Misunderstandings

Page 2

Leaving Melissa to her costume dilemma wasn’t that much of a hardship. Despite the dreary day, I enjoyed sitting by myself at one of the cafés just off campus. I was supposed to be doing my schoolwork, but people-watching kept distracting me while I sipped my coffee and nibbled on a sinfully good Danish that practically melted in my mouth.
I was halfway through my second cup of coffee and finally working on my paper when the annoying squeals from a nearby table broke my concentration.
“What about this one?” a girl asked in one of those fake baby-talk kinds of voices that got on my nerves. I could practically hear her eyelashes batting.
“Well, sweetheart, I designed that one when I was seventeen. The other half is here,” a masculine voice drawled behind me.
“Oh my God. On your thigh? I want to see,” another voice squealed so loud that I’m sure dogs halfway across the state were sent into a barking frenzy.
“I’m not that easy, babe,” the same masculine voice chuckled as he answered. “What are you willing to trade?”
“Oh brother,” I said, louder than I intended. The sudden silence behind me clued me in that my comment had been heard. Now was one of those times I wished my best friend Tressa were here. She hated when girls made an ass of themselves by fawning over some guy. Better her making the loudmouth comment than me.
“You mean, like, I’ll show you mine, if you show me yours?” the same piercing voice asked after a few awkward moments had passed.
I waited to hear what his response would be, completely annoyed with myself for paying attention to their conversation. I fought the urge to turn and look at Mr. Sure of Himself to see what had the two girls so entranced.
“You have no interest in seeing my art?” he asked into my ear, making me jump.
I silently berated myself for jumping. “Excuse me?” I asked, taking in his rugged appearance. He had nice eyes, I’d give him that, but the typical bad-boy getup made any interest I might have had go down several notches. It seemed like he was trying too hard to portray his image. Even the drenched white T-shirt that showed his six-pack abs and a well-defined chest covered in tattoos was a complete turnoff. I wondered what he would have done had it not been raining. Suddenly, I found myself laughing at a mental picture of him using a garden hose to soak himself down.
“What’s so funny?” he asked, seeing that I was trying not to laugh. Without waiting for my answer, he pulled out an empty chair. The heavy metal squawked loudly across the concrete as he scooted himself toward the table.
“Why don’t you sit down,” I said sarcastically. “And get rid of the cigarette,” I added, not caring that I didn’t even know him.
His lips quirked at my testy tone before looking down at the cigarette. I expected him to scoff at my demand or even ignore it, but he surprised me by using the sole of his shoe to put it out. He earned a few more brownie points by placing the butt in his pocket versus throwing it on the ground.
“Won’t your ‘girlfriends’ wither away into a pile of simpering drama now that you’ve left them?” I asked, casting a look over my shoulder, where the two blond bombshells were staring daggers into my back.
“Nah, they’re cool,” he said, flashing them a smile, which must have been laced with some kind of potion considering the way they both smiled back at him with such adoration. I was disgusted. He was nothing but a flirt who treated women with little respect.
“I think I’m going to hurl,” I commented, making him turn his attention back to me.
He laughed. “You’re hard-core. So, I’m getting the sense you don’t like me. Is it because I interrupted your studying, or have we maybe hooked up before? Because I definitely think I would have remembered that.”
“Please, I shudder at the thought. Does that crap actually work?” I sniped. The fact that he was callous enough to find nothing wrong with flirting with me while he was on some weird ménage-a-trois date was irritating as hell.
My comment only spurred more laughter from him. “I think you just broke my heart,” he said, clutching his chest.
“I’m sure your Playboy bunnies will be more than willing to repair it.”
“How about you make it up to me by going out with me?”
This time it was my turn to laugh. “Um, no thank you.”
“Why not?” he asked with genuine curiosity.
“Because I don’t like you,” I answered, stating the obvious.
“How do you know? You don’t even know me.”
“Maybe not directly, but I know your type.”
“My type?” he asked, ignoring the calls he was getting from the girls at the other table.
“Okay, let’s forget for a moment how you’re over here flirting with me while your fan club over there is cooling their heels waiting for you. I’m a little puzzled what they see in you, but the fact that they’re dumb enough to actually share you makes me believe you must be an out-of-work musician or something like that. Guitar player, right?”
