Is a motorcycle ride ever just a motorcycle ride?
Catch up on previous chapters here!
It’s Easter Sunday, and Tess has
convinced me to resume our routine of going to church together. We used to go
every week, but laziness and self-pity kept me from going to any of my usual
places, including the gym, in the weeks after Jared broke up with me. Now,
finally, I’m taking responsibility and re-immersing myself in the world I’m
used to.
Not surprisingly, as I return to the dorm that evening, the shout “Hey,
AK-47!” stops me in my tracks. I’ve barely crossed the parking lot, and already
my presence has been detected. Playfully I ask “Are you stalking me or
something?” but I’m not entirely kidding. It’s starting to feel a little weird,
the way he keeps surprising me like this. There might be a small chance it’s a
coincidence, since we do live in the same building, but what are the odds of
that? Why doesn’t he hang out in the student center like everyone else?
“You flatter yourself, AK. I’m just about to indulge in some bad
habits.” He holds up a pack of cigarettes, which is a perfectly convenient
excuse not to kiss him!
Asking where I went in such a pretty flowered dress, I remind him that
today is Easter. His response: “Right, Zombie Jesus Day! How could I forget?”
For the life of me, I cannot figure out what it is about this guy that
still tempts me. I’ve never poked fun at his beliefs – actually, I’m not sure
what his beliefs are, exactly, but I don’t pick up any religious vibes from him
– so what gives him the right to make fun of mine? His only purpose in my life
right now is to validate my sick need to feel loved, however temporarily. That
makes me feel pretty despicable.
Stuffing the cigarette box in his pocket, he says “On second thought,
I’m kinda hungry. How do you feel about an Easter dinner? My treat.”
Oh goodness, this is tempting. A meal I don’t have to pay for? Can I
really refuse that, broke almost-graduate that I am? Or am I a tool for
blatantly using him for food?
Ugh, that smile. It’s infectious and entirely too convincing. Maybe, if
I lay down the condition that this is between friends only, one meal with him would
be harmless.
“Sure,” I tell him. “But only if –”
“Excellent. Would be a shame to waste that pretty outfit.”
I’m pitifully speechless again. He is constantly full of surprises.
Rather than walking toward the student center, where I assume he meant to eat,
he takes my hand and walks into the parking lot, saying he wants to show off
his motorcycle. He’s as gleeful as a small child showing off a new toy, and I
can’t help but indulge him a little. “All right, show me your motorcycle.”
Well, he does more than show me. He hands me a helmet, and my first
thought is, Hell no. Honestly, it’s
not him I don’t trust; rather, it’s the thought of my body brutally scraping
against pavement if he rounds a corner too quickly in an attempt to impress me,
or something.
Sensing my apprehension, he pouts. “Oh come on, AK. Live a little. You
can’t graduate college without riding a motorcycle.”
Oh, hell. Chalk this up to one last undergraduate hurrah, I suppose. I
take the helmet, which doesn’t fit easily over my ponytail, and nervously wrap
my arms around him once I climb on. Who would have thought I’d ever have to
literally cling to him for dear life? He’s loving every minute of this, I can
tell.
It should come as no surprise, once he revs up the engine a few more
times than is probably necessary, that he drives us away from campus. Briefly,
I panic. What if I’ve been wrong about him this whole time? What if these last
few weeks of flirtation were nothing but a ruse to charm me into trusting him,
all so he could drive me away like this, completely unsuspecting, into some
remote wooded area, where God only knows what could happen…
“Where are you going?” I hiss, having no choice but to hold on to him
tighter as he speeds up. “It’s a
surprise!” is his predictable answer. Joy.
We end up at Bellacino’s, a semi-fancy (by college student standards)
Italian restaurant. Much too fancy to accept the school’s dining plan, which is
accepted at some places outside of campus – usually places that are no fancier
than McDonald’s.
I don’t know whether to laugh or cry at this irony: I’ve longed for a genuine,
loving relationship for so long, and the first guy since Jared to show an
interest is someone I shouldn’t want. Is this a normal phenomenon, or is my
life sitcom material?
I wouldn’t feel guilty about having Collin pay if we were dining at
McDonald’s: but Bellacino’s? It
doesn’t seem fair to accept this dinner off him when I have no intentions of
dating him. At the same time, it’s too late to tell him now that we’ve already
been seated, and he’s placed an order for a bottle of sparkling grape juice.
Besides, he never actually used the word “date.” So, technically, this could be
an outing for which the only goal is to enjoy each other’s company. That’s a
stretch, I realize, considering his offer to pay. Still, I don’t want to be one
to assume…
Staring at the menu, I realize what a mistake this is. I want someone to
love me, I want to feel cherished and special, but I hate dating. I hate the façade of putting on a show, the pressure
to be my best self. I hate feeling self-conscious about which of my quirks to
reveal, because who knows what personality traits are considered cute, and
which ones are turn-offs?
I want to be done with this agonizing competition to try to win a man’s
heart. There’s so much pressure to be the prettiest, the smartest, the
funniest; pressure to look my best when all I really want is to show up in
sweatpants and my favorite T-shirt.
There was never a “comfort period” like
that with Jared. With constant subtle reminders of my imperfections (“You
should work out more if you want to wear pants like those”), I could never
simply be myself around him. I’m not
convinced I can be myself around Collin, either. We’ve built a
pseudo-relationship on a foundation of non-stop sarcastic banter that, quite
frankly, is a little exhausting to keep up with. It’s like I’ll lose an
unspoken competition if I can’t fire a comeback quickly enough.
Dating, when it comes down to it, is a lot like auditioning for American Idol: thrilling, if you’re approved
to go to the next level; devastating if you’re rejected.
