Cute boy from SC: part 3

It should come as no great surprise that following the return of his stereo, there was no contact with Gabe. Nada. Absolutely positively nothing. But if I were going to give up, I should have done it in the beginning. No – we had invested too much time and energy in this faux-relationship to forget about it now.

I spent a considerable amount of time on my own deciding on my next attempt to get his attention. Go with what you know, so I decided to ask him about recycling. Since we were new to apartment living, it seemed reasonable to find out where he took his recyclable materials. So I called, but didn’t want to leave a message – what if he didn’t call back again? No – I would just keep calling until I reached him. It probably took me 10 times (and yes, he and his roommate had caller ID. And yes, I absolutely am still embarrassed that they knew I called so much), but I finally got to talk to him on a Sunday morning after church.

He told me where to go with our recyclable materials (having carefully collected them with this plan in mind and the roommates’ full support), and gave directions. I told him I was “sure I could find it” but continued to ask for clarification and paused to pretend to write notes so he could ascertain that I was uncomfortable going on my own. I wasn’t being too subtle anymore – it wasn’t effective. He finally offered to come with me, saying he had his own box of things to take. Pleased that he could take a hint, I quickly accepted and the conversation degenerated into a minute-long discussion over who would drive. I decided that I would, having exhausted the number of ways we could each say “I don’t really care.”

I went to pick him up soon after the call, knowing myself well enough not to allow excessive time to get nervous. My girls were thrilled – finally, a chance to be alone with Gabe! We spent a few moments fixing my hair (already curled for church) and getting the recycling separated into neat piles. Pleased with the quantity of our trash, I put my things in the trunk. Bolstered by their compliments, I headed over to get Gabe.

He didn’t have many recyclable materials, I noticed. His box wasn’t nearly full and seemed meager compared to our carefully prepared bags. But he directed me further downtown, deeper into the seedy part of my small Midwestern city, to the recycling location. He directed me to park, and he carried all but one of the bags over to designated piles, telling me to save the glass bottles. He then lead me over to a huge pile of broken glass, and smiled.

“This is the best part.” He told me, grinning. “You get to throw your bottles on the pile and watch them break. Go ahead.”

I shook my head – my athletic skills were never my strong point, and I hadn’t prepared for any sort of bottle tossing event. He noted my reluctance, but his smile didn’t dim. He leaned closer and grabbed a bottle out of his box.

“I’ll go first.” He tossed the comment over his shoulder as he heaved the bottle toward the pile. It hit near the center, shattered and the pieces clinked as they fell to the shards already on the ground. He raised his eyebrows at me inquisitively, but I shook my head again.

“You seem to enjoy it more than I would. Please, go ahead.” I demurred. He did, tossing a few more. I watched him from a step behind, entranced by his enjoyment of throwing the bottles. It smelled like garbage around us, the sun barely peeked through the clouds, and I stood, always timid, holding his box in one hand while a trash bag sat at my feet.

“Now, you. There are only 3 left.” Sensing my continued resistance, his eyes narrowed slightly behind the lenses of his glasses and he bargained. “You throw one, and if you hate it, I’ll do the other 2.”

I tossed one, barely making it to the mound of glass. I remember some sort of encouragement, thought it was a bit condescending, and threw the next one harder. It was sort of satisfying, I thought grimly. But the last one, I handed to him. I still don’t know why.

We loaded his empty box into my trunk and drove back to campus. Hardly a romantic afternoon together, I thought with a smile at myself. But I tried – I forced contact with this boy I decided was so incredible, and I was proud of that. I started talking about a book, some sort of collection of Christian experiments set on proving the existence of God. I glanced over to see him studying me, asking whether or not I thought proof was necessary.

“I don’t know. Is it?” I turned the question back. He shrugged, and said he needed more than 2 minutes to discuss it.

