Taken aback, I respond hesitatingly, “Okay?”
“So, the church I go to encourages sobriety, which I know is an important value of yours as well. I wanted to let you know that I used to drink alcohol, but I stopped a few years ago. I hope that doesn’t bother you and isn’t adealbreaker,” he says with possible uncertainty lacing his words.
“I think that was a statement and not a question, but no – why would that bother me? I used to drink as well,” I respond. And a dealbreaker for what? I think to myself. Ah, friendship!
After a brief pause, I continue speaking, “My industry is very alcohol-dominated—being sober is unexpected and maybe even unusual, but yes, it’s important to me. While professional colleagues or clients drinking doesn’t bother me, I prefer to surround myself with people who don’t drink,” I respond.
We arrive at the church, and a giant picture of Jesus greets us at the door. I consider myself a Protestant, so this is a bit unexpected yet welcome. I had never thought to display the Son of God so overtly, but after pondering it for a minute, I begin to believe that more churches should do so. I feel I could get on board with some aspects of this denomination.
“M’lady,” he says before extending his arm out to me, seemingly expecting me to link my arm with his. But we are just there to do the Macarena, and this isn’t a date, I remind myself before crossing my arms and looking away.
He sighs, and I can’t put my finger on why, but we continue onward to the church’s gymnasium, complete with both a stage and basketball hoops. What a wonder. It looks so much like our childhood school’s gym. For a moment, I find myself caught up in the memory.
When we walk into the large room, I notice that disco balls hang from the ceiling, and some of the tableslaid out along the walls have miniature disco balls in vases. I love disco balls, and one of my favorite songs mentions them, so this feels like a wonderful occasion already.
Without a cue, “Macarena” starts playing, causing me to run to the dance floor, ready to dance. Just like I did in kindergarten, I fell, but without the pliability of a child’s body. I was very much looking forward to the night, but unlike in kindergarten, I sprain my ankle. “Ouch!” I cry out, and the evening takes an unexpected turn as Stephan must take me to urgent care to get my ankle looked at. This derails the following day’s plans as well, and I end up needing to fly home early and rest, as my insurance chose to fight me over needing an ankle scooter. Unfortunately, I cannot finish the inspections without two working legs. Stephan wishes me well at the airport, needing to return both of our rental cars somehow, and then I fly home. “I’ll see you in three months?” he asks, continuing with, “For the art showing?”
“With my clumsiness, my ankle will probably still have me down for the count, so I don’t think I’ll be anywhere else. Just let me know when you’ll be in town, and I’ll be around,” I say, wishing very deeply within myself that he could be more than a friend.
After a 3-hour flight delay followed by a bumpy flight, I manage to get inside my townhome, and I collapse into bed, wishing I would have had the urge to tell Stephan that I like him before my ankle threw everythingoff. “I could just tell him,” I briefly think, but I worry that sending such a text would only mess things up, and I don’t want to lose him as a friend like I almost did after Amelia’s stunt.
Over the next few weeks, my ankle slowly heals, and I end up passing the Bar Exam on my first attempt. My coworkers throw me a huge party, and Stephan video chats in as I asked him to. For moral support, of course. I feel extremely grateful to have reached this point in my life, as there was once a time when I never thought I would even make it to my high school graduation. And now I’m a fully-fledged lawyer!
The day after my party, I get a text from Clara, having not heard from her except through Stephan in about 20 years. “Congratulations on passing the Bar, and I hope your ankle is doing better. You should come visit us sometime. I miss you.” Friendly words between childhood friends. I respond, “I miss you too. Stephan is coming to visit in a few months. You could always come too! I’m not sure I have room for two guests, though.”
Clara responds, “Haha, I think I’ll leave you and Stephan to it this time, but definitely come visit me sometime. Don’t be a stranger,” she says.
What is that supposed to mean? I like the message, and then toss my phone across the room yet again, grateful for the carpet in my townhome’s master bedroom. I don’t want to order yet another replacement screen protector, yet I stubbornly refuse to stop the behavior.
