A Story About The Girl I Liked More Than The Others
“Is she happy without me?”
There She Was
And in her smile, I see something more beautiful than the stars — Beth Revis
Light brown hair. Bluish-green eyes. 5'5, slender yet athletically built. Green sweatshirt cut above her waist, exposing her tan stomach. Tight, light-blue jeans. High-top white Converse.
An ass to die for.
Mesmerizing, to say the least. For privacy sake, let’s name her R.
R approaches the cash register. My intentions are no good.
“Hi,” I say with a sly smirk.
She smiles and says, “Hi,” while maintaining my soft yet intentional eye contact.
Flustered, I see.
The pressure to not say something stupid or what precisely to say next makes me nervous. But I can’t show this, so I readjust my body: I put my right foot in a cubby elevating my leg, elongate my spine, puff my chest out, and place my hands on my waist.
I look like the Captain Morgan logo — just not as cool.
Usually, I’m calm, cool, and collected. But not with her.
“What are you up to?” I ask?
This question is my go-to. You can segway from any answer given.
“I’m going to school.”
“Where do you go?”
She names a local university near my hometown.
“What’s your major?” Before shes answers, I interrupt — “let me guess…marketing?”
I always do this. It adds fun and excitement to the interaction.
And, if I guess right, I appear as if I see her; see her better than anyone she’s ever met; see her for who she is — a desire the feminine craves.
But, I guess incorrectly.
“No. Health Science.”
She’s interested in me. I can tell by the eye contact, hair flipping, and slight fidgeting of her hands. But she’s hesitant.
This could be because of 1) my firm, direct tone of voice, 2) the assertiveness of my curiosity, 3) her trying to gauge my interest, 4) her playing hard to get, 5) she has a boyfriend.
Still trying to feel her out and determine whether I should eject or continue — “What do you want to do?” I ask.
“I wanted to be a nurse, but now I don’t know because I interned at a hospital and didn’t like being around people that were sick and hurt. I’m an empath, so I’m sensitive to the pain of others.”
Vulnerability — a good sign.
An elderly lady begins to approach the register. R starts to walk toward the drink hand-off for her iced almond milk latte and oatmeal.
Ugh! It was just going well.
Despite my resentment toward the grey-haired woman standing in front of me, I playfully joke with her, hoping R would admire my charisma.
R gathers her order, and I notice her glance at me from the corner of my eye before she heads for the exit.
My coworker, who made her order, said she kept looking at me. He knew what was going on. The tension was palpable. And he realized her beauty and how attraction is a game I play often.
The next time she comes in, I remember her, of course, but I don’t recall our conversion. I talk to plenty of people a day and make small talk with everyone.
Or perhaps her allure made me deaf.
So, I ask her the same set of questions I asked her previously — specifically, where she went to school. This later became an inside joke between us; one of those “this is how we met stories.”
That’s the extent of our conversation because people were waiting in line. As she’s waiting for her order, she greets another one of my male coworkers. They have a quick conversation.
I wasn’t threatened. My coworker is funny and a cool guy, but becomes too self-conscious and approval-seeking with attractive girls.
She leaves, and I ask him how he knows her.
“I know her boyfriend.”
“Oh cool,” I say with equanimity.
FUCK!
You Have What I Want
“The world is little, people are little, human life is little. There is only one big thing — desire.” ― Willa Cather
The next time she comes in, it’s with her boyfriend—total douche.
One of those hippie types that appears to be tripping on drugs, aimlessly wandering and becoming mesmerized by the clouds in the sky as if his eyes were virgin to them.
Charismatic, I’ll admit. Good looking as well: Caucasian with the same eyes as R, about my height — 6'0, undercut hairstyle — long on top, short on sides; oversized green and white flannel with the top four buttons unbutton flashing his shaved boobs, baggy blue jeans, and classic black and white Chuck Taylors.
He looks like the less sophisticated version of Chris Hemsworth:
I’m not jealous but my competitiveness has awoken. I believe I’m better looking (humbly speaking, if possible): the classic tall dark and handsome, athletically built with straight white teeth.