“Call me when you don’t have anything going on,” he said, much to my delight. “We’ll get a beer and talk about God and proof. You can convince me.” After informing him that I was too young to drink, I said I was definitely open for a talk. It had started to rain, and he told me to stay in the car and he’d get his box later, jogging across the street and into his house with a wave.

I returned to the apartment, my triumph dimming with the realization that though I had a box and a casual invitation for a spiritual talk, I probably would end up with an empty box in the end. Contact with Gabe was elusive, and neglecting to make firm plans would likely ensure the necessity of yet another plan to gain 10 minutes of his attention.

But I was high on the afternoon, completely infatuated, trembling as I told the story to my eager audience of roommates. We spent the rest of the rainy afternoon together in the living room, sprawled on the couch and over the chair that had come with the apartment and lying on the bright green carpet. I think we studied – we typically would emerge from our respective rooms with books, pens and paper so we could be somewhat productive while waiting for distractions. So I’m sure I did some differential equations or worked through quantum mechanics, but every time my mind would start to loop through Gabe scenarios, I’d interrupt their thoughts to share my own. We’d discuss, and I’d lapse back into daydreams of what might be.

After hours of this, I was exhausted. It almost hurt to think about it anymore and the idea of further commentary from my lovely roommates was distasteful. The moment that kept playing through my mind was when I wouldn’t throw the bottles. Why was I so frightened – resistant to doing something new, being embarrassed, opening myself up to pain? What was wrong with me that I wanted to constantly be safe? Would I never have a story of my own? Destined to seek comfort over anything that could be construed as a plotline? I couldn’t take the questions – wasn’t able to face the thought of yet another night plotting how to get Gabe’s attention. Didn’t want to talk about the same 10 minutes for another 2 weeks.

So I walked quickly to my room and called him. It was late – almost midnight, but he answered on the second ring. I apologized for bothering him, and asked if he was busy, my agitation clear. I just wanted to talk about something, I explained, and I couldn’t wait. I’d walk over and needed just 5 minutes of his time. Could he meet me outside?

“No. It’s cold and late. I’ll come to you – just wait there.” He replied quickly.

I shook my head as I told him I didn’t want to bother him. I already had my shoes on and wanted to walk for a little while anyway.

“Then I’ll take you for a walk when I get there. Just wait – I’m on my way.” He insisted, hanging up before I could reply.

I walked back to the living room, shoes and coat on, and sat down.

“What’s going on?”

“I thought you went to bed.”

“Are you going somewhere? It’s late.”

My girls had remained in the living room and asked their questions from there. Only Julie followed me down the hall – she had been brushing her teeth, getting ready for bed.

“I called him. I wanted to go over to talk, but he said he’d come here. That I shouldn’t be out walking by myself so late.” My voice was shaking – I was nervous and unsure, yet thrilled that I had done something so out of character. My friends were suitably impressed, waiting mostly in silence for Gabe to arrive.

The buzzer didn’t ring – someone must have been coming home in the early hours of Monday morning. Because he knocked at the door – quick raps, 5 of them. I still remember the rhythm.

“I’m sorry.” I said first as I opened the door and stepped out in the hall. We stood looking at each other, he concerned, probably over my mental health, and I was… completely in the moment. Struggling to function past the tide of emotions was almost overwhelming. I was trying to think – compose statements that made sense, trying to tell him something without appearing pathetic. Screw it – I finally decided. Why do something if you’re not going to go all the way?

“I need to walk. Can we walk?” I asked, talking quickly; I needed to burn off some energy. To move through the cool evening, still scented of rain. To not look in his eyes as I tried to share some vital piece of myself with him.

He nodded and followed me down the stairs and out the front door. We walked side by side down the path and out to the sidewalk, away from the lights that welcomed residents to the building and into the older neighborhood that would soon be demolished to make room for more campus housing.

