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Scooter kid goes home with his mom. The park empties out.
Putting a pause on my life and stalling here was nice, but I know it’s time to leave when two punk teenagers walk by and loudly proclaim me “lame.” Okay well, who asked you?!
I rise and mosey my way back to my apartment with slumped shoulders and a downtrodden curve to my spine. In the foyer, I kick my shoes off before I trudge into the living room. My two roommates sit side by side on the couch, their eyes wide with wonder at the sight of me.
“Before you ask, no, I’m not okay. Work was horrible. My love life is in shambles. And I’ve cried so much my eyes are burning.”
Then, like that’s all the strength I had left in me, I collapse dramatically onto the wood floor, letting my knees buckle and everything. My face barely makes it onto the carpet, and there I remain, splayed out like a sad starfish.
“That’s quite a day,” Daphne laments. “Can’t top it, I’m afraid. On the plus side, your ass looks great in those scrubs.”
Sophia sounds completely shocked when she replies, “I was just going to say that!”
“Like so good, right? I just want to pinch it.”
I clench my butt instinctively and then reach back to cover my two cheeks with my hands. “Do not.”
Daphne scoffs. “I only said I wanted to, not that I was going to.”
Knowing I’m safe (for now), I let my arms flail out at my sides again.
“So are we problem solving or commiserating?” Sophia asks judiciously.
“Commiserating.”
Without another word, they both get up. I don’t turn my head to watch, but I listen to them head into the kitchen, pulling glasses out of the cupboard, opening a wine bottle, doing their roommate duty. “When we sign on the dotted line on this here lease agreement, we agree to serve our apartment and our country, and by golly, we’re sticking to that.” Popcorn is popped and some insanely overpriced chocolate bar we’ve been storing for just such an occasion is cracked open and split into three parts. Then I’m dragged up off the floor and propped between them on the couch.
In slow motion, as if accompanied by angels singing from above, Sophia bestows on me the gift of the remote.
“You get to pick any show you want to watch.”
My dead heart beats anew.
“Current or old?”
Their heavy sighs tell me they already know where I’m heading with this question. “Either…”
And that’s how we end up watching season four, episode seven of Vampire Diaries aka “My Brother’s Keeper” aka exquisite television.
“Do you feel better?” Daphne asks when the show’s nearly over.
Do I?
No, not really.
“Maybe after one more episode.”
Alone in my room that night, under the cloak of darkness, I pull up Grant’s Instagram. He hasn’t posted a photo to his feed in days, but I entertain my misery by flicking back through older posts and reading the comments. Women are…creative and inventive, I will give us that. A few of the flirty one-liners even make me smile, they’re that funny. Which makes me feel worse, actually. Because wait a minute, witty hot girls are going after Grant too? I’m doomed.
In his most recent post, the top comments discuss his appearance at the fundraiser two nights ago. Apparently, these savvy people have decided they can use the comment section on Instagram as an online forum for discussion of Grant in general, even if it doesn’t pertain to the specific photo at hand.
Saw him in that tux last night. To DIE FOR! - 2,039 likes
* * *
Grate 4 life! - 1,688 likes
* * *
Is it weird that I hope G and T are actually dating? - 196 likes
* * *
I want them to get together so bad! They’d be like baseball royalty! - 1,334 likes
It’s not until I read another comment: They looked so cute leaving the fundraiser together! - 745 likes that I realize they’re talking about us! Grant and me!
I am “T”! I am the “ate” in “Grate”!
What?!
I panic. Of course I panic. I’m not a public figure, not at all. I cried on a toilet at work today, lest anyone need a reminder of my lowly existence on this planet.
I immediately search Google for images of Grant, looking for what the commenters could be talking about, but the top pictures are just professional shots from baseball games, headshots from the Pinstripes website, and old promos. I go back to the search bar and try a different strategy. I type in both of our names and hit enter, then boom, there they are, a whole treasure trove of pictures from the other night with a paparazzi watermark layered on top and everything like I’m Selena-freaking-Gomez. Wow.
My first thought? I’m glad I happened to be dressed to the nines with killer makeup.
