Buried Feelings

I set the phone down and backed away from it is as though it were a ticking time bomb, quickly distracting myself with stain removal duty and doing my dishes. I could feel my anxiety growing, reminding myself of the relaxation techniques I had learned and began counting down from 10, and again a second time, and then a third. I lost track of the amount of times I counted down but at some point it became enough, I felt my heartbeat and breathing return to normal.

Buzz buzz. "FUCK," I yell, another text, of course he would text just as soon as I gain my composure, he always knew how to press my buttons, even when he is in a different time zone. But wait, maybe it's Carly or Rachel just calling before bed, or even my younger brother checking in, I relax instantly and casually reach for my phone, hoping that if I play the part of a cool cucumber the phone will have the sender match my thoughts.

"Hello?" From him, of course. With this my frustration boils over, I have to respond, he knows I read it and probably knows I am agonizing over this all. I start typing my response, "congrats" and then delete it, it doesn't seem right.

"Happy for you!" No, no, that's too eager and sounds like I am that crazy ex who has been pining after him since he left.

"Who is..." I can't even finish that sentence, we both know I know who it is and it will only make it seem like I am playing into this game, or whatever he is aiming for.

"Cool" decidedly a very not cool answer but with no punctuation it leaves a lot of interpretation up to him, am I being genuine? Sarcastic? Do I not care? Yep! SENT.

"There!" I exclaim, for no one but for my dog and I to hear, "let him be the one left guessing." I look to Gus, his face of pity immediately wipes away my smile. What am I getting myself into?

THEN
If it hadn't been for Carly and Rachel I would be sitting on my bed catching up on One Tree Hill and studying for my test on Monday, but they insisted I join them out for Carly's 22nd birthday, especially because of the "unbelievably wicked" party package she had won. So here I stand, in line of some sports bar club hybrid in River North, feeling incredibly out of place and yearning for either my bed or my familiar hole in the wall bar that suits me better. I foolishly tap my heels together in hopes that the red shoes hold some of the luck that Dorothy once received, but nope. Just regular red Jessica Simpson pumps, oh well.

After a few drinks and some mystery shots, I loosen up and find myself dancing with my friends to a strange mash up of Akon and The White Stripes and then I see him. The same guy who had been staring at me all night is standing in front of me, leaning down, he asks for a dance. I nod yes and our bodies move in sync, he smells like a mix of Irish Spring and flannel, whatever that smells like, but right now that's all I can imagine. He is tall, muscular but not in the meathead way, he has natural surfer blond hair that is matted down from his beanie and these crystal clear blue eyes that seem to be seeing straight through me. He completely unnerves me and I know, in this very minute, that whatever happens after this dance could very well be the best or worst thing to ever happen to me.

After several songs, he nods towards the bar and I follow him, he holds up two fingers and the bartender instinctively hands him two beers. He hands me one and takes my hand, pulling me over to a more private booth. Once we are situated he leans in, so close I can smell the spearmint toothpaste he probably used today, and says, "What's your name? Too loud out there to ask earlier."
"Michaelagh." I try in my best loud but not shouting voice to be heard over the music, "what's yours, mystery man?"
He flashes me a devilish grin, "Kris, my name is Kris."

Those shoes may have not brought me the kind of luck I had wanted earlier, but they for sure brought me something.