True L̶o̶v̶e̶ Story (5 page)

“It is for me.”

I try to keep from glaring at him. “
What
is for you?”

“Four months is enough time for me to know.”

“I like how we are now. We have fun. It’s good. Simple. Let’s just keep it like this,” I plead.

“Why won’t you tell me you love me?” He asks.

“You know how I feel about that.”

It’s not something I can say lightly, not with boyfriends anyway. I don’t plan to tell a guy I love him until I’m sure.

“Do you love me?”

“Michael, please. You know I love you. You’re wonderful, and I care about you so much.”

“That’s not what I mean and you know it. Do you love me?”

I take a deep breath and can’t look at him. “I love you, but … I’m not sure I’m
in
love with you.”

That stuns him.

“I know you haven’t said it back, but I thought you were feeling it,” he whispers.

He puts the box back in his pocket, loosens his tie and looks out the window for a long time. When the waitress comes around, Michael pays the bill and tosses me a peppermint.

I feel terrible for hurting him. I try to think of a way to make the mood lighter, but it’s just not happening.

Finally, he looks at me and tries to give me a reassuring smile. “I can wait. We’re going to be all right, aren’t we? You don’t want to marry me … yet. But someday?”

“I … don’t know.” I answer.

But inside I’m afraid I really do know. And even though I’m mortified with the direction my thoughts have taken me, I am almost fully certain that I would have said the exact same thing even if I
hadn’t
met Ian Sterling. But since I
did
meet him, it is suddenly as clear as that massive sign down the street from LAX airport that used to say, “LIVE LIVE NUDE NUDES!” There was no questioning what was inside; you knew exactly what you were getting if you went in the building by the sign with those humongous letters.

I stare at Michael and see the life he has planned for us. We would marry young, work in my dad’s church together, be financially stable, have two kids by the time I’m twenty-four and be our parents made over. I know it’s what my parents want for me too, and I wish like everything that I could want it. I just … don’t. And as much as I wish I could change my mind, the writing is on the sign.

I cannot marry Michael.

The next few days are rough. My parents seem disappointed that I turned Michael down, but they don’t push it much. Still, I’m frustrated with them for even considering it as an option right now. They don’t understand why I can’t be sure about Michael. He’s “perfect for me” and it’s obvious to them that we’re supposed to be together. They feel it’s only a matter of time before I see it and that if I can’t say yes to him now, I shouldn’t make any decisions at all. In other words, leave him hanging.

They ultimately just want me to be happy, so they back off, but just knowing how they really feel is confusing. Isn’t it supposed to be the other way around? Shouldn’t they be pushing me to wait and to be sure? I think I must be living in an alternate universe and surely I’ll wake up soon.

Michael comes over four days in a row and for the first time in our relationship, we fight. Thankfully, my parents completely stay out of these discussions. I think I’d bang my head against a wall if the three of them ganged up on me at once.

I sort of thought we had broken up when I turned down his proposal, but apparently that was just phase one of wearing me down to a nub. The first day he’s mopey and pitiful. The second day he’s edgy and ticked. The third day he’s sad and all hands. (I know he thinks the handsy approach will work because he knows I have a slight weakness toward the slutty. Okay, not just slight.) The fourth day he’s a half mope/half edgy mix, and I am worn out from the whiplash. The fifth day he calls and says he’s going to see his family in Seattle for a week. He needs to think. A month ago, I would have been sad for him to go, especially this close to leaving for school, but I am so relieved.

Tessa calls after I get off the phone with Michael. “Is Loverboy over there?”

“No, he’s going home for the week. To mull over his heartbreak.” I snap.

“You’re heartless,” she laughs.

“I
feel
heartless after all this drama! It’s been pure craziness. It’s like I’m the only adult around here!”

“Well, I wouldn’t go that far … but well … yeah, it does sound like you’re the only one thinking clearly.”

“Thanks for not jumping on the marriage bandwagon. You could have been a kickin’ maid of honor.”

She sighs. “Yeah, I thought of that. Believe me. I could stand some excitement. A wedding would have been fun … besides that one little complication of you being
married
afterwards. That would completely suck. You know, that would wreck our entire New York plan.”

“It’s sad that my life is your highest form of entertainment. You definitely need more exciting friends,” I sigh. “And you know I could never wreck our New York plan. We’ve worked too hard for this!

“You’re right. I would have a REALLY hard time forgiving you if you bailed.”

“Well, now everyone
else
won’t forgive me, so I’m going to need you as a best friend a little longer … wanna do something later?”

“Yes! It’s about time you pay me some attention. Come spend the night. Let’s have a movie marathon.”

“Sounds perfect. I’ll be over in an hour.”

Tessa is exactly what I’ve needed. I find myself relaxing for the first time since the Child Bride Project. We make a massive pile of nachos, get our Cokes propped beside us and put a movie in the DVD player. We’ve been doing this since we met in fifth grade. I don’t think we’ve ever gone more than two weeks without seeing each other.

Tessa was the first person I met when I started a new school in the middle of fifth grade. She was a blonde little nymph that practically sailed in the air as she ran up to meet me, all bubbly personality. I saw warmth in her eyes and clung to her like she was the safety harness on an upside-down roller coaster.

We’ve wanted to go to New York for as long as we’ve been friends. Honestly, I began looking at NYU only minimally because of their writing program. I really just wanted to be able to say I lived in New York once in my life. It was a pleasant surprise to learn that the school has an excellent reputation within the literary world. Same with Tessa—she will be going to Parsons, even though there’s a perfectly good Fashion Institute in San Fran. That’s us, though, never ones to do things the easy way.

