Cute boy from SC: part 2

Armed with a name and room number, the stalking effort was renewed. I could see when and where he checked his email (almost never from his room – likely from a science lab or the library), and would sometimes check the mailbox in the lobby 4 times a day in hopes of running into him (you have to take one piece of mail at a time so there’s always a reason to return). I spent hours in the cafeteria with my girls, arriving at the start of dinner hours and drinking free soda refills until we couldn’t stand it anymore. We would see him sometimes, often toward the end of serving hours - we quickly altered our schedule to arrive later. He’d always be reading. Look how smart, I’d think. How dedicated, time conscious. How I love him.

Since inviting him to eat with us was unsuccessful (he was trying to get reading done, but was always graciously appreciative of our offers), I went back to the original plan – the SC. He didn’t attend the environmental meetings, but he had to be on the email list. If I were to become secretary, I could send emails (for the good of the group, of course) and perhaps trick him into replying.

Long story short – I wrote amazingly detailed emails on the meetings, but never got a response from him. I even organized a plan to deliver holiday treats to the rooms of members to encourage next semester participation, but caught him in the middle of studying. The thrill of being in his room, even momentarily, lasted for weeks. Julie eventually introduced us – I remember shaking his hand and trying not to make a fool of myself. He ate with us one day at lunch – sitting right across from me. He asked about my ring – the ruby I don’t wear anymore. So intense was my infatuation that I overemphasized a lack of interest. Participating in other conversations more than I talked to him, deflecting attention to others when he’d try to ask questions.

Our relationship seemed doomed - his lack of availability and interest didn't fare well for my timid and subtle attention. We were both the beginning of verses - mismatched. I left for the summer, eager to return to campus for junior year. There would be no return to the dorm though – Julie, Elle, Rachel and I moved our meager belongings into a 4 bedroom space. After a summer apart, we were quick to catch up, eager to share stories of home and plans for the coming year.

I think it was Julie who asked about Gabe. I shook my head and smiled. There was nothing to say – for all the intensity of feeling on my part, there was a complete lack of anything significant that had happened outside my imagination. I liked him – he was pre-med and had excelled in some of the same classes I would soon begin. He seemed spiritual without being overly conservative, athletic, but on a casual basis. I still thought he was nearly perfect, but his utter lack of accessibility convinced me I should move on.

I shared these thoughts with my girls, seated on the floor of my bedroom while Elle sat at my desk and Julie was on the bed. I remember looking at Rachel helplessly, seated facing me on the floor – I wanted him, but I didn’t know how to get him. My lack of meaningful dating in high school left me ill-prepared to chase him in earnest and subtle approaches were ineffective when I had no contact with him. I remember telling them that I needed a new crush to erase the old one. My defeat inspired my girls though - they were always gentle with me - reminding me that I was amazing when I continued to lack the ability to see it.

So we developed a plan for one last shot at Gabe. Why give up the crush you already have when nothing has ever happened? Our plan was rather elaborate, involving a party to celebrate the beginning of the school year, I think. We all had a casual acquaintance with Gabe, and decided that upon running into him (with 4 people committed to partaking of the plan on a relatively small campus, it seemed completely reasonable) we’d invite him to this party.

Except we never ran into him, each day congregating to watch TV or discuss our widely varied disciplines, complaining over some difficulty, and rehashing our failure at finding Gabe, let alone inviting him. I once again offered to move on to another guy – perhaps one that actually existed in our little world.

Rachel, so far relatively uninvolved in the process, refused to admit defeat. Quickly finding the number to his off-campus apartment, she called and left a message inviting him to his party. Now forced into having an actual party with actual people, we quickly invited friends, found someone to buy alcohol, and we were good to go.

True to form, he didn’t call. I was vindicated in my original view that this was going nowhere. And if you’ve ever waited for someone to call, you know that in the beginning, it’s torture - sharp and constant. Rushing home to check your voicemail, calming the flutters in your stomach when you download email, every moment having at least some of your attention directed to what you’ll say when he calls. But as time passes, your expectations fall in an exponential decline and you don’t really expect to hear from him. There’s disappointment, but it’s a progressive lessening of torture as time passes.

