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I wanted to wait longer to text her to set up our “friend date.” I hate the worddate. But what else do I call it? Casual meetup? Get together? An engagement or rendezvous? None sound right. Especially the worddate.
I hate myself.
Hate the inner workings of my mind and how I overanalyze every little detail. Hate that she hasn’t answered me, and it has only been ten minutes since I sent the message. Hate how I have worked myself up over something I deem friendship.
Have I ever been so frantic to hear from afriend? No. No, I have not.
Rising from the couch, I lock my phone, stow it in my pocket, and head up the stairs to my studio. If anything distracts me, it is a pencil or charcoal or brush in my hand.
As I reach the landing, I laugh at myself. A little too hard. Why? Because I plan to use my art as a means to escape the thought of Shelly. But as soon as I fill in the blank canvas or heavy stock paper, it will be her I see. Best if I own and accept facts… there is no escape. Not when it comes to Shelly.
I am sick. Sick in the head and a glutton for punishment. My own worst adversary.
Sitting on the stool at my drafting table, I flip to a new piece of stock. Grab my charcoals and blending tools. Turn on the repeat playlist I listen to in the studio. Then, I hunch over the paper and let my fingers and mind roam freely.
I smudge a lock of hair near the corner of her eye and angle of her jaw when my phone chimes. Jolting at the sound, I sit up and set down the blending stump. Staring down at the table, I know the profile of the woman on paper is the person who just texted.
It is no secret I keep to myself. Not that I don’t have friends or socialize with people. I simply prefer solitude. Family and friends know this about me, and only reach out when something noteworthy happens. Texts and calls are never just ahey man, how’s it going?
So, when I pick up the phone, I know exactly who texted. The woman I messaged over an hour ago with a date, time and place for us to meet for our non-date.
Shelly:Sunday works. I haven’t been to the Black Cat Tavern yet.
Devlyn:Perfect. Meet you there at 12:30.
Meeting Shelly at the restaurant versus picking her up and riding together sends a clear message.This is not a date. We are just friends.Opposite-sex friends who enjoy each other’s company. That is all. Period.
In college, I had female friends. We shared meals and philosophical conversations all the time. So I know friendship with Shelly is possible. I can do this.
If I tell myself this enough times, perhaps I will believe it into existence.
Shelly:I’ll be the cute one in pink. See you then.
Her comment is meant to be funny or endearing. But of course, my mind veers down every other path. Searches for every hidden meaning in her words. Focuses on the way she refers to herself as cute. Pictures of different pink tops or attire she has worn in the short time I have known her.
And I hate that my mind does this. Sends me down a road I should not travel.
Why? Why do I torture myself? Overthink and scrutinize every word someone says. Look for a double meaning that, more than likely, isn’t there. Look for reasons to reschedule or cancel. Or worst of all, look for clues that say this is agoodthing. That a friendship with Shelly is exactly what I need. To feel alive again and get past the shadow masking my heart.
Since the day Kelsey put my heart through the shredder, I refuse to believe romantic happiness is an option. The heartache she inflicted still haunts me. It sets the tone for every interaction I have with a woman. Causes me to doubt the intention of every woman. Causes me to question my own feelings. Destructive as it is, what Kelsey did changed the way I perceive romantic relationships. The harsh way she ended our relationship, the way she threw our love in the trash, it made me turn my back on love and trust.
It irritates me she still has this power. Over me and the way I live life. Over my happiness and future. Over my heart and the love I could give another.
My mother and her frigid, heartless temperament toward me didn’t help matters.
Maybe Shelly is the key. The one person to unlock this darkness that has consumed me for far too long. The sunshine after the storm. The light at the end of a very long, dark tunnel. Hope.My hope.
My relationship with Shelly doesn’t have to be romantic to be fulfilling. Romantic ideals cloud what matters most. Connection. Trust. Loyalty. All components of a solid friendship.
Repeat the word friendship enough times and you might spur it into existence.Eat, sleep, rinse, repeat.
“Play it by ear,” I mumble as I stare down at her charcoal profile. “Maybe Shelly is exactly what you need.”
More than I realize.
SEVEN
SHELLY