He threw his head back, laughing loudly at my analysis. “Wrong on both. I couldn’t play an instrument to save my life. Not to mention, I’m pretty much tone-deaf. As for your first assumption, neither of them is my girlfriend. I met them at a party last night and agreed to meet up for coffee today. But enough about them. I’m curious to know why you came up with these assumptions?” he asked, sitting back in his chair and folding his arms across his chest while he casually crossed his ankles.
“Hmm, could it be the Barbie twins you’re stringing along? You may not think you’re dating them, but they sure think something is going on,” I said, deliberately cutting my eyes in their direction. “Or, it could be all the ink. Is it a fetish, or are you just blatantly seeking attention? Your whole persona screams misunderstood tortured soul. I’m guessing your parents ignored you and this is a vain attempt to get their attention,” I added with complete disinterest. A hint of what almost looked like disappointment flashed in his eyes but was gone in a second, convincing me I was imagining things.
“Are you one of those fortune-tellers?” he drawled. “Hey, what number am I thinking of? Kidding. What about you? Gotta be a psych major, right?” he asked, raising his pierced eyebrow, which I failed miserably at ignoring.
“Education,” I answered, holding up my Teaching in Diverse Populations book.
“And you moonlight as some kind of psychoanalyzer? Watching and judging everyone?” he asked.
I bristled at his description. I wasn’t some busybody who clucked her tongue judgmentally anytime someone did something I disagreed with. That was my mom’s thing. Not mine. Okay, so I liked to watch people, but that was different. It’s not like I ever said anything negative, at least out loud. God, was he right? Did occasionally thinking snarky thoughts while nosing into people’s business make me no different than my mom? It had to be different. Besides, who didn’t do that? Was there a sane person who could actually walk through Walmart without judging someone? I pondered these questions as Mr. Wet T-Shirt continued to eye me.
“I’m just observant,” I finally answered lamely. “So, if you’re not some misunderstood musician, what are you?”
“Like, what species? Well, when I was younger I pretty much assumed I was a monkey, but as I got a little older I was convinced either my parents were from another planet or I was. Recently, it’s come to my attention that I might also be part ass,” he answered cheekily.
“Funny,” I answered, sitting back in my chair.
“I’ll have to tell you what I am the next time I see you,” he answered, standing up as his blond companions called his name again in unison. “By the way, I’m Justin,” he said, holding out his hand.
I held out my own hand, reluctantly. “It’s been interesting.”
“What, you’re not even going to give me your name?”
“It’s not like we’ll be seeing each other again,” I answered, knowing I sounded like a total bitch. I didn’t see any point in encouraging something that was never going to happen.
“You never know. Maybe next time.”
“That all depends on how many girls are in your entourage. If there is a next time, which I highly doubt,” I pointed out, tugging at my hand, which was still clasped in his.
“Well, until then,” he said, giving my hand one last squeeze before releasing it. He strolled away from the table, not bothering to look back.
I could hear Barbie One and Two pouting about his absence as they headed in the opposite direction from where I was sitting. I didn’t turn around, even though for some insane reason I wanted to. I knew I’d never see him again, and most likely he’d forget about me before he even got to the next block. I might have come off as a total hag, but it was smart not to give in to the charms of some playboy. No matter how handsome he was. Yep, I’d definitely dodged a bullet.
3.
Present Day
11:18 AM
The air whistled from my lungs rapidly as I struggled to come to terms with seeing Justin. I knew I would be running into him eventually, but I was still unprepared for this sudden appearance. Yeah, we shared the same best friends. I just thought I would have more time to prepare myself. If Satan himself had popped up and said, “Welcome to hell,” I don’t think I would have been more shocked. It was bad enough I was riding in a steel death trap held up by tiny cables that supposedly could handle a certain weight, but I felt like a mouse dropped into a box with a snake. There was no escape from the one person I could honestly say hated me. I focused on keeping my breathing slow and steady to try to ease the sudden feeling that I would pass out.
