He rakes his hair haphazardly, wobbly in his footing. “Uh, I should get to bed. Early shift tomorrow.” His gaze is glued to the floor as he careens down the hallway, bolting for his bedroom.
If I were a normal person, I’d shake the whole thing off and yell a casual “Goodnight,” like absolutely nothing happened. But when I move my lips, nothing comes out. My body is like my college PC laptop I never shut down. Loud. Disruptive fan. Overheating when more than two tabs are open simultaneously. Powering down at the most inconvenient of times.
I’m rigor mortis as the stranglehold of humiliation prevents me from doing anything but wish for a swift, painless death.
LIVE WITH TARAROMANCEQUEEN—AWKWARD KISSES
[Tara wears an ill-fitted fluorescent workout top and messy bun. She lies on a red mat at the gym. Unlike the patrons in the background, she is not doing physical activity.]
EXCERPT FROM TRANSCRIPT
TARA: Hello, romance book lovers, welcome back to my channel. Today we’re talking about kissing. Now, there are a lot of awkward kisses in books and film. Usually, I’m here for them either way. But one thing I’ll never get on board with? Kissing in the rain. Sure, the allure of a passionate, wet lip-lock may be what some consider spontaneous. Marginally sexy, even. Nature makes people do weird shit. But is the short-lived thrill worth resembling a drowned sewer rat and getting pneumonia? Unlikely.
And even worse than rain kisses are upside-down, Spiderman-style kisses. Who does this? Are the mechanics of a normal, upright kiss not stressful enough? I have a hard enough time deciding if I’m going right or left or if I’m top-or bottom-lip heavy.
Have you ever experienced an awkward kiss that made you want to dissolve into dust and nothingness? Tell me about it in the comments below!
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FROM THE SWEAT raining down my face, one would presume I’ve been waterboarded by a hostile government or murderous terrorist group.
Nope. I’m just here in my own special little ring of hell, sweating out my regret in Crystal’s Muscle Fit class with twenty other red-faced patrons. In the last few months, she started teaching in-person classes at the gym, which are in such high demand, people book weeks in advance.
Crystal observes my poor biceps curl form like a drill sergeant. “Keep engaging your core. Just ten more seconds and we’re done,” she instructs in her encouraging-trainer voice.
Beside me, Mel is holding strong in those last few curls, barely breaking a sweat.
Beads of salty, alcohol-infused sweat seep past my lash line, stinging my eyeballs. I’m now half-blind, and the pop tune blasting over the sound system certainly isn’t doing much for my stamina. When my sweaty fingers lose their grip on the barbell, I know it’s game over. It lands with a thud at my feet, turning the heads of the other ladies in class.
Mel hands me my water bottle, and I refrain from dousing myself like a heroic Olympic decathlete crossing the finish line to victory. I’ve never sweat so much in my life. This can’t be normal, or healthy.
I’d do unspeakable things for a shower right now—preferably the type where I’d do nothing but stand there in the steam, critically evaluating my life decisions, letting the water wash away the glaring memory of the dumpster fire that was last night.
Being turned down by two separate men in the span of two hours is a first—with the exception of New Year’s Eve circa ninth grade, when, drunk off two wine coolers, I valiantly confessed my love for not one but two crushes while rocking a distressed-denim vest.
But at least teenaged me wasn’t stuck in a tiny, eight-hundred-fifty-square-foot apartment with them. Avoiding Trevor Metcalfe, my off-limits roommate whose bedroom is a mere five feet from mine, is not so simple.
I haven’t seen him since last night, after he lurched away from me like I was an ailing troll. Immediately, I hauled ass to bed before I could make matters worse. By the time I woke up this morning, Trevor was long gone for his early shift.
In the light of day, the weight of last night’s error in judgment is staggering. To the point of indigestion. Sure, our shoulders and noses touched for a hot second. We may have even flirted a little. He may have gazed longingly at my lips. But flirting is Trevor’s default mode. He can’t help himself. And for all I know, maybe he was simply staring at a zit on my face.
The blunt truth remains—none of it meant a thing. We don’t want the same things, a crucial consideration, as he pointed out himself. Besides, there’s still this mysterious Angie person in the picture.
Why did my traitorous brain venture into the forbidden and unavailable? Why did I let my followers coerce me into thinking Trevor would be a good idea? Why must I be so overeager in every aspect of life?
I contemplate my options as Crystal confidently leads the class through a series of cooldown stretches on the mats, which are more on my level. I’m grateful for the chance to be horizontal.
Once the class is over, Mel and I stick around on the mats, watching Crystal do a quick ab workout on her own.
“I have something to tell you guys,” Crystal announces, mid-crunch. “But before I say it, you have to promise not to freak out.”
“I make no promises,” I declare.
“You’re pregnant, aren’t you?” Mel asks, retying her ponytail. She quickly adds, “Not that you look pregnant or anything. But I’ve been getting a maternal vibe from you. And you’ve been pinning house décor ideas on Pinterest.”
Crystal claps her palms together. “Scott and I . . .” Her voice trails off, and she stares at me like she’s about to drop some bad news. “We decided to elope in March. In St. Lucia.”
“Elope?” I repeat, stunned. “As in not even immediate family?” There goes my fantasy of being a no-nonsense, ball-busting maid of honor.
“Yup. Just us.” She keeps her eyes on her running shoes, which tells me she’s anticipating protest. “I know you guys were hoping for a normal wedding, but I’m just not feeling it. Neither of us are really interested in the planning and the drama.”
I don’t entirely blame her. When I was planning my wedding to Seth, dealing with the Chen side of the family was no joke. First, Grandma and Grandpa Chen insisted on inviting at least twenty “close friends” they play mah-jongg with. This includes one woman who insisted on a plus-one for her deceased husband’s urn, which she brings with her wherever she goes. Then there are Dad’s three siblings and ten adult cousins, many of whom are feuding and refuse to be seated at the same table.
Crystal and Mel eye me expectantly, noticing I’m staying tight-lipped. Truthfully, I’m picturing Dad’s face, which will be one of cutting disappointment. He’s been waiting ages to host one of our weddings. Fatherly pride aside, he lives for a good party, particularly if he gets an excuse to be in the limelight.
Belatedly, I shrug. “I completely support whatever you guys want to do, so long as you livestream your ceremony. I want to live vicariously,” I add.
“Did Scotty want to elope too?” Mel inquires, deep in a downward-dog stretch.
Crystal shakes her head. “He was up for whatever I wanted to do, as long as we get married as soon as possible. He’s mostly excited to go on a honeymoon.”