“I don’t know what I want from you. I really don’t. But I keep thinking about you – about why I’m so drawn to you when it’s so not something I’d normally do. I’m not sure why you’re important to me, but you are. I think about you – want to know you, and I feel like there’s something I’m supposed to get from this. Whether you know something I need to know, or whether the experience itself is important, I don’t know. But it’s not easy – I never see you, and I feel like I’m trying to get your attention, and I know it’s pathetic, but I can’t seem to stop it. So I need you to give me something – I need to know if we can be friends and I can bother you, or if this is completely insane and I’m freaking you out, then you need to say that so I can leave you alone. Because I want to know you.”

He listened, looking down at the ground in concentration as I glanced over at him through my quickly-uttered monologue.

“Wow…” he finally said, looking over at me. I waited for him to tell me he was flattered, and he did. “Nobody’s ever said anything like that to me before, so I’m not sure how to respond. Give me a second.” He looked around, noticed a man coming toward us, and touched my arm to guide me to walk on the other side of him. Gallantly placing himself between the man and me – protective and sweet.

“I don’t know if I believe in soul mates. That 2 people are bound to find each other.” He started.

It was too much. I didn’t say I thought we had to be together, did I? Hell – this was startling out poorly, so I quickly interrupted.

“I don’t think we’re soul mates. I don’t think we’re bound to be desperately in love and that I’ll be incomplete without you. I just want to know you.”

This time, he interrupted me. “I know what you’re saying. I just don’t know what to give you.”

“It’s fine if you’re freaked out. I know this is weird – the calling so late and walking in the dark. It’s OK to tell me to back off, Gabe. Honestly. Maybe that’s what I need.”

“No. No – that’s not at all what I want to say. I’d like to know you – I’d like for you to know me, but I know how I am. I get busy and don’t make time for people. I just broke up with my girlfriend because she said I was always distracted.” Now he was talking quickly. “But you... We’re friends now, and we can work on that some more, but I don’t know how much I can give you. And I don’t want to say something that makes you expect something that I won’t deliver. I don’t want you to think badly of me, and I don’t know what to say.”

I sighed and started to breathe more easily. It was more than I deserved, dragging him out when we both had classes the next morning. “We should turn around.” I said quietly, content and suddenly exhausted. The emotional storm wasn’t normal for me, and I was starting to get sleepy as my mind slowed down.

“Are we done?” He asked. “Are you OK?”

“I’m good.” I think I said. “I needed to hear that – that you didn’t think I was awful, but that you needed time and space for your own life. And I think I needed to tell you – I’ve talked to the girls, but we can’t come to any resolution, and I knew you’d have something to say. And it’s what you think that matters.”

“You talked to your roommates?” I remember him asking – our eyes meeting as I glanced at his stare.

I smiled. If only he knew. “Today I did. I had questions after we got together this afternoon, so we talked about it some.” Like for nearly 10 hours, but I think I had disclosed enough information to terrify him for one evening. So we walked back to my apartment, mostly in silence, shoulder to shoulder while I breathed in the clean smell of wet grass, the light breeze cooling my blush that had persisted throughout the conversation. He walked me to the door, wished me good night, asked if I was alright, then walked home.

I slept that night, tired over all the thoughts and questions. I wonder if he did. Or if he considered the crushed-out junior, the girl who was not yet 21, but who considered herself to be somehow linked to him in some profound way. Tucked into my 4 pillows, surrounded on all sides by softness and easing into sleep, I thought this might be a fitting end. At least, I told myself, this was something. A story I could tell where I was stupid and reckless in telling someone where I was mentally.

And it seemed to be over. We saw him for his birthday later that fall – I bought him a plant and wrote a beautiful card. He’d catch me on campus that winter, rubbing his hand over the arm of my coat to get my attention. We stood, several times, in the frigid air, our breath clouding the air between us, and exchanged a few words. My nose was running once, and I was embarrassed. But there was basically nothing – a casual acquaintance marked by the events of a single rainy Sunday. My girls had started to encourage disinterest in him, telling me that there was nothing there. I had tried, and that was great, but I should find someone more available - someone who would appreciate me.

But it wasn’t over yet.