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They exchange a long look before turning to me. I see the answer in their eyes.
I don’t get him back. And I guess that realization starts phase two.
Theo
“Hey ya,” I hear for the tenth time since I got to school. At first, I wasn’t sure if it was for me.
And then I was getting the official Grand Salute everywhere, on every corner of campus, by everyone, including faculty. And one brave girl had the audacity to lecture me during finals. “Hey ya, buddy, just call her. You two belong together.”
I wanted to argue that all she knows is what she saw on social media and that it’s misleading. But it’s not. It’s us. That was the whole point. And that point is constantly stabbing me.
After a hundred or so greetings, I pull up our account to see a candid of me she posted and the hashtag beneath it.
Has anyone seen my best friend? If you do, please do me a favor and give him a “Hey ya,” for me.
#imissmybestfriend #livingmyloneliestlife
The sentiment doesn’t ring hollow, and only hits harder as the day goes on, and one classmate after the other calls out to me from every direction. “Hey ya!” The greeting is used often enough, but I don’t think it’s ever been used quite like this. I’m willing to bet Laney’s project outshined every other senior’s this year, and all we had to do to make it happen was fall in love.
Her project might be a smashing success, but we are currently a disaster. She’ll be leaving soon. She’s about to graduate. It’s been weeks since we broke up. The most miserable fucking two weeks of my life.
This is where I’m supposed to admit I overreacted.
I did.
This is also the part where I’m supposed to run and tell the girl and admit what an idiot I’ve been.
I haven’t.
Because though I credit myself for having a different mindset than most, I’m still a fucking guy. A guy who’s spent more good years catering to women and getting his heart mangled in return.
Maybe nice guys do finish last. And for the first time, since I met Troy and Lance, I fully understand their philosophy.
Theodore Houseman’s Colossal College Mistake #2, falling for a caged bird.
Laney was never a sure thing. She was a wild card. And I painted my glasses the perfect shade of rose to discredit any reasons why we shouldn’t be together. The woman’s signature characteristic is indecisiveness. She’s got no map for her future. She only lives in the present with the pretense of later. And I encouraged it because I was too afraid to push her in any one set direction, including mine.
Because I’d catered to her too. No questions. No pressure to make decisions; about us, what we were, and where we were going.
But one thing is for certain. She is going.
“Hey ya,” a voice rings out in the distance, and I pump my legs to try and escape them, but it’s pointless. Another voice calls out to me, then another, and another, and eventually it’s only her voice I hear, reminding me of what I’m missing. A solid lump forms in my throat as the greetings stab me from all directions while I make my way to my car. Safely inside, I white-knuckle my steering wheel. Chest battered and soul bruised from the ache of missing her, I turn over the ignition and lift my phone rereading her last text.
Laney: I trusted myself. I trusted you.
Reading the words while feeling this raw has my heart rupturing. She sent it a week ago, and then the texts stopped. What message am I sending her by ignoring it? I vowed to be the one man in her life that wouldn’t abandon her. The anger was enough then to fuel my silence, but now it’s the hurt and fear keeping me quiet. We met at a crossroads, and now we’re at another. Trust is what we based our whole relationship on and what tore us apart. The brutal truth is, every time I think about her, I see him too, and the way she looked at him.
Music blares out of the jukebox as I sit at the bar downing another shot before drowning the aftertaste with beer.
I’ve been sitting here since school let out, unwilling to head home. Troy moved out the night I blew up. The house has been eerily quiet since and if I’m honest, I miss the traffic.
“Hey, man.” I look over to see Lance sidle up on the barstool next to me.
Glancing over, I study the bulk of him. I observe he’s the dark jock to Troy’s light as he orders a beer. “What are you doing here?”
“What are you doing here. This isn’t your scene, is it?”
I glance around the musty bar. Skeletons of longhorns hang sporadically around the place while stapled signed dollar bills pose as wallpaper.
