Arms Wide Open: a Novella (4 page)

I plop down at my next assigned table,
set down the scone, and stare at the card in my hand. Its edges are folding up,
warping thanks to my sweaty palms and tendency to nervously crinkle it up in
clenched fists when I’m trying to dodge another panic attack. How much more
bizarre and stress inducing can this night possibly get? Yes, I needed to get
off the couch and do something with myself, but it seems like my efforts should
be met with something a little kinder than the universe’s sick attempt at a
practical joke.

I stop mid-thought. Whenever I ask the
universe how much worse it can get, the universe brings it. I jinx myself every
single time. It’s like some cosmic force out there cracks its knuckles at me
and says, “Challenge accepted!” I focus on the card again and close my eyes,
waiting.

The table shakes and tips in my
direction, and I hear the rustling of someone sitting down across from me. I
look up, and then sit back to take in Guy #3. I really hope he’s rocking the
hipster look in the extreme on purpose, because this guy’s buttoned up-to-there
plaid shirt and gray sweater vest make the eyeball guy look pretty hot in
comparison. This guy is wearing black horn-rimmed glasses without any lenses in
them, and his untrimmed beard is sparse and thin. It’s entirely possible we go
to the same stylist because he has my hairdo minus the blonde.

“Oh, wait a minute!” His voice is rather
high pitched with a nasal pinch to it. He stands and takes off a canvas
messenger bag, tossing it over the back of his black wooden chair. As he does I
can see he’s pegged and rolled up his jeans, and he has on deck shoes
sans
socks. He’s skinny, so all his clothes practically fall off of him.

He sits back down and leans forward.
“Hi, I’m Lennon.”

“Aw, you’re named after my favorite
Beatle. I’m Lauren.”

“I am. So glad you got the reference!
Some people have zero taste in music, you know?” He has a slight lisp, but it’s
not on my nerves. Yet. “It’s so great to meet you. I’ve been watching you all
night so I’m, like, stoked to meet you.”

“I’m not sure if I should be flattered
or take out a restraining order.”

He throws his head back and laughs like
it’s the funniest thing he’s ever heard. I cock an eyebrow and lean back.
Restraining order looks like it might be an actual possibility.

“O.M.G., that is seriously the funniest
thing I’ve heard all night! You’re amazing!”

“O.M.G.? Are you serious? We can speak
in acronyms now?”

He laughs even harder, gripping his side
like he’s getting a cramp from running laps. My face falls and I close my eyes.
Feels like I’m getting punked by life right now. “Lauren, you are seriously too
much.”

“Okay, then...tell me, Lennon, what do
you do?”

“I’m 27 and I’m getting ready to start
grad school, after taking time off to explore my options. I think it’s criminal
that we should have to choose one career path and only study that one thing,
you know? Life is just too beautiful to have to limit ourselves by the boxes we
check on an aptitude test.”

Translation: I’m a perennial student
living in my parents’ basement, spending more time in virtual reality than
anywhere else.

I decide to play nice, though, thinking
the universe might really go nutballs on me if I try to mess with him like I
did the last guy.

“I hear you,” I say, trying to be polite.
“What interests you right now?”

“Seriously? Everything. I want to study
it all. My undergrad was in women’s studies and I started a master’s program in
Russian literature, but I didn’t want to pigeon hole myself so young. I took a
few classes in human factors, but that didn’t feel like the right fit either.
I’m thinking I might try a class in social psychology this fall.”

I nod in approval. “We have a great
program here. I just graduated with my master’s.”

He leans forward eagerly. “Really?
That’s so interesting. Brains and beauty—I love it! What do you plan to do with
it? Are you considering a PhD?”

I shake my head and laugh. “No, I think
I’m sick of school. I’d like to work with at-risk kids in shelters, maybe
counsel foster kids. They’re the ones we tend to forget as a society.”

“So true, so true,” he murmurs. His head
is tipped down but his eyes stay fixed on me, and he’s really starting to creep
me out with that ‘come hither’ expression he’s wearing. It works on the cover
of a romance novel, maybe, if you’re a shirtless Viking, but in a scrawny dude
with tight plaid buttoned up to the neck? Not so much. I look away and take a
deep breath, trying not to shudder as something uncomfortable races down my
spine.