Most people think I’ve had braces, but I haven’t. My smile, I’m told, is my unfair advantage.
I get compared to Adam Levine, Josh Duhamel, and Jesse Rutherford from the band The Neighborhood (we have the same birthday and are the same age. Twins separated at birth?).
I recently buzzed my head, so I look like this:
Anyway, I treat the couple no differently than I would anyone else. I ask them what they’re up to and make small talk. I talk to him primarily, but between pauses in dialect, I lock eyes with her.
The couple order and drink and eat their food outside, and leave. I don’t see her for months until she’s being interviewed by one of my bosses.
As one of the managers at the coffee shop, she had the job. I don’t care if she gave the worst interview known to man; she was getting hired.
I Want To Know What You Better Than You
“The shortest distance between two people is a story.” ― Patti Digh
We don’t work together often because we have opposing schedules, but I’m well aware when we do.
On these days, the drive to work becomes preparation — a warmup of sorts — to let go of all that makes my energy unattractive, and manifest which makes it attractive.
“What are you doing after work? Teach yoga?”
This is the extent of our conversations; exciting, I know. I don’t try and force conversation with R. Instead, I’m upbeat and fun with everyone.
The urge to give her all my attention is powerful. I want to know everything about her.
I want to know what she was like as a kid: shy and introverted like me? Or outgoing, graceful, and magnetic? (I assume the latter.)
I want to know her biggest secrets. Regrets. And successes.
I want to know what makes her body shrink with fear. I want to know what makes her heart balloon with joy.
I want to have one of those moments when you’re sharing such personal details with one another that you feel warm and safe, like drinking hot chocolate by the fireplace with a fluffy blanket.
This moment doesn’t happen until the summer.
A Thought Without You Is Fruitless
“I was doing that thing the infatuated do, stitching destiny onto the person we want stitched to us.” ― Rachel Kushner
Returning to my 2017 silver Toyota Corolla after leaving Walmart, I open the door, put my groceries on the passenger seat, close the door, and press the button near my steering wheel to start the car. My phone connects to my car and plays a song I don’t want to listen to, so I reach into my pocket for my phone and notice a text from the owner: “R is going to be your co-manager. You start training her tomorrow.” The other manager quit because she was moving.
Thank goodness; she was a pain in the ass.
We never saw eye-to-eye about anything. She seemed to have it out for me from day one. She’s abrasive, controlling, and assertive — everything R isn’t.
I was already happy because school had ended for summer. Knowing R and I were going to be working with each other more was the frosting on the cake; the spice on the steak; the tip of the iceberg; the…the…One of the best things that could’ve happened to me.
Everyone but R and I quit the coffee shop that summer, so we spent a lot of time together — literally all day: 6:30am to 6:30pm.
And I thought about her from 6:30pm to 6:30am.
I have a Spotify playlist compiled of love ballads titled Best Soul. I’d listen to the playlist as I walked to the local liquor store during the warm summer days when the sun was beginning to descend behind the mountains.
Every song was about her — or, at least — I made it so.
She became the words and melody. I sang to her, envisioning her joyous and flattered reactions to my display of fearless lust.
One song, in particular, Dancing on My Own by Calum Scott, resonated with me because of the situation.
Scott is alone in a bar or club and with agony, watches the boy he’s interested in, being romantic with someone else.
I’m in the corner, watching you kiss her, oh oh oh
I’m right over here, why can’t you see me, oh oh oh
And I’m giving it my all, but I’m not the guy you’re taking home, ooh
I keep dancing on my own
I’ve never thought about someone this much. Daydreaming about R was better than reality.
The stories I created in my head were more captivating than chick flicks because the movies’ characters weren’t R and me.
That’s When I Knew You Were Mine
“The only way to get rid of temptation is to yield to it… I can resist everything but temptation.” Oscar Wilde
I would flirt and tease her at work. I’ve gotten rather good at this because I was timid and reserved throughout my childhood (I still am, but I’ve improved considerably).
I didn’t even kiss a girl in high school. I realized this was a problem and spent nearly a decade improving my social skills and charisma. Let’s say the work has paid off.