After all of this time, I continue believing there is nothing between Stephan and me. His liking my posts,stories, and videos within minutes and responding warmly to messages, and even sending a few warm messages of his own, doesn’t mean he likes me the way I like him. Yet, I continue to be grateful that he doesn’t post pictures with women other than Clara, and his Facebook relationship status continues reading “single.” The dance invite and his admitting his next trip would just be to see me couldn’t mean anything, right? Artistic people are just very flowery like I am, I reason.
Part Three
Three months after the Michigan trip, as promised, Stephan flies into Charleston for another art showing of his. When I meet him at the airport this time, he acts extremely nervous and off-kilter. Very unlike him, despite the social anxiety he once mentioned having been diagnosed with when he was in middle school. He sleeps on the couch that night, and the next day, I drive us to the art gallery in North Charleston. He gratefully gave me a free ticket, so I didn’t need to worry about paying. Truthfully, though, I had wanted to support him monetarily. While he acts as a salesman, trying to sell his paintings to the highest bidder, I walk around and admire his artwork. Beautiful sea turtle paintings, the painting he did of me under the tree in Michigan, quite a few of red barns, seemingly in Texas, and many other works adorn the walls, causing me to become more and more impressed with him. As a friend.
At one point, I glance over at Stephan and seeanother woman laughing at something he said. I know that he’s working and is probably pitching a sale of a piece, and I know that we aren’t together, but it rubs me the wrong way, causing me to briefly step outside for some air. After a few minutes, I go back inside, but he stops me just inside the entrance. “Hey, there you are, I was looking for you!” he says with an uplifted tone and seemingly nervous and slightly shaky smile. Now that the art showing is over, he appears more nervous, with his hands visibly shaking. He asks, “I have something I’d like to show you. Are you down for a road trip tonight?”
“Tonight?” I ask warily, knowing I had planned to finish the book I was currently reading tonight.
“Yeah, I’d really like to show you something in Georgia, and we can head back on Sunday,” he clarifies.
“We have to go all the way to Georgia? Can’t you just show me a picture?” I ask, not understanding the sudden urge to take a road trip.
“Trust me, you’ll love it,” he says, but I feel doubtful that I could love anything other than my book tonight. Unless he wanted me to love him? Surely not.
We go back and pack our bags for our weekend trip, and he agrees to drive the whole way without music on, so I can finish reading my book. I’m very grateful for this, at least. He finds us a nice chain hotel off the highway in the far northern suburbs of Atlanta, and he gets us a room with two queen beds. Because we’re friends, I surmise. Or maybe there was only one room left. Or maybe he just can’t afford two rooms, despite not truly being a starving artist. He probably feels bad having asked me to go on this last-minute jaunt across state lines, andI’m grateful he isn’t expecting me to sleep in his rental car.
The night passes by very slowly, and I struggle to sleep. Late at night, I wake from a dream about the two of us and Clara as children. We were all chasing each other on the playground, back when everything felt as it was supposed to. Before my people were taken away from me.
I look at the clock and see that it reads 3 am. At this point, I became very tempted to crawl into Stephan’s bed, but I know it would cause more problems than it is worth. At this point, I fall into a fitful sleep, and around 8 am, I struggle to feel like I didn’t wake up on the wrong side of the bed—or in the wrong bed.
After having coffee in the hotel breakfast nook in the morning, we check out, with him claiming we would need to stay elsewhere tonight and would make a longer drive back tomorrow—all on his dime, of course. Because he feels bad for asking me to follow his whims, I’m sure. No other reason.
We get on the highway, with his phone propped up in a GPS holder mounted to the dash. For a moment, Clara’s name appears on the screen. “You’re really doing it? I’m so happy to hear that,” the text reads. Uncertain about what she means by that, I begin to feel nervous with the sensation of my heart in my throat. I choose not to mention the message, and Stephan doesn’t appear to notice his phone went off to beginwith.
After 45 minutes or so on the road, he drives into a small town and parks in a parking lot of what appears to be an outdoor mall with a ton of green space. “C’mon,” he says to me.
We walk for a few minutes, and he begins to slow as we approach what I believe is a Middle Eastern restaurant, given the mural and neon sign, most likely remaining off until nighttime, that says “I Falafel You” with a heart around the words.