I really have nothing to say to him
anymore. I glance at the pastry Jeremy gave me, and I look down as a smile
plays across my lips when I remember his kindness. I reach out and play with
the tissue paper absent mindedly, hoping Lennon will take up the rest of the
time because I got nothing. It occurs to me that he might mistake my smile for
encouragement. My brow furrows and I frown, but when my eyes meet his I know
it’s too late. The wrong signal has been sent.

I’m guessing this won’t end well,
considering my track record so far this evening.

“What is this?” he asks, reaching
forward to take my hand. He’s a little awkward and smashes the scone into the
paper, smearing white chocolate and raspberry glaze on both our hands as he
does. I sigh and look sadly at my squashed scone. I think it’s symbolic of my
life at the moment. I reach for a napkin to wipe up the mess.

“Lennon, I need to run to the ladies
room to wash my hands. I’ll be right—”

“No, Lauren, don’t leave! I can take
care of it.” He reaches into the man purse and pulls out a package of wet wipes,
and I have just a moment to ask myself if that’s a man bag or a diaper bag
before he grasps my hand. He caresses it lightly while trying to wipe up the
mess, but instead of the romantic moment I guess he’s trying to create, he accidentally
smears the raspberry sauce even more all over the back of my hand.

“Sorry!”

I get up and clutch my purse before he
can grab my hand again. “Really. It’ll just take me a minute.”

“I’m so sorry. I’ll get you another
while you’re in the ladies room.”

“Not necessary.”

“I insist!”

I walk back to the bathroom as quickly
as I can. I pray for a long line to delay me, but there’s just one girl who
looks as frazzled as I feel standing in front of one the sinks. She’s average
height with curly brown hair and pretty brown eyes, and wears a great pair of
skinny jeans, a blazer with rolled up sleeves, and some seriously wicked
high-heeled boots. She’s slowly and very thoroughly working bubbles over her
hands, bangle bracelets jangling with every move she makes. The soap makes a
sickening, squishing noise as it runs through her fingers. She stands there,
like she’s mesmerized, staring blankly as I squirt some foam soap into my own
hands and mirror her gestures.

After a moment she looks over. She takes
a deep breath and starts to rinse off her hands. “So...what brings you in
here?”

“A hipster guy with a pre-pubescent
beard, lisp, a man purse, and attitude glasses thinking he’s the next Don Juan
DeMarco. He tried to hold my hand, and my scone got squashed, taking one for
the team. I’m just washing off the mess. You?”

She laughs. “A guy with the nastiest
looking eyeball I have ever seen spilled some coffee on the table. I didn’t get
any on me but I didn’t tell him that. I just wanted an excuse to hide for a
bit.”

“Oh, yes. Kevin.” I laugh. “He was my
first date tonight. He’s harmless, I think...just completely whackadoodle. Are
you a his new friend, too? Has he hinted that you just might be
the one
yet?”

She rolled her eyes. “Uh, yeah. My
sister dragged me here and is finding seriously fab guys while I keep getting
the weirdos.”

“Amen, girl. Good luck.” I grab a few
paper towels to dry my hands. Crumpling them into a ball, I toss the wad into
the trash can and back up toward the door. “You going out there again?”

She shakes her head with pursed lips.
“No. My hands are
way
too dirty for that. Good luck with your...uh...”

“My little Casanova wannabe,” I finish
as I bump the bathroom door open with my booty and gird my loins for the rest
of the round. I don’t actually know what that means, but it sounds like
suffering is involved in what happens next, and that sounds right to me. Maybe
I can ponder the origins of such an odd saying to pass the time.

When I return, Lennon has replaced my
scone and placed a cup at my seat. I grasp the steaming mug covered with
whipped cream and take a sip, surprised when I taste steamed milk with a hint
of nutmeg and cinnamon. “This is thoughtful. Thank you.”

“I thought you might like this,” he
murmurs, looking deep into my eyes. Oh no...I think I should have stayed in the
bathroom. He looks awfully amorous. I sit down and lean forward, with my elbows
on the table to grasp my mug with both hands. I set it down and realize my
mistake a split second later. He lunges forward, grabs my hand, and pulls me
close as he leans in. Using his free hand, he breaks off the corner of the
pastry and bites into it, making moaning noises as he does.

May I please gouge out my eardrums? I
close my eyes, pinch my lips, and turn away. I can’t even watch it and my ears
want to bleed at the bizarre noises he’s making to demonstrate how delicious it
is.

