve slept
with dozens of girls in that amount of time…shared hundreds of needles…used
countless disgusting public bathrooms…}

As
I slowly walk down the steep steps, carefully balancing myself without touching
the railing, I can’t help but remember the last time I was here…and then I
can’t help but think about this morning’s email.
{And then I can’t help but
allow Damien to slip back into my head.}

When
we get down to our table (the one right beside the table I sat at last time I
was here), I quickly inspect my seat as Tony messes around with his
phone—texting someone or taking a turn in a game or something? I don’t know.

We
sit. The waitress appears. Tony orders a beer and I order a diet soda.

When
the waitress leaves, Tony smiles. “Still not drinking, huh, Angel?”

I
don’t bother to tell him that I do drink margaritas now…or that I’ve tried
several different kinds of beer and I’m just not a huge fan. There’s no point
in telling him. And we don’t have much time right now. Mandy will be back right
after she picks up Josh—so in like twenty-five minutes.

“I
brought your keys.” I get to the point, starting to dig in my purse. After finding
the keys, I reach over and place them on Tony’s side of the table. Before I can
pull my hand away, Tony starts to reach his own hand out…to touch mine…

My
stomach begins to turn at the thought of that hand touching me. That same hand
that pinched the side of my stomach years ago right here in this restaurant.

Trying
to hide my discomfort (because if he sees it, he’ll probably try to touch me
again or maybe ask why I don’t want to touch him, or, I don’t know, think about
trying to “fix” me and my OCD again), I give him a tight smile and pull my hand
to the safety of my lap.

“What
are you doing, Tony?” I try to keep my voice steady, not nervous, as I speak.

Tony
smiles a big, oblivious to my discomfort (of course) kind of smile. Then he
shrugs. “I don’t know—it’s just been so long.”

I
don’t have anything to say back to this and, fortunately, I don’t have to think
of anything because the waitress picks this moment to bring our drinks. After
she places my diet soda in front of me, I busy myself with opening my straw,
placing it in my glass, and taking a long, slow drink.

Tony
gulps down some of his beer…most of his beer…and then starts to talk again.
“So…” He stares at me, but I don’t let him keep hold of my eyes. I give him
another tight, closed-lip smile and then look down to watch my fingers as they
stir the straw in my glass.

“Seeing
anyone?”

What?

I
can’t help it. My eyes lift and my hand stops stirring. He’s grinning.

Pretty
inappropriate, Tony. Pretty inappropriate.

I
just roll my eyes and hope his question will go away. I take a sip of my soda
and try to further bury the topic.

Tony
moves his head down, down, down to catch my eyes (which were pleasantly focused
on the table).

He
continues to talk. And smile. “There is someone. Isn’t there?”

I
don’t answer. I just give him an annoyed look.

And
now he’s laughing. “How does
he
feel about getting tested?”

My
mouth does the cliché thing and drops open a little. I can’t believe he just
said that.

I
pull my purse on my shoulder and stand to go. Before I can get anywhere,
though, he is right in front of me…still with that stupid grin on his face.

“Angel,
Angel, Angel, Angel. Calm down.”

Please
don’t touch me. Please just let me go. Please.

Some
rational part of my brain acknowledges the fact that he will be more likely to
let me pass if it seems I have “calmed down”…if it seems like he can’t get to
me anymore. I listen to that part of me, attempting to push the pissed off look
from my face.

I
try to speak calmly. “Whatever, Tony. It’s fine. But I’ve gotta go. Mandy will
be here soon, and you got what you came for.”           

He’s
still standing right in front of me, blocking my way. We must look ridiculous
just standing like this in the middle of a restaurant.

My
head starts to pound.
Do not touch me. Do not touch me. Do not touch me.

Tony
blinks his eyes and makes a face that I’ve seen many times before—a pouty,
I’m
hurt
face. I hate that face. I fell for it when we were in high school,
but I stopped falling for it in college when he started to use it for
everything (yes—everything).

I
just stare at him and wait for whatever else he feels needs to be said. A
second later, he stops pouting and opens his mouth to speak.

Here
come more words that will probably annoy me.

“I
brought your stuff too, Angel. Don’t worry.” He says it as though he’s soothing
me, as though I would’ve been crushed if he forgot to bring our old prom
picture with him. He continues. “It’s all in my car, though.”

I
just nod my head, not quite looking at him…not quite seeing through my now
fuzzy eyes…not quite sure if he’s ever going to move.

Fortunately,
he does move. He turns away from me.

{The
Beatles are back, now with
“Here Comes the Sun
.
”
}

He
waves over the waitress, asks for our bill, and promptly gives her some cash to
cover it. Then he motions for me to go first, for me to start to walk upstairs
and out of the restaurant. I move slowly, carefully using the little bit of
space he’s put between us to maneuver myself without brushing up against him. I
walk up the stairs, through the top level of the restaurant, and right to the
door. I push it open with the bottom of my shoe and then head outside.

When
we both get outside, Tony leads me right to his old car, the Stratus he’s about
to sell. As he digs around in the back seat, my mind takes me back…back to
multiple arguments and various make out sessions set right here in this
car…many times both happening on the same night…

I
wonder how many girls he’s had in here since…

I
don’t have a lot of time to come up with a number, because soon Tony turns
around, holding a small cardboard box overflowing with stuff, overflowing with
our relationship. My pink Pierce hoodie…
Friends
Season 1, his copy of
our prom picture…

He
holds the box out to me like it’s a huge, beautifully wrapped Christmas
present. “Here it all is, Angel.”

I
manage yet another tight smile, and then I use both of my hands to grab the top
of the box—touching an area far away from his hands, his arms.

He
smirks, staring at the awkward placement of my hands. “Still funny about germs,
aren’t you?”

Yes,
Tony. Still
“
funny
”
about germs.

I
just give him my, like, three hundredth tight smile of the afternoon. “I don’t
want to talk about it, Tony.”

He
shakes his head and miraculously stops smirking. He doesn’t make fun of me.
Perhaps he’s grown up a little over the last few years. Or maybe he has
somewhere else to be and no time to start cracking OCD jokes. Either way is
fine with me.

He
talks again. “Okay…well, thanks for coming. I’ll see you on Words with
Friends.”

He
makes no attempt to touch me.
Thank God.

I
nod as I take a few steps away from him. “Sure. Bye, Tony.”

“Later,
Angel.”

He
turns to his car, and I head the other way, back to the front of the
restaurant. I stand, holding the top of the box awkwardly, watching him drive
off. Once his car is out of sight, I take nine steps, three counts of three, to
the nearest trash can. Then I do one more quick count of three and toss the
entire box into it.

It
feels…it feels so many things. Good…relieving…a little officially closing a
chapter in my life-ish, but right. It feels right.
{
“Here Comes the Sun”
is back, but this time Linda Eder is singing the refrain, adding in a pretty
legendary key change.}

I
walk the nine steps back to the front of the restaurant, careful not to get too
close to the people that pass by. Then, once again, I stand and pray for no
talking…no touching…no spitting.

After
a few minutes of praying, I see Mandy’s car. Carefully, quickly, I navigate
through the crowded street once more and then climb into her back seat. Josh is
driving now. He has one hand on the wheel and one on Mandy’s leg.