“Congratulations on your win, Felix.” I can’t believe I’ve just said his name out loud. It’s surreal to be standing here speaking to all of them. The tension in the room has gone down significantly now that the guys Felix was playing with have left, and all four of them have turned their attention to me. And of course, I can’t think of anything to say.
“You don’t want to stay and see if you could win even more?” I wave my barely-touched drink at the table.
“I want to hang out with you now that you’re here,” says Felix. “Unless you really have to go find your friend right now.”
“Um.” I’ve been thinking all week about the moment I would see these guys again, and in my head I expected I would be confident and cool, but now that I’m actually face to face withall four of them, towering over me with their fingers flipping their cubes so fast they’re a blur, I can barely string together a coherent thought. And it’s so hot in here with all the partygoers and smoke, and so loud, I have to force myself to focus and not get all jumbled up in my head, lost between my fantasies about this moment and the reality of it. “No, she’s probably fine. She can text me if she’s looking for me.”
I have the same feeling I get before a big test or interview, like there’s a little flutter of hope inside my chest, and I’m worried I’m going to screw up and it’s going to be crushed.
But these guys want to hang out with me. That’s what I’d hoped would happen when I came over here, so why am I lowkey panicking right now?
Maybe I should have positioned myself where they’d be able to see me and let them come find me instead. But because I sought them out, it feels like they have the upper hand, and at any moment they could change their minds and say, “Just kidding.”
We’ve all been standing here not saying anything for too long. I’m trying to think of something else to say when Lukas breaks the silence. “You didn’t use our photo.”
Well, there goes my hope that they hadn’t seen the article. Of course they saw it. They probably were excited to see themselves in the paper, and I let them down. I glance away, not wanting to see the disappointment or anger or whatever other emotions are playing across their faces at my failure to do what I had said I would.
I spot Ronnie in the crowd, one hand possessively on Trevor’s chest and the other holding a drink. When she catches my eye, it’s questioning.What’s going on? Who are those guys and do I need to come save you from them?her expression is saying.
Little does she know, it’s not the guys I need to be saved from. It’s myself.
Shaking my head slightly to reassure her that I’m okay, I turn my attention back to Lukas and his friends. I don’t need to be saved. I need to acknowledge that I made them a promise I couldn’t keep, and I need to apologize. I force myself to breathe, wishing their gazes weren’t so penetrating.
“My editor cut the story down by a lot. I’m so sorry.” And I really am. It’s not fair that they shouldn’t be recognized properly simply because my editor just doesn’t care about what they do, and assumes most of our readers won’t care either. But there’s no way I’m going to say any of that to them.
“The article I wrote included a lot from the interview we did.” Like how many times they’ve won and how long they’ve been cubing.
“Do you still have the picture though?” asks Elliot.
“I bet she does,” says Sebastian, studying my eyes.
“Um.” Do I admit that I do? And that I look at it every night before I go to bed? And first thing in the morning when I wake up? And maybe a few times throughout the day?
Absolutely not. No way. I am never telling them that. My face heats just thinking about what they would say if they knew what a weirdo I’ve been about that stupid picture.
“What are the journalistic ethics of keeping our photo if you didn’t use it in the article?” asks Sebastian. He doesn’t look like he’s accusing me of anything, but more like he’s genuinely wondering. Or studying me and trying to figure out who I am.
I’m not sure what he’s trying to get at with this line of questioning. As a reporter, I should be able to follow the thread of a conversation and anticipate where questions are leading to, but for some reason I can’t with Sebastian.
Or maybe it’s not him. Maybe it’s the feeling of his three teammates’ eyes on me all at the same time. Or, quite possibly,it’s the pressure I’ve put on this entire interaction by building it up in my head since the first time we met.
I’ve been acting like a flake all evening, and I really need to get it together. I force myself to focus.
“It’d be fine, ethically, to retain a photo that wasn’t run with an article for use in a future story.” That sounds right, anyway, or at least feasible. It’s definitely better than, “I don’t care if it’s ethical or not when the subjects of said photo are really cute and have an inexplicable hold on my brain.”
“Do you look at it?” asks Elliot.
Now, how am I supposed to answer that? I could say no, but for some reason, I don’t want to lie to them. And something about the way they’re looking at me says that if I say no, they’ll be disappointed, which churns up a flurry of butterflies in my belly.
“Yes.” I want to see if those butterflies are telling the truth. I’m a terrible liar, anyway.
The competitors all nod and exchange a look that says they expected me to say that, even as they continue to solve and scramble their cubes.
Relief floods through me that they don’t jump down my throat and accuse me of being creepy. For a split second, I wonder if they’ll move in closer, taking the admission that I look at their photo as proof that I’m attracted to one or all of them. If they’ll hit on me. Maybe ask me to go upstairs with them.
Lukas’s words from last weekend slip through my mind.We like to share.
I don’t know how it’s possible, but my face flushes even hotter than it already was, and I bring my beer to my lips in hopes that the liquid will cool me down. I don’t even know which part of this is more ridiculous, the idea that not just one, but all of them would be interested in me, or the realization that I might … be into that.