I can tell she’s apprehensive about engaging in the banter but succumbs in early June.
I gave her a hard time about her preference of ice cream flavor in front of a customer, and instead of laughing it off, she fired back, playfully.
Got her.
She realized what she did — flirt with another guy — and froze with guilt. The guilt quickly melted and evaporated from her aura because I became her escape.
Her escape from the constant fighting between her and her boyfriend; her escape from the frustration of her overdemanding and critical dad; her escape from the demands and stress of a young 20 twenty-something female who just graduated college, searching for direction.
R would call me her work husband. A title I shied away from because we haven’t gotten intimate yet.
I felt her relationship was ending soon, but you never know with dysfunctional, codependent relationships. My mom has been in many, and they never end when they should.
So I had to put my focus, attention, and emotional energy elsewhere. I dated two of her friends, which doesn’t seem like a smart idea but worked out in the long run.
I dated one of them for almost two months — from July to September.
I liked her, but not as much as R.
I thought about R while I was with her friend. I couldn’t commit to her when my feelings were elsewhere, so I ended things with her.
Some Secrets Should Stay Hidden
“Three may keep a secret, if two of them are dead.” ― Benjamin Franklin
In September, R and her boyfriend were on a “break” so I thought my chance was better than ever.
Her birthday was approaching (late Sept to be exact), and I got her the most expensive gift I’ve ever gotten a girl: two tickets to a Lana Del Rey concert.
The other ticket was for one of our coworkers whose birthday was the day before Rs’. I got them both tickets because I didn’t want R or my coworkers, to think I liked R. To further deceive, I asked my coworkers to pitch in to make it a group gift.
But Deception is no match for Truth.
A Simple Text Could’ve Changed Everything
“If only. Those must be the two saddest words in the world.” ― Mercedes Lackey
Around Halloween, my feelings for R were at their peak.
Working together so often made our bond close. We’d primarily work alone. We’d spend an entire 8-hour shift, joking, laughing, and flirting.
I remember leaving work feeling like I took Ecstacy. My head felt light, my smile — effortless, and my heart radiated a warmth that swallowed every cell in my body.
My feelings got the best of me Halloween night.
Halloween eve, R and her boyfriend broke up, or, so I assumed from conversations I had with her the day before. We were texting while I was at school, her, at work.
From the signs I was receiving — “lol’s,” rosey cheek emojis — I asked her out that night.
I checked my phone every couple of minutes.
No reply.
I’m not going to check my phone during class.
A promise to alleviate the shame of being so emotionally dependent on a text.
Class ends. I rummage through the front zipper pouch of my black Jansport backpack.
No reply.
The drive home from school is forty minutes. My phone’s synched to my car via Bluetooth, so if I receive a text, it’ll appear on my stereo display.
No reply.
My anxiety morphs into anger.
How could she? I thought we were close. I thought she liked me. My coworkers believe she likes me, a lot. I’ve cuddled her anxiety. I’ve shouldered her tears. I’ve been waiting five months for her to be single. Now she’s not going to reply. She must not like me.
My coworker was having a Halloween party that night. I promised I’d make an appearance even though I was in no mood.
A fake smile was my costume.
I knew R would show up to the party; indeed, I didn’t want to go now. I can deal with awkwardness well, but I’d rather not.
I show up early, as I do with everything. I arrive to work thirty minutes before I clock-in so I can enjoy my black iced coffee and read one of many Kindle books.
R, on the other hand, is one of the last people to arrive. Always. No matter the event. She shows up to work with seconds to spare. This is one of the many ways we differ.
Anyway, my coworker says R just parked, so we walk outside to greet her and observe her costume. She dressed like Gwen Stefani from Ain’t No Holla Back Girl.
While we’re admiring her outfit, she and I make eye contact, and I can tell she feels anxious seeing me. We hug, but I keep my distance, hoping my lack of attention would ignite her concern.
But I break.
Standing shoulder-to-shoulder, taking photos of our drunk coworkers acting barbaric, I utter, “You could’ve responded. I’m not the type to get mad.”
Lie.
