That is until a certain cowboy showed up and made himself at home in my perfectly curated routine.
And in my heart.
“Okay,” she replies slowly. “Say more words, please.”
“Ugh this is so weird to talk to you about.”
She looks offended by this, and I can hear the protest coming before she even opens her mouth.
“Not because I don’t want to talk you to my sweet ginger angel,” I say soothingly. “But we’ve never really talked about this stuff.”
“Well you’ve never brought it up before,” she says, pointing her spoon at me in accusation.
“Well there’s been nothing to bring up! And you’ve been essentially betrothed to Aaron since birth, so we never need to talk aboutyourlove life. Even your stupid names match perfectly.”
She shrugs simply–she knows I’m not wrong. In kindergarten, Abby befriended the boy who lives three houses down from her, Aaron, and decided then and there that he’d do just fine for the rest of her life. Pragmatic and self-assured even at age five, she approached him on theplayground and declared they’d be getting married someday. They negotiated terms (as well as any five year olds can), shook hands, and Aaron has looked at her like she hung the moon ever since.
I don’t know if he ever actually asked her to be his girlfriend once we got to dating age, now that I think about it. Everyone just accepts Abby and Aaron as fact the way you accept the sky is blue, or that the sun rises in the east. It’s borderline scientific.
“Okay, well now’s as good a time as any to start talking about it,” she continues. “Again I say–say more words.”
Taking a deep breath, I begin to word-vomit all of the thoughts that have been stuck in my brain for the last few weeks. Griffin has caught me completely off guard. He’s been everything from annoying to infuriating to charming, and so much in between. Every moment I spend with him I learn more, and every new thing I learn makes me hungry for anything he’s willing to give me.
He’s got to be the most steadfast, confident, complicated boy I’ve ever encountered. There are moments where he’s every bit of a teenage boy–crass jokes and hyperactivity wrapped in a knack for being something like a Tasmanian devil when he, Jack and David get together.
Then there are moments when it’s just us, and I get glimpses of exactly the kind of man he’s going to growup to be. He’s kind, and consistent, and dependable, constantly surprising me with the way he listens to me so intently–and even more so with the way he actually remembers what I say.
When I say I like a song, he’s got it queued up the next time I get in his car. He remembered my grandmother’s birthday, and brought her a bouquet of every flower I’ve ever mentioned growing with her.
It’s like he has a special Ellie box in his brain where he stores every detail about me that I give to him. And he looks at me with such intensity sometimes that I could melt–or maybe I could shine.
“So basically I have no idea what I’m feeling, and I have no idea what to say to him, or if I should say anything at all,” I conclude at the end of what had to be a twenty minute monologue.
Staring out at the lake thoughtfully, Abby finally says, “With every ounce of peace and love, that’s bullshit.”
My jaw drops. “What do you mean that’s bullshit?”
Turning squarely to face me, she launches into a monologue of her own. “I mean exactly what I said–that’s bullshit. You know exactly how you feel, you’re just scared to admit it, because for once this is something that you can’t control.”
She pauses, tilting her head in thought. “You like him, and you’re pretty sure he likes you. And that’s scarier than himnotliking you.”
I hate it when she’s all insightful.
As much as I hate to admit it, this isn’t the first time I’ve been called a control freak. Or the second. Or the tenth. I like fun and whimsy and spontaneity–when I know exactly how it’ll turn out.
What’s wrong with a girl wanting a guaranteed happy ending?
“Ellie, that boy has liked you since the second he laid eyes on you,” she says in a much gentler voice. “I know it, Jack knows it, Griffin knows it–and I think you know it too, but admitting it makes it real.”
“So what do I do, Abby?” I can’t keep the desperation out of my voice. Probably because I am desperate.
“You find a way to tell him. Or show him enough that he tells you first.”
She says it like it’s simple. It doesn’t feel like anything about this is simple.
When did life get so complicated?
I don’t respond, and she doesn’t press me on it. She knows that I know she’s right. She knows I’ll figure it out in my own way. And I will figure it out. Because I wantevery bit of Griffin I can get–even if I have to risk getting my heart broken in the process.