I could feel Justin’s stare burning a hole in me as I worked to keep my eyes averted from his. I concentrated instead on finding the button for Rob’s floor, but they all seemed to blur together in a haze. Then I realized Justin had already pushed the button for the fifty-second floor. Of course he was going to see Rob. Why else would he be in this elevator at the same time as me? That asshole Rob. This was a setup. I was going to kill him. He knew how Justin felt about me, about our history. Did Rob think we would all show up to his office and make up and then head to lunch like nothing had ever happened? Justin had made his feelings quite clear two years ago. Even the passing of time and having lunch together wasn’t going to erase the past hurt or the words we had shared.
“What the fuck are you doing here?” he bit out as I clutched the rail inside the elevator.
Bristling at his tone, I lashed out even though I knew I shouldn’t rise to the bait. “Why, do you own this building now? Did you suddenly become a self-made millionaire while I’ve been gone? Perhaps you finally grew some balls concerning your art,” I sniped out pointedly, looking at the newest tattoo on his neck. I knew it was a low blow, but I couldn’t have stopped the words if I tried.
“Huh, look who’s talking, sweetheart,” he drawled condescendingly.
I fought the urge to punch him and wipe the sarcastic look off his face. The injustice of the whole situation was total bullshit. He’d refused to ever own up to his part and instead let it tear us apart. I know what I did was awful, but he had set the wheels in motion. Not that I even needed to justify my actions. My decisions were mine to live with, but that didn’t mean the burden was mine to carry alone.
“It’s nice to see you’re still an asshole,” I said, watching the numbers above the door light up with each floor we passed. Only twenty floors left and I could get back on an elevator going down. I’d take a cab to Melissa’s and let her know what I thought of her fiancé’s interference.
“And I’m not surprised you’re still a selfish bitch.”
I tore my eyes away from the numbers to glare at him.
“Some things never change,” he snarled just as the elevator came to a halt.
Relieved that I could finally escape the oppressiveness of the enclosed box, I waited for the doors to slide open. When they didn’t open after a moment, I looked up at the numbers, confused that they were all lit up.
“You have got to be kidding me,” Justin said, reaching for the telephone in the elevator’s call box.
Dread filled me. “We’re stuck?” I asked as panic quickly made its appearance. “We’re stuck?” I repeated, since he had ignored me the first time.
“Can I help you?” I heard through the receiver in Justin’s hand.
“We stopped moving here. Is something wrong with the elevator?” Justin answered, holding the phone closer to his ear so I could no longer hear her response. Not that anything the mysterious person had to say would have mattered at the moment. I was freaking out, making it hard to hear anything but my own shallow breaths.
I frantically jabbed at the OPEN DOOR button over and over again to no avail. My breaths became short quick pants as I struggled to bring air into my lungs, which were refusing to cooperate. The elevator walls felt like they were closing in on me. I instinctively held out my arms to push them away. Black spots popped up in front of my eyes and I felt myself swaying slightly. I could hear Justin’s voice from far off as he hung up with the operator.
“What’s the matter with you?” he asked, still sounding like he was talking from the other side of a tunnel.
“I hate closed-in spaces,” I mumbled, realizing just as blackness pulled me under that this was another thing he didn’t know about me.
Maybe we really never had known each other at all.
4.
November 2010
The crashing of our dorm room door against the wall woke me out of a sound sleep Halloween night. I sat up confused, rubbing my knuckles across my eyes so I could fully comprehend the sight in front of me.
“What the hell happened to you?” I asked, taking in the sight of Melissa standing in the doorway with half-inflated balloons covering her from her neck to her ankles. She looked like a cluster of grapes that had been left on the vine too long and had started to shrivel up.
“I met someone,” she squealed, bouncing up and down on my bed, not caring that she was crushing my legs.
“Again?” I asked, tugging at my legs to dislodge them from under her bony butt.
“This one’s not like the others. He’s different,” she said in a dreamy voice as she absently picked at the balloons that covered her body.
“Right,” I answered, swinging my legs off the mattress. Glancing at the clock, I grimaced when I saw the time. “Gahhh, Melissa. It’s two freaking AM. I have a trig exam in the morning,” I complained, heading to the communal bathroom we shared with the room next door. Whoever came up with the brilliant idea that four girls could share a teeny-tiny bathroom must have been smoking crack.