We have just placed the order for our meal, but already I feel sick. Deciding
I no longer care about keeping up appearances, I ask a question I’d never dare
to ask if this were someone I was truly desperate to impress: “Why are we here,
Collin?”
His confused expression, I must admit, is somewhat adorable. “We’re here
to eat dinner, silly.”
“No, I mean why are we here,
in a booth at a fancy restaurant, implying to other people that we’re a couple
or something? Where are you trying to go with this?”
I’ve gone ahead and done what Tess says women should never do: initiate
the DTR, or “Define the Relationship” conversation. It’s such a juvenile
expression, but a very fitting one. Supposedly, the guy is the one who should
start it, but I can’t remember why that is and I’m beyond caring about
convention anymore.
“Uhh,” he stumbles. “Well, I think you’re cute and interesting. I’d like
to get to know you better. Is that a problem?”
There’s still that obnoxiously charming twinkle in his eye, indicating
that I’m supposed to retort with something clever. Instead I reply, “I guess
not,” even if I think his answer is more than a little vague.
“The day we met,” he continues,
no longer grinning mischievously, but actually appearing concerned, “You seemed
upset. Anything you want to discuss?”
Well, that’s unexpected. Not to mention completely out of character, the
little I’ve seen so far. All this time I thought he was being cutely obnoxious
to start a casual fling, but that’s not the kind of question you’d ask someone
you don’t want to get emotionally involved with. But how could he want to get
emotionally involved when he attempted to kiss me before even learning my
favorite color?
“I forgot I had a paper due that day,” I say, attempting to relax. “You
might as well know I’m the type who’s extremely anal about her grades.”
“I see.” He doesn’t believe me, I can tell. “What class was it for?”
“Great Books. It was a report on Great
Expectations.”
“There would be a book with the word ‘Great’ in the title for a Great
Books class.”
“I know, right?”
Here we are again: the same old banter that keeps getting worse as it
gets better, and damn near impossible to end once it’s already started. Like
trying to contain Niagara Falls in a coffee mug.
When our food arrives, we stop talking for a while. Is it “romantically
correct” (as opposed to “politically correct”) to ask the girl to pay for her
own meal if the guy decides, mid-date, that he doesn’t want to see her again?
No, I’m the one who should offer to pay my own way. I’ll end this
whatever-it-is first, just to avoid the humiliation of being the one to get
dropped all over again. Always better to be safe than sorry.
The waiter comes by, asking how our food turned out. I seize the
opportunity and say “Can we have separate –”
“It’s on one check,” Collin interrupts. Nodding, the waiter disappears,
and Collin reaches for my sweaty hand from across the table. “Chill out, AK-47.
I got this.”
I am hereby excused from any accusation of leading him on. Still, it
feels wrong.
The ride back to campus is more nerve-wracking than before, now that
it’s dusk, and pitch black from the tinted glass inside Collin’s helmet. I
really have to trust him now that I can’t see a thing, and I hate myself for
agreeing to this all over again.
My paranoia is unfounded. We arrive back at the campus, safe and sound,
and I accept his offer to walk me back to my room. Now I can pride myself on
having experienced one official date since Jared: it means I’m not a complete
loser.
Yet here we are once more, alone in the hallway, and temptation creeps
in like water from a sieve. What, exactly, is protocol here? With Jared, a kiss
was the least amount of activity expected to close an evening together; was
that just him, or do all guys expect that? Do I “owe” Collin for taking me out
for a meal?
Most importantly, do I want to kiss him, dinner or no dinner, simply
because he’s Collin?
Playing into the moment, he whispers “I had a great time tonight,” and
he’s tracing my jawline again. Whatever it is he’s trying to do, he’s good at
it – good in a way that tells me, somehow, it’s worked before. It feels
calculated: rehearsed, even.
When his hand cups my chin and slowly tilts my face toward his, I all
but lose myself completely. His mouth is a centimeter away from meeting mine
when common sense – or is it fear? – kicks in, and suddenly I am wrenching
myself away.
“There’s too much garlic on my breath, right?” he asks, at the same time
I think Goodbye, last chance.
“Uh, no, your breath is fine.” It just now occurs to me that if I were
serious about this, I would have avoided kissing him anyway, simply because my
breath reeks of garlic too. Or would it matter, if we both smell the same? It’s
not like people never kissed each other before there was a standard for
hygiene.
“So what is it, then?” He sounds slightly irritated now, for which I
can’t blame him. This was a two-person tango, after all. How can I back out
without looking like a tease, or worse: revealing the real reason I can’t do
this? Because even if Collin is about six inches taller than the man I used to date,
maybe ten pounds heavier, and has blond hair instead of brown, I know I’d be
pretending it’s Jared that I’m lip-locking instead.
And that’s not fair to either of us.
“I thought I was ready for this,” I stumble. “But I don’t think –”
“Shhh, AK.” He puts his finger over my lips to shush me. “There’s no
pressure here, okay? We don’t need to decide anything right now. I just want to
have some fun with you.”
All the lingering temptation sucks out of me like a vacuum. He thinks
I’m nervous because of how kissing would affect the friendship, not because
we’re about to kiss, period. Kiss and who knows what else.
I understand now what I could not see before: I don’t need this. If Collin and I were to hook
up tonight, and I imagine with all my heart that I’m with Jared again, a man
who no longer loves me, what possible good would that do? I’m tangled enough in
hurt as it is. I may not feel worthy of much, but somehow I know I’m worth more
than this.
“I think
we’ve had enough fun already,” I tell him. My voice is icier than I intended,
but I don’t apologize. Not for that, and not for sliding my key into the lock
and slamming the door in his face.
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