“This is so amazing,” he whispers
gruffly. “You need to try this.”

I shake my head vigorously. “No, really,
I’m good. You enjoy it.” I open my eyes to look at him, trying to convey how
much I really don’t need to share the scone. Tactical error. He lifts another
bite of scone to my lips and shoves it in while I’m protesting. I frown and try
to swallow, and as I do he pulls his fingers back and licks them with that same
disturbing moan of pleasure.

I yank my hand back and take my mug
again, holding it close to my lips and blowing on it. If he tries that again
he’ll spill scalding liquid on me, and I hope he’s smart enough to know
spilling hot milk on his date won’t earn him any points later. I pull my elbows
close and hunch my shoulders, hoping my time is almost up.

“Was that scone everything you hoped it
would be?” He raises his eyebrows and puckers his lips, throwing me his best
attempt at bedroom eyes.

“I couldn’t even begin to describe
that,” I say honestly. I close my eyes and shake my head in disgust. “Thanks again
for the steamer, Lennon. I appreciate it, but—”

“Did you know cinnamon oil has been used
for centuries in ancient mating rituals?” He leans forward, head down again,
his eyes shooting what he probably thinks are love darts at me. “I took a class
on it for my major. So fascinating! Cinnamon was used in some cultures as part
of fertility rituals. The male would take just a drop of oil and dab it on
his—”

The bell rings, drowning out what he
whispers in my ear. I throw up in my mouth a little and swallow hard. He stands
and moves forward to kiss my cheek. “I hope we’ll see each other again soon,
Lauren. You and I have some unfinished business.”

My nostrils flare. I am so tempted to
tell him off, but that won’t do any good. Instead, I grab my purse and my
little card, making sure he sees me mark ‘no’ next to his name and stalk away.

It’s official: I can never eat cinnamon again. I
pull my phone out of my purse and rattle off a quick text to Harlow:
You’re
dead to me.

I’m close to tears. Why does pushing
myself out of my comfort zone have to be so hard? It’s physically painful. My
chest hurts and my head pounds, and it’s hard to breathe. I’m feeling close to
where I was at the end of round one, with another panic attack knocking at the
back door.

It’s not worth it. Finding someone just
isn’t worth the effort and sacrifices we make to find each other. Why am I even
here looking? I don’t need someone just for the sake of being with
someone....anyone! Dating is like dumpster diving—there may be something good
somewhere, but you have to sift through a ridiculous amount of disgusting
things to get there. The payback doesn’t seem worth getting covered in
figurative coffee grounds, half-eaten donuts, and banana peels.

I look at the card in my hand and look
at my table number for Round 4. If the next one gives off anything like a
creeper vibe, I’m out of here. I don’t care if I spend the rest of my life
living alone on my smelly sofa. I will find personal fulfillment in becoming
one with the furniture.

A guy walks up to the table I’m watching
and sits down. His back is to me, and I can’t get a good look at his face. It’s
up by the front window and he’s looking out at the street, away from me, while
others in the shop work their way to their own tables to get started. They’re
blocking my view so I can’t get a good read on him. From the back he looks a
lot like Grant, and my heart does that crazy, irrational thud it always does
when I think of him.

And then he turns around to scan the
crowd. My heart starts beating so hard it feels like it’s trying to pound its
way out of my rib cage.

It
is
Grant!

As the eyeball guy would say, he was
the
one
. I spent three years of my life believing that with all my soul. Grant
and I were so alike, so perfectly complementary, that no one else would ever
come close. Even great guys like Jeremy will never compare. When we were
together, I believed in soul mates. I believed in forever.

I stare hard at the table number,
staying hidden in the shadows at the back of the shop while he turns back
around and waits. I take a closer look at my card just to make sure he’s my
next date. Yes, he’s sitting there at my table, waiting patiently for me to
show up.

He looks amazing. I haven’t seen him in
five years now, not since the night he took me to the emergency room, dropped
me off, and walked away. As I think back to what I put him through those last
few months we were together, I guess I can’t blame him for not coming back.

