Without a word, I quickly run out of the house.
My hands tremble, the postcard flapping.
Do I?
I have to.
Right?
Okay, Fielder. Deep breaths. You got this.
Maybe it’s a love letter and everything I’ve wanted to happen is about to happen and the way to win Ricky back literally landed in my hands, and and and—
And the actual words he writes? “Hi. Hope you’re well.” With periods! He might as well just come out and say, “We’re complete strangers”! A shiver runs down my spine as I realize Ricky’s voice, that of a poet, is gone here, his words so cold, yet measured. To end it with, “Olive branch extended” and saying neither of us want to talk to each other? I mean, if anybody would not want to talk to anybody, it’d be me not wanting to talk to him. I was the dumped party, after all.
Where is this coming from?
Maybe we are strangers now.
Winning Ricky back is going to be a lot harder than I thought. Impossible with a cold-ass postcard like this.
My head is spinning.
Sweat trickles down my temple and pools at my chin.
I can’t think about this and how it might be a wrench in my plan to win him back.
The worst part of this postcard is that—
—I just want to feel wanted.
By Ricky.
The need to not feel alone is overwhelming, like I’m suffocating, unable to breathe, and, wow, I sound dramatic, but as sweatbeads my forehead and trickles down the small of my back, I reach for my phone. I want so desperately to text a friend, a reliable make-out buddy from the football team, or hit up Rye on Snapchat, my hot semi-straight neighbor friend who is only “gay” after homecoming, prom afterparties, and summer Thursdays.
No. I can’t. Ricky swims through my mind, so I do this trick Ma taught me when she feels like she’s drowning: I pause and feel the ground beneath my feet. I touch the side of the house, feel the rough brick beneath my fingertips. Take a deep breath.In. Out.
I sulk into the shed behind Nonna’s house, which I’ve converted into my Clock “studio” (hold your laughter, please). It’s precisely the size of a small pantry, but it allows me privacy when editing content or hanging with friends.
The air in here is hot and thick, made worse by the intense early July heat wave outside and lack of AC. It’s enough to make me woozy and heady, yet Ricky and his passive-aggressive (or was it just passive-passive, as if he never cared about me at all) postcard keep me hyper-fixated.
Whispers of Ricky whirl around my head like too many goldfish in a fishbowl.
“We did everything backwards.”
“I feel like I don’t have any control.”
“Time apart will help you find direction, what you want out of life.”
“You have to want more than to define yourself in followers and views.”
“Ineed to know whoIam without you.”
“The world isyours, Fielder Lemon.”
“But notours,” I whisper.
I nibble my cuticles.