I was pissed. I felt rejected, and the pain expressed itself as anger.
I broke the ice because I wanted an explanation. I felt like I deserved one.
I regret this decision for two reasons: 1) it showed I cared too much, and 2) I didn’t like her response.
R and her boyfriend did not break up and were going to give it one last chance. He’s going to AA meetings as a hail mary effort because he knows R is pretty much over him.
Ridiculous.
Here I thought I was in a rocky place with R. Sucks to be him.
When The Mystery Is Gone, So Is The Relationship
“When all the details fit in perfectly, something is probably wrong with the story.” ― Charles Baxter
“Should I tell her?” I write in a journal app while I sat on a cement bench during a break between classes.
The bench hides under trees behind the library. I contemplated while the leaves fell before my feet and the sun beginning to take its place in the sky, radiating gentle warmth to the gloom of fall.
I should’ve never confronted her about not responding to my text. I felt like an idiot when I got home. I had trouble sleeping because I felt like I ruined things between us. Six months drown the drain. So, I felt like I needed to explain myself.
I wrote down all the pros and cons of telling her I liked her. Truthfully, the cons list could’ve been a mile long, and it wouldn’t have mattered.
I wanted to tell her because I hoped she’d reciprocate with similar feelings. I wanted validation and a storybook ending.
I show up to work, and there’s still a bit of tension between us. Man, I hate that awkward tension.
So, during a slow period, we’re standing near the cash register, and I say, “the reason I was upset the other night when you didn’t text me back is because I was hurt; I was hurt because I like you as more than a friend.”
Ewww.
Typing it makes my skin crawl, and my face look like I accidentally bit into a grapefruit, mistaking it for an orange. I shouldn’t have confessed my feelings because things weren’t the same between us.
I committed a lot of “shouldn’t haves” with R. Lessons learned? I hope so.
But, here’s one thing I know for certain: the angst of mystery about whether someone likes you or not is necessary during the courting phase of dating.
Would you commit to someone that didn’t engage your emotions? That didn’t make you wonder how they felt about you? That didn’t make you look at your phone hoping to see a text, snap, or dm from them?
I killed those firey emotions. Spit water on them and pissed on their ashes when I told her how I felt.
R would even poke fun at the fact I liked her like a kindergartner would on the playground. She’d pinch my cheeks and tap my nose with the polished nail of her index finger trying to annoy me.
I can tell she still liked me, though. We’d continue to flirt and play-fight, so there was hope.
Expectations vs Reality
“Blessed is he who expects nothing, for he shall never be disappointed.” ― Alexander Pope
I’m driving home from a date, and I receive a text from R: “we broke up.”
A big smile free-falls across my face, and I begin to reply. Deciding it was dangerous, and more importantly, didn’t want to get a ticket because baristas don’t make the big bucks, I call her.
I ask her how’s she’s feeling and she says “fine”. She then asks me how my date was. I keep it vague (mystery — lesson learned).
A couple of days later, we make plans to go to a concert with our coworkers. On the day of the show, all of our coworkers bailed.
I was not upset by this and R was still down to go, so we agree — I’ll drive if she pays for the tickets.
I rehearsed in my head how the night was going to go:
We’d have fun playing each other songs we liked from the headliner and other music we thought the other would enjoy.
We’d stop and get dinner on the way there. We’d sit across from each other, smiling, joking, and laughing.
As soon as we’d enter the venue, she’d jump on my back for a piggyback ride. When she gets off my back, I’d notice people marveling at our joyousness together.
During a song, while slowly swaying back and forth, our shoulders teasing one another’s, we’d make eye contact, hold it, look at eaches lips, and kiss. We’d slightly pull away, unlocking our lips while our eyes and smile expressed the ecstasy of the moment.
Then we’d leave the concert feeling sight exhaustion — good exhaustion, though. The kind that makes you feel relaxed and indifferent; the kind where your body feels unbound by gravity, that’d you’d float away if the wind were angry enough.
We didn’t go. She bailed and went on a date with a random guy she meant on Instagram.
