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Unrequited love is so hard…
Find someone who appreciates you…
Time to move on….
Knocking back the last gulp of my drink, I wobble as I set the empty glass on the bar. My stomach churns.
Tough love. I asked for tough love, and I got it. Even Dear Hattie sees it: this all-consuming crush on Andre Silva is a lost cause. The longer I indulge these feelings, the more pathetic I get.
Well, then.
“Hi!” Leaning over the scratched wood, I wave at the bartender. “Hello! Another rum and coke, please. Make it a double.”
A long whistle in my ear makes me wince. Stephen leans close, the woman he was just talking to abruptly forgotten. “What’s this, Faith? You never cut loose. Feeling antsy?”
Something like that.
The new drink comes with another paper straw but I toss it aside, then knock back the whole glass in three swallows. Stephen roars with laughter, clapping me on the shoulder, but the back of my neck prickles. Even without turning my head, I canfeelAndre watching me. Can feel his stern gaze.
Whatever.
Time to move on, like Dear Hattie says.
“Gotta pee,” I say, pushing my phone and empty glass into Stephen’s hands, then hanging my bag around his neck for good measure. My older brother has always been my coat rack. “Be right back.”
“Behave!” Stephen yells after me, his voice drifting through the crowd. “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do!” It’s the emptiest command in the world, and he breaks off with a cackle.
With each step through the crowded bar, the ache in my chest spreads further.
Time to move on.
Time to move on.
Time to…
I may be sick.
Not because of the rum—or mostly not, anyway. But because I’ve never told a single soul about my crush on Andre before my letter to Dear Hattie; have never confided that he’s my center of gravity, the sun I orbit around, my first thought when I wake up in the morning. And as long as these feelings were a secret, I could pretend there was still hope. That my sordid little daydreams could come true.
But it’s been four years. Fouryears.And Hattie told it straight.
If Andre wanted me, I’d know by now.
“Sorry. Excuse me. Sorry, I—coming through.”
Normally, I’m okay with crowds. So long as no one tramples me, I don’t mind the heat, the noise, the press of limbs. If anything, it makes me feel more alive. But tonight, after reading Dear Hattie’s reply, I’m blundering through The Buccaneer as one giant exposed nerve. Every brush against my shoulders and back makes me want to scream. I flinch at every burst of laughter.
“Excuse me. Can I just—sorry.”
Ugh. Elbows up.
People move faster after a jab in the ribs.
There’s a line in the bathroom, obviously. A line in the ladies’ room of a bar is one of those natural laws of the universe. Like gravity.
At least it’s cooler in here with these floor to ceiling blue tiles. Quieter too, with the sounds of the bar muted by the closed door.
Two girls linger by a spare sink, fussing with their hair and chatting about the guys they’ve started dating this summer. Not sure whether they’re best friends for life or strangers meeting for the first time, but either way, they’re shoulder to shoulder, beaming at each other in the mirror.
