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Max: Me ogling you is classified as acute eye-wandering syndrome, while you ogling me falls in the category of eye training. That’s a double standard right there.
I grin like an idiot as I hover my fingers over my phone, unsure what to write back. I saw him two days ago, and I’ll see him again on Saturday, albeit outside of the clinic. We’re going to have a long, lazy breakfast together. Ridiculous as it sounds, I wish I’d seen him today too. It’s like a switch went on inside of me, and I yearn to make up in a few weeks for the years we’ve been apart. A screeching sound behind me jolts me from my thoughts. When I look up from my phone, I realize that the room is far emptier than when I last looked around. The screeching sound came from two chairs being pushed back as their occupants rose from their seats.
Emilia: Officially more than half of the attendees have left the room. I’ll stick until the end, though.
Max: Of course you will. You and I have that in common. Determination.
Trying to ignore the flip my stomach gives as I reread the words You and I, I type back quickly.
Emilia: How do you know I’m determined? And DON’T mention that time I walked home from the fair in high heels just to prove I could. That wasn’t determination, it was stupidity.
I had just turned twelve, which meant that heels and lipstick were the height of sophistication in my mind. I had giant feet for my small frame (still do), and Grams’s shoes fit me perfectly. So one day I snuck out of the house wearing her favorite pair. In retrospect, I looked like an absolute idiot walking in them, but I was ridiculously proud. Until the balls of my feet started burning. I had gone with some of the Bennett siblings, Max included, to a junkyard sale nearby. I insisted on wearing the stupid shoes until I got home. My feet were burning, and I broke a heel. Grandma didn’t speak to me for three days, and I walked in flats for a week.
Max: No, I was referring to that summer you spent hours a day trying to shoot hoops.
Emilia: How do you know about that? I didn’t tell anyone.
Max: Who do you think happened to leave a basketball hoop for you to find?
I gasp, which earns me some ugly looks from the remaining seminar participants. I quickly mask it with a look of fake interest at the presenter. I count the seconds until everyone returns their gaze to the front before typing again.
Emilia: It was you?
The response comes right away.
Max: I knew you wouldn’t take a handout, so I just bought a hoop and broke it a bit, so you could fix it quickly. Then I made it look as if someone got rid of it and a makeshift backboard by throwing them away at the edge of the road.
I read the message a few times, allowing his words to sink in. The idea that a twelve-year-old Max planned and carried that out is… wow. I sucked at scoring in basketball, hence why I was the last one picked every time we played in teams. I vowed I’d get better. I saved my pocket money to buy a ball, but I still needed a hoop when I saw the discarded one and the wood plank next to my gate. I mounted them both on the branch of a tall tree in my yard and practiced for hours each day. Grams and I moved to Montana by the end of the summer, but I kicked ass in basketball on my new school’s team.
Sighing, I type back.
Emilia: I just melted a bit.
Max: Does that mean I get a free pass at eye training on Saturday during breakfast? It seems I can’t help myself anyway.
Shaking my head, I prepare to write back something witty when I notice that the battery sign in the right upper corner is red and blinking.
Emilia: My phone is going to die soon.
Max: I’ll take this as a yes.
Soon becomes right now, becomes a few seconds after hitting Send, the screen goes dark. I drop my phone in my bag and dedicate my full attention to the seminar. One hour later, it’s a wrap. I’m about to leave the building when someone calls my name from behind.
“Emilia!”
I spin around and find myself face-to-face with John. We’ve attended a few seminars together and grabbed dinner afterward twice. I realized too late he’d considered those dates. I’d just considered them having dinner with someone who is in the same line of work.
“Hi, John!”
“You still owe me that third date. It’s very late, but would you like to go to dinner with me? I know a great burger place just a few blocks away. Or we could just grab a drink.”
I shift my weight from one foot to the other, rubbing the back of my neck with my palm. I don’t like his pushy tone, but I don’t want to argue with him. It would make future seminars awkward. As I look into John’s expectant expression, my mind conjures up quite a different image. One of a six-foot-tall man with chocolate brown eyes and a smile that seems to permanently say I am up to no good.
“Sorry, John, I can’t.”
His friendly expression wavers for a split second. “Of course, you probably have plans already. Next time, maybe.”
He walks away before I have time to say anything back, but I already know I won’t take him up on any future invitations. Securing the strap of my bag over my shoulder, I head out of the building, musing over my short interaction with John. Once I climb into my car, I sigh loudly. Max. Why is he always on my mind? This wouldn’t be problematic if my thoughts would roam in the friend zone, but more often than not, they cross to Dirtytown. My dreams have taken up permanent residence in Smutland.
