I Don't Want to Like You

Here's the deal.

I don't want to like you.

I don't want to like you at all. I just want to get my hair done and get the hell out of dodge. I don't. I don't and I won't but I think I do. You're sitting next to me, flipping through a magazine and scrunching your nose at half of the pages and you look a little like a bunny and that shouldn't be happening. Stop that.

You turn to me after you catch me with my eyes on your magazine with the brightest, sweetest smile. Please stop. I don't want to like you.

You say, "Hi!" and you sound too chipper, like you want me to smile too, please just smile with me. You seem desperate. "How are you?"

I sit back on the bench, careful to keep my legs close together and my hands nice and still on my thighs. "Yeah, uh," I say, quieter than I've ever been. Fuck. No. "I'm good. And you?"

"I'm great. I'm Elisabeth."

I don't want to know any of it. I don't want to know your name and I don't want to hear your voice, heavily accented and so, so sweet. I don't know where you're from. I don't want to. I don't want this. I don't want you.

"Hi, Elisabeth," and then, against my better judgement, I mumble, "I'm Olivia," and I can't stop blushing, why the hell can't I stop?

Your stunning smile threatens to split your rosy cheeks in two. You sit the magazine down and I know I'm in for the long haul because you turn your attention all on me and I feel like nothing more than a bundle of burning nerves. Your eyes are spotlights and I can't run away far enough to escape.

"Your name is so pretty," you say, crossing one long leg over the other. "I really like it."

"Thank you." It feels like there's something sharp in my throat. You're intense; every little move you make draws my eyes. You're magnetizing. "Yours is, too."

"Ah, thank you!" You lean in just a little closer, your hand falling from your knee and landing smack between us. Your nails scratch lightly against the worn plastic, making no sound but all the difference in the world to me because you're closer now. "This is my first time in a salon," you say like you're sharing a secret. "It's very busy."

"Yeah," and when will I stop sounding so small and scared, "but that's how you know it's a good one. Because, y'know. They do really good." I shrug, hopeless. "Hair."

You smile at me despite how stupid I sound, even let a little giggle through. I don't like this. I wish you would stop but you won't and I know it because you don't know what you're doing. You've got natural charm, the way you bat your long lashes and tilt your head back just a bit to laugh and turn your doe eyes on by default.

"You've been here before?" you ask. "It's good?"

"It's really good." I gesture strangely towards my own hair, now a fading shade of violet. It probably looks like my wrist is broken with the way I'm holding my hand. "They do amazing coloring and cutting and styling and, y'know. All that."

You grin and nod as though my word is law. You suck in your bottom lip between your teeth as you smile and it cuts my heart, actually slices right through it. Your ability to force heart eyes from me is both horrible and insane.

I don't want to like you. I really don't.

And my name is finally called so I bid you, Elisabeth, adieu. I sink in that damned salon chair and I hang onto the armrests for dear life, forcing away the thoughts of your sweet smile and your pretty eyes. I don't want to think about you, how warm you make me feel. How can you do that, anyway? How can you charm someone within the first few seconds of sitting beside them?

I don't want to think about you because then I think about me. And I think about all the girls that have come and gone and I think about how I'll never bring any of them back to stay and I think about my father and how I still haven't told him who I am. And I think about the fact that if I ever fall for you, he'll have to know. And I think about the fact that I don't know how he'll react and I've already lost one parent and I can't afford to lose another over something like this. And I think about all the girls not nearly as beautiful as you that refused to give me the time of day. I think about how I wasn't enough for them and I won't be for you and I can't even bring you home.

And it's why I can't think about you. Why I can't like you.

(Even though, you know, I really fucking want to.)

The hairdresser is making small talk with me and it helps me not think about you. It helps me think about the paper I have to write and the internship I hope to land. I focus only on the light things, the school and the dye coating the hairdresser's skilled hands. I don't focus on you. Because I don't want to.

I don't.

But when I'm done, you're done. And you're leaving the same time as me, with lighter blonde hair chopped to your bare shoulders. It makes you look a bit more mature, so different from when you had it swishing around your waist as you sat beside me. God, you look so pretty. I can't find words. They won't come. They won't work.

"Your hair is amazing!" you exclaim as we push out of the door side by side. It's a squeeze. Your arm presses up against mine. "It really fits you."

"Thanks," I say. I sound a little less intimidated. "Yours, too. It's–you–you're really. It's really cute."

Your cheeks glow the faintest red. "Thank you. I was really scared to do this, but I like new things." You run your fingers through it. I think they're shaking. "This is very new." I want to ask you where you're from, I want to know all about you. But also I don't and I can't and I won't. "Olivia," you say and I wish you would always say my name while never saying it again. You don't say anything else.

"Yeah?"

You shake your head and smile at me, always smiling. "Never mind. I forgot!" I don't think that's true. "I will see you around?"

"Sure," I say. You probably will. It's a small college town. I don't know how I haven't seen you before. I don't know how I'll get you out of my head. "Of course."

Then you're no longer in my face but forever embedded behind my eyelids. I go back to my dorm thinking about you and your new hair and how afraid you are with it. I could see you shake. It makes you human. It makes you all the more appealing and amazing. I can't think that. I can't say that. I can't.

I can't do this.

I turn off my light and pull the cover over my head and I don't move when I hear my roommate come in. She doesn't say anything, just crawls right into her bed and we spend the night in silence and I don't stop thinking about you until my mind shuts down.

I don't see you the next day or the day after and I actually allow myself to think that I'm free of you, you and your charm and your sweet, sweet smile.

But I see you just as I finally feel lighter and it all comes crashing down.

Listen up, Elisabeth. I don't want to like you. So you can stand behind the ice cream counter all you want, apron tied around your waist and your bright eyes, but I won't do it.

Even though the fact that you chirp, "Olivia!" makes my heart jolt from my chest because you remember me. Even though I feel nothing short of ablaze when our fingers touch as you hand me my change back. Even though I feel a spark run through my hand when you give me my ice cream.

You say, "You look really pretty today," and your eyes sweep over my half-assed attempt at looking decent. My skirt isn't ruffled right and my camisole is a little too baggy, but you say it with conviction and I can't help but believe you.

"Thanks," and I ignore the fact that my ice cream is starting to melt, chocolate seeping into my slightly trembling hand. "You look really cute." You do. You're only in light jeans and a striped t-shirt but you're the sweetest of things and I can't pull my gaze from you. I want to. But I can't. Just like I can't let my chest feel the way it is. How do I fight this?

"Thank you!"

You hand me napkins for my sticky hands and laugh a little bit behind closed lips. "You've got a bit of mess," you say. Do you ever stop smiling? Will you make this easy for me, Elisabeth?

"Oh, shit, thanks." I knew it was there, but it makes me seem less weird if I pretend I didn't. The second napkin in the small handful you've given me has an array of numbers. Your number. Apparently, I spent so much time drifting and thinking about you and watching your face I missed you scribble it down.

"Of course. Have a nice day, Olivia!" I want you to say my name forever.

Also, don't.

I get back to my dorm in an hour after wasting time just strolling around and thinking about anything but you. It's a fruitless task, so now I'm on my bed, chocolate drops on the hem of my skirt from the ice cream, refusing to like you despite my every thought surrounding you. You're more than charming, you're hypnotizing.

I don't want all the trouble liking you can bring. I don't want any of it. I don't want a sliver, I don't want a hint.

But I save your number in my phone and I text you a simple hello, it's me.

Because as much as I don't want to, you're stronger than I. And I'm fighting a losing battle.