After that party, I couldn’t seem to get rid of Sean. We were both premed, so we studied together, ate dinner together, walked the long way back from the library to the dorms just to enjoy each other’s company. We could talk about anything and everything, and so we did, seemingly nonstop—our insecurities, our interests, his difficulties balancing baseball with organic chemistry, my difficulties balancing organic chemistry with biology, our favorite novels, my brief foray into cosplay, his secret, maudlin poetry. We took short drives out to the city to go to museums, and long drives out to the national parks to go on hikes. It was all very sweet and almost platonic until one evening, after I’d said something particularly ridiculous, Sean let out a bark of laughter and swung around to face me.
“Angie, you’re incredible,” he’d said, snatching my hand up in his. I remembered the look on his face then, the way the evening sun had set his hazel eyes aflame. No one had ever kissed me before. Sean made sure I got plenty of practice.
It was over for me after that. Every thought I had was about Sean. I recounted our conversations to Michelle and Nia almost verbatim. I burned through my monthly allowance buying clothes that I thought he would like and planned my life around our “dates.” I wondered if we could get into medical school in the same city, what my parents would think of him, what his would think of me.
Back then, I hadn’t recognized that I was getting ahead of myself. Love had seemed so simple. You met someone, you liked each other, you got together, end of. And so when Sean’s previously effusive texts became sparse, I told myself, We don’t have to talk all the time. When his schedule filled up with baseball practices and group projects that came out of thin air, I let myself be convinced that he was just busy. Any doubts I had about us were abated by the occasional “I miss you” text, or once, a $5 fundraiser carnation delivered to me in his name.
Until even these stopped, and I realized, too late, that I’d been abandoned.
“I know you’re probably pissed at me,” Ricky said when I didn’t respond after a few seconds. “But please. I just want to talk. If I say my piece and you still think I’m full of shit, you can kick me out.”
You told me you would call, and then you didn’t. “This isn’t over,” he’d said, his body physically blocking me from closing the door on us. And because I never learned, a small, desperate part of me had believed him.
And that part was gnawing at my chest now, even while the rest of me screamed to leave him out in the night. If you don’t hear him out, you’ll wonder what he had to say forever, it said, and then you’ll never get the closure you need.
“Okay,” I said numbly, and then I pressed the button to let him through the gate.
Outside, I could hear the screech of the wrought-iron gate opening. Suddenly, I became self-conscious. Enjoying my alone time had meant being comfortable, which meant cavorting around my apartment in a shapeless nightie and no underwear. Listening to his footsteps start up the stairs, I flew into my room and put my panties back on, then ran into the bathroom to check my face for any offensive crumbs. A little ashy, maybe—I hadn’t been generous with the moisturizer after my shower—and so I made a game-time decision to slather my face with a dab of body butter. By the time his steps stilled outside my door, I was poised and ready.
There was a rustling sound, some frustrated noises, and then a knock. I waited a few seconds, bounced back on my heels, took a deep breath—here goes nothing—and opened the door.
Instead of a face, I was greeted by a mass of large green leaves.
I jumped back just as Ricky lowered a very large plant to the floor. I stared at it in disbelief, and its long-stemmed white blossoms bobbed back at me.
“You could have told me you were coming,” I said. It had been less than a week since La Ventana, but already Ricky felt unfamiliar, and I wrapped my arms around myself to recenter. I couldn’t bring myself to meet his eyes, and so I tried to look elsewhere. My gaze lingered on the shadow of his Adam’s apple, then dipped down to the smooth expanse of chest exposed by the gaping of his Henley. My mouth went dry. Okay, eyes it is.
“You would have told me not to,” Ricky said matter-of-factly. He took off his shoes, then bent over to pick up the plant again. “Where should I put this?”
He looked around my living room and, having apparently answered the question himself, carried the plant past me to a corner by a window.
“So you specifically showed up in person to pressure me into giving you an audience?” I said, incredulous. “You realize that you’re admitting to taking that choice away from me, right?”