You Want Me Because I Don’t Want You
“It’s so much darker when a light goes out than it would have been if it had never shone.” ― John Steinbeck
I was done. I was over it.
Not really. These statements were affirmations I had to tell myself to bolster my faux self-respect.
I did pull away, though. I stopped flirting with R at work. I stopped responding to texts. I hung out with girls she knew — customers and friends. Adding insult to injury, I flaked on her a couple of times.
I did these things not because I was actually over her, but I knew it would cause an emotional reaction strong enough to get her to chase me and realize my value.
Why do we have to lose someone before we recognize their importance?
At a charity celebrity softball game for work, she was touching me a lot. She’d make an excuse to accompany me to a booth or vendor I wanted to check out, and get real close to me when we walked together — literally rubbing against me like a cat in heat. She’d make jealous comments about other girls at the event being interested in me.
I was going to leave the event early, but she asked if I could stay later and drop her home.
I knew it was going to happen that night.
Immediately to your right after walking through the front door of her apartment is a washer and dryer hidden behind a closet. And to your left, the kitchen; the fridge being nearest to the front door.
Her roommates weren’t home; both older women — mid-thirties — were either at work or with their boyfriends. R continued to give me a tour.
The living room is spacious. An L-shaped couch sits six feet away from a small TV — by my standards; it’s about forty inches. The TV in my living room is seventy inches.
As movie buffs and sports fanatics, my best friend and I have always dreamed about having a big TV once we got a place together. It took many years, but we finally made it happen last summer.
R’s bedroom was down the hall, second door to the right. We enter her room, and anticipation makes my heart punch my chest like a boxer jabbing a wall in preparation before a championship fight.
I’m observing her room, making comments about her furniture and items, stalling, and building comfort before I make a move.
“Oh, wow, this is cool,” I say, noticing an old vinyl player on a stand in front of her bed. “Where’d you get it?”
“My dad got it for me. We both love old Rock n’ Roll music. We used to have a similar vinyl player at my house. My dad bought it for me when I moved for school.”
I sit on her bed and pet her cat; R joins. The cat, the last obstacle between us, physically.
We talk for a bit. She gets up to leave the room, and I grab her bicep and slowly pull her on top of me.
Our feet dangling off the side of her bed, her head laying on my chest, I gently run the tips of my fingers along the skin of her lower back, where her shirt is absent.
With insecurity, she remarks, “friends don’t do this.”
“I guess we’re not friends.”
She elevates her head from my chest and kisses me.
We briefly make out. I make an excuse to leave because escalating things further would’ve appeared too eager. But…
Finally!
I left her house feeling like an ice-cold player pimp. Despite all the ups and downs and my mishaps, I sealed the deal.
After the rush of confidence began to rest and eventually fall asleep, I replayed the moments and memories between R and I like a movie as I drove to my friends for dinner:
Boy meets girl. Girl has jerk boyfriend. Boy and girl like each other. Girl realizes her boyfriend is a complete and utter d**k. Breaks up with boyfriend. Boy and girl, with desperation and passion, untie and live happily ever after.
The Mirror Never Lies: The Truths Of Your Reflection
“The greatest thing in the world is to know how to belong to oneself.” ― Michel de Montaigne
From January to March, we play cat and mouse. I’m the cat precautiously pursuing and pulling away, getting frustrated every time I sense the mouse tense or about to flee.
The tables turn when COVID strikes.
Our relationship is the best its ever been. We talked on the phone for three and a half hours one night after the stay-at-home orders were announced.
The facades and barricades relaxed and our souls united that night.
We talked about future dreams, past trauma, Netflix shows, favorite books, new music. I experienced that moment I mentioned previously: warmth and euphoria from deep connection.
I mostly shared because she kept nudging at reclusiveness. I prefer to listen rather than talk. A trait I believe and have been told will make a good therapist.
But, feeling inspired by the moment, I confess more than usual.
I told R my dreams for the future. I want to have a house that has a big office I can give therapy sessions from. I envision a client coming to my house, tentative at first, but feeling like part of the family once they meet my wife chasing down our two kids.