Knowing we gave it a shot, my girls attempted distractions. We were having movie night one evening, probably about a week later, and expected some friends to join us. The buzzer rang, and Rachel spoke into the intercom, but got no response. While she tried again, I found my flip-flops and headed downstairs. Our building was new, but the intercom would continue to be problematic for our entire 2 year lease. Though we hadn’t lived there long, I had already decided that the initial buzz was all the help that would be offered from the tiny device.

I descended the stairs, already smiling over a story I wanted to tell Jeff - the friend I expected. Reaching the bottom, I looked out the glass door with a grin to find Gabe smiling back.

“Hi…” I trailed off, trying frantically to reconcile reality with my expectations. "The intercom is ... um, bad. And ... I thought you'd be Jeff. Jeff was supposed to come over. To watch a movie. We're going to watch a movie. Now." I hadn’t seen him at all that year, but he had found us. And had apparently brought beer.

I finally invited him up, cutting off my awkward conversational attempt by heading upstairs, sharing the shock of Gabe with the roommates who were slightly cooler than I. I remember the shock overriding any sort of charming conversation I could have made. I had been ready for so long! Topics in mind! Always dressed to be Gabe-prepared. But now? Sleepy pants with a bleach stain on the ankle, a huge old t-shirt and ponytail. Add that to the fact that I’m easily distracted searching for meaning (the mess that appears here in print is only a peek at what constantly occurs in my head), I kept wondering why he showed up when I finally stopped thinking about him rather than during one of the many days when I’d been obsessed. It was like he was super-Gabe – able to see when my interest waned so that he could arrive and fan it back to a towering inferno.

What I remember from the visit:
He had stopped by because Rachel left the wrong number.
He couldn’t make the party, but thanked us for the invitation.
The beer wasn’t for us.
We could borrow his stereo since it was special (I don’t remember how, and I recall all 4 of us having some sort of music-playing device).

I tuned back in enough to jump at borrowing something of his. It would give us a reason to see him again! Understanding that striking while the iron was hot was of the utmost importance for Gabe, I told him we’d go take the stereo now. So Rachel and I drove him back to his place, climbed up some rickety stairs, and waited while he kicked piles of laundry around to make room for us to stand in his bedroom. Unhooking and unplugging was followed by carrying stereo, speakers and other random accessories to my trunk. We waved goodnight, left him to his beer, and went home to revel in the triumph of having some part of the Gabe plan come to fruition.

We had the party, and about a week later, he came to get his stereo. He drove this time, making the short trip to our apartment, though I offered to drop off all the equipment with his roommate. Gabe was starting to explore professional schools at that point – knowing he wanted to get more education before he pursued his given career. He also had left engineering, was interested in environmental causes, though he didn’t have time to devote to them, and was quite well-versed in spiritual matters.

For me, in the midst of terror over what I’d do after college, and trying to work my way through a spiritual struggle by taking classes and reading books, I was impressed. I craved that confidence – that knowledge of where I was going and what I believed. He seemed so much older than my 20 years, though he wasn’t. He was just so kind, smart, gorgeous, charming – and I was besotted. After sitting with us for a few minutes, listening to music on Elle’s stereo that we had set up next to his borrowed one (music from Cruel Intentions, I think – it became the soundtrack to our apartment life), he left. I helped carry speakers to his car, and watched him drive away.

Is that it? I remember thinking that couldn’t be all. Returning to the apartment, Elle said “I don’t know what it is about him, but there’s something there. Maybe he’s your boy!”

And recalling countless afternoons and evenings curled up on twin beds in the dorm, talking to each other about the men who would eventually capture our hearts, I promised myself that I’d find out if he was my boy, knowing that I would make a fool out of myself if needed, but not aware that it was not only necessary, but inevitable.