We haven’t made it through a single movie yet. It’s still paused, and Tessa’s asking question after question about Ian. Michael’s proposal barely made a blip in her radar; she’s onto the more pressing topics…

“So tell me again what he said when you told him you like to read books AND write them?”

For some reason, this cracks her up more and more each time. I tell her the whole story at least three times before she is fully satisfied. Yes, she confirms. He’s way into me.

“But you didn’t give him your number, did you?” She wrinkles her nose.

“No! Michael was
right there
!”

“Pssssshhh,” she scoffs. “That didn’t stop you from practically kissing each other! You may as well have given him your number while he was asking for it.”

I cringe. Ugh. This is bad. This is really bad.

“Can you imagine if I did end up with Ian Sterling some day? It’s really farfetched, but let’s say I did. When people ask how we met, what would I say? ‘Well, uh, I was at lunch with family friends and had my boyfriend on one side and Ian on the other. It was love at first sight.’ Ahhh!” I put my head in my hands. “I would never live that down. Or what about if I did marry Michael and everyone wanted to know about how he proposed? ‘Well, let’s see … he proposed right after I met the man of my dreams.’ There is no tidy outcome to this situation.”

Tessa’s voice startles me in the middle of my downward spiral. “Oh, since when do you care what anybody thinks?”

“Since always?”

She’s crinkling her forehead at me now, looking like I’ve grown a horn in the middle of my nose. “Noooo, you’re nice and respectful, but you’ve still always done your own thing. This might be a little ‘inconvenient’, but everyone who knows you sees that you follow the beat of a different drummer boy. People would be disappointed if you did the expected.”

Now I’m looking at her like she has a third ear. I’m used to her giving her own twist to expressions, it’s not that. This is news to me:
I
know that I’m a bit of a weirdo, but I didn’t realize I wasn’t doing a better job of hiding it.

“That might be the sweetest thing you’ve ever said to me,” I say. “And it’s beat of a different drummer, no boy…”

She continues, not fazed in the slightest by my mush and my correction not registering either. “I’m surprised he hasn’t called you anyway. He sounds like he isn’t afraid of being persistent. He could have gotten your number from Jeff.”

“I think he was going to have a busy week. I wonder if this weekend is still happening … I think I’m supposed to see him day after tomorrow! We’re all supposed to go to Jeff and Laila’s on Saturday.”

“You didn’t tell me that part! How could you forget to tell me THAT? Here, ask your mom … text her really quick and see,” she excitedly throws my phone.

Within minutes my mom texts back that the plan is still on for the weekend and Tessa squeals. “Okay, what ELSE did you leave out? Start from the beginning AGAIN.”

- 4 -

Being oblivious has its perks. And when it comes to my appearance, that has always been my motto. This time a week ago, when I was getting ready to meet the Roberts, I don’t think I even bothered to shave my legs. Now, it’s like I’m possessed. I have gone through every beauty ritual possible within the confines of my limited budget. I have exfoliated and buffed and polished. My hair follicles are completely hair-free in the places where that is desirous, and the hairs on my head have never looked so good, let me tell you. The curls, they are practically aglow with all the attention they’ve been given. Loose waves fall down my back, with nary a frizz in sight. My mother will be proud.

Tessa is so sweet … or maybe she just couldn’t bear the thought of me wearing my norm and knew I was too stubborn to break my New York/Clothes mission again, but she showed up this morning with my outfit. The poor girl has been dying to dress me for years and I haven’t let her waste her time—she’s been too busy doing alterations at her job to sew for me. Whatever her motivation, I am so appreciative. The girl is beyond talented. She made a long, plum slip dress that fits to perfection. It’s comfortable and looks effortless, which is really what I want, even though I have contradicted myself with my actions. Sigh.

It’s not a date, I realize that. Truly, I do. I just can’t seem to stop the primping. This concept is foreign to me and I’m afraid it will lead to a disastrous character downfall if it continues. Besides loathing shallowness, I really don’t want to lose my, shall we say,
edge
—over a
guy
. Aloof has been my middle name for years, and after just one lunch with Ian Sterling, that seems severely threatened.

I’m buckling my sandals when Charlie comes in my room. Her mouth gapes when she gets a look at me. “Wow, honey. You look gorgeous!” And then, with a slight frown, “Are you sure you don’t need a tank under that?”

I look down and see that I’m pretty pleased with where things are and aren’t. “No, I don’t think so.”

“I’m not sure I’ve ever seen the—” she points left and right, back and forth toward my chest, “—so prominently displayed.”

I snicker.

“Your dad’s not gonna like it…” She continues to study me. “Have you lost weight?”

“Nope.”

“Well, you sure look like it,” she says, half-concerned and half-impressed. “Have you heard from Michael?”

“No. But it’s only been two days. Have you?”

She’s still frowning over my dress, so it takes her a moment to answer. “Dad did yesterday. He said he sounded so sad.”

“Hmm.” I’m not sure what to say to that. “I’ll just grab my jacket and I’m ready.”

“All right.”

We pull up to the Roberts’ beautiful Victorian. Their house sits tall and proud on a hill, overlooking the entire bay, like Mother Superior. My parents visit every time Jeff and Laila are in town, but I only remember coming two or three times as a kid. The house is memorable. I have this recurring dream about the front doors—two wooden doors with intricate engravings that stand out against the white house. The dream is never exactly the same; in fact, the only recurring part is the doors. I stop and stare at the doors every time, but they never open to the same room. I’ve been every age in the dreams. I must have looked at those doors long and hard as a child.

When Laila opens the door, I realize I’m holding my breath—in anticipation of which room I will see this time, but also of who will be in it.

“Hello!” Laila hugs all of us and Jeff follows suit. Over their shoulders, I do a quick inventory of the room.