I tell R about a secret I’ve only told a handful of people. I live with immense physical pain every day. Bouts of depression clench my soul because I have arthritis in my face from a dislocated jaw.
Daily functions are a burden: talking full breaths are impossible, my voice vanishes randomly, and expressing joy is burdensome because smiling hurts.
I don’t like to share the details of my physical pain because when I have, people either feel sorry or try to fix me — neither gestures I want to experience in my relationships.
We played this question game I found online — 60 Questions To Ask Someone You’re Dating. I suggested the game because even though we weren’t dating, I’d figure it make it feel like we were, which would bring us closer (so manipulative, I know).
The two best questions were: 1) “What is your most embarrassing moment?” and 2) “What song reminds you of me?”
My most embarrassing moment is laughing so hard I farted on a girl I was interested in at the time.
I can’t share hers, unfortunately; wish I could because it was damn funny.
There were so many songs that reminded me of R. Hell, I could’ve sent her my Best Soul playlist and said have at it, but thought that would be a little too obsessive.
Instead, I told her the song that reminded me most of her is Things You Can’t Change by Rhys Lewis.
The truth is whatever you do I, I know
There’ll be no changing my mind
’Cause I want you for the worse and for the better
It’s all you do, but you don’t realize
I love you for you, babe
For all the things you can’t change
R has an anxiety disorder and worries that her mental health is too much for another person to handle. I told her many times it wasn’t, and that I liked her the way she was. She’d brush off my affirmations.
Long Game by Gavin Haley was the song she attributed to me.
Swear we’ll make it work
For better things
Guess this is what we gotta do
So if you need your space
Well that’s okay
’Cause I’m here for the long game
I realized my devotion for her didn’t go unnoticed. How could it? I feel like I’ve made my desire obvious.
When we ended the call, she texted me within seconds, “I’ve never talked on the phone for that long.”
“Me, either,” I replied.
But the physical distance from her made me realize some things.
Ever since we first started interacting, I felt like we were two entirely different beings, and it was my job to make a connection; more like force a connection.
She loves yoga, is vegan, likes to be outdoors, is artsy, and extroverted.
I lift weights, eat meat like a caveman, prefer the shade of my room over that of a tree, and can lock myself in my bedroom for weeks only leaving to workout, eat, and go to the bathroom.
The entire premise of our relationship was me trying to subtly convince her of our chemistry — a chemistry that never existed.
After reflection, I decided it was best for me to move on.
Is She Happy Without Me?
“I wonder if the strength of your smile is weakened without me.” — Bryce Godfrey
If she texted me or sent me something via Instagram, I wasn’t going to respond. If she called, I wasn’t going to pick up.
Sometimes, going ghost is necessary. And I didn’t owe R an explanation; we weren’t officially dating.
After a couple of days of no contact, she sends me a text about a movie she thought I’d like.
No reply.
Days later, she texts me about a flirty note I left her at work.
No reply.
She comments on my Instagram story, “bro I miss you kinda.”
No reply.
I was tempted to reply to the above. It’s hard to pull away, especially for someone who cares a lot about what people think of him and who wants to please everyone.
I’m aware I’m codependent and a people-pleaser. I’ve worked on it over the years. I’ve come a long way. Keeping my distance and learning to walk away was a big step in my development as a person.
The only person that matters in this world is you. Your happiness and emotional well-being are more important than anothers — including friends, family, and partners.
I haven’t seen or heard from her since I got fired for being an idiot. My heart jumps when I see her post on Instagram. My mind wonders if she’s been hooking up with her ex (something I assumed because he was the only constant in her life, even if that constant was unhealthy).
I take 10–15 minute breaks when I write to stretch, do some yoga, and foam roll in my room. While lying my thigh on top of the dense foam, I rolled forward and back trying to spot any knots or tension. I didn’t find anything because I was distracted.
Instead of feeling my body, my thoughts pictured R, smiling and laughing with my coworkers and the owners of the coffee shop.
I wonder if she's found someone else; someone who she won’t give the runaround. Someone she’ll uninhibitedly desire, unlike me.
I wonder if she’s happy without me until I remember how happy I am without her.
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