His hair is shorter now, cut close to
the back of his head, with some crazy sexy sideburns and a little lift on top.
I loved running my fingers through those brown curls back in the day. My mind
flashes to another time and I can feel those curls in my fingers, feel his soft
lips against mine, feel our hearts beating in time with each other. He turns
again to look around, those green eyes flashing. His impish grin is the same,
although I see the start of a smile line on one side of his face, and little
crinkles starting at the corners of his eyes. He’s tan, wearing a pair of loose
jeans and a burgundy dress shirt, collar open. He’s never looked so good.

Seeing him soothes my panic, even though
it also makes it practically impossible to breathe. He was always the balm my
soul needed, especially right before my emotional implosion. I take a deep
breath and emerge from the shadows. He looks out the window again, probably
thinking he just got stood up now that everyone else has settled down. The dim
buzz of hushed conversation fills the air as I reach for the chair and lean
forward. My hands rest on the chair back as I look down.

“Grant Fierro, you’re never going to
believe who your date is this round.”

Surprise, confusion, and a little terror
register on his face. He’s speechless. I’m suddenly thankful I spotted him and
had a moment to prepare myself to see him after so much time. He’s completely
blindsided. No matter how justified he was to drop me off and never look back,
I’m not the one who walked out on us. I’m not the one who abandoned all the
promises we made without anything close to a goodbye. I owe him nothing. He’s
the one who has explaining to do, and no time to really think what he might say
when we saw each other.

It takes him a moment to collect his
thoughts. I sit down before he has the chance to stand up and hug me in
greeting, because I know his dad raised him to be a gentleman and that’s his
first move.

“Lauren Brooks, I can’t believe it. It’s
been a really long time.”

“No kidding.” I glance casually at my
watch. “Only five years or so. What have you been up to?”

Specifically, what happened after you
dumped me at the hospital without telling me I just got dumped?

“You’re the last person I expected to
see here.” He’s at a loss for words, something that never happens.

“Thought I’d still be locked up in the
wacky shack? I guess I can’t blame you there. I was pretty crazy last time I
saw you.”

He shakes his head with a smile. “I
forgot how direct you can be. It’s great to see you. It’s been a really long
time.”

“You already said that, but it’s okay. I
know I’m intimidating.”

Grant’s eyes shine at me, just like they
used to, and I bite my lip. I expected this to be much more awkward. Why does
he still have to be so incredibly handsome?

I lean forward, elbows on the table as I
move closer. Despite what happened, he’s always been one of my favorite people
and I want to hear how he’s doing, make sure life’s been kind to him. He’s one
of the few in this world who deserves a happily ever after.

“Tell me what you’ve been up to for the
last few years. Last time we saw each other, you were getting ready to graduate
with a double major in political science and economics. You planned to reform
all the corrupt politicians. Every last one of them.” He leans back and laughs,
his head tipped back, and I’m surprised at the sheer abandon of it. “Your grand
ideas and fierce ambition were going to transform D.C. and make the world a
better place. What are you doing back here?”

“I lasted a year on Capitol Hill,” he
admits ruefully. He runs his fingers through his hair and shakes his head as he
leans back. He tilts his head thoughtfully to one side to look at me, giving me
a sidelong glance. “I came back to law school and finished up a few weeks ago.
When I’m not studying for the bar, I spend my time having coffee with psychos
and miscreants here for a little Friday night adventure. Do I know how to party
or what?”

“So you make this 5 in 5 thing a habit?”
I ask with raised eyebrows. A man this hot and this spectacular should have no
trouble finding dates.

Grant laughs. I miss that laugh. “No.
This is actually my first time.”

“Let me guess,” I say. “Your roommate
dragged you here under threat of death because you spend way too much time
studying and not enough time doing the mating dance.”

“You haven’t changed one bit, Lauren.”

I tilt my head and give him a sidelong
look. “Considering the last time I saw you, I was being strapped to a gurney
and drugged into oblivion, I hope I’ve changed just a little.” My words make
him uncomfortable, but he knows me well enough to know I’m honest. Sure, I live
in denial a good portion of the time, but I have always believed in full
frontal honesty with others.

“Lauren, I...”

I hold up a hand to stop him. “It’s
okay, Grant, really. You saved me. I was death spiraling and you were the one
who helped me when I needed it most. Thank you.” It must be emotional
resolution night, with Jeremy and now Grant, but it feels liberating to tell
him how much it means to me that he made the hard choice to have me committed.
“I’m in a much better place now, you know? I’m finally healthy. You got me the
help I needed. No one knew how sick I was until I snapped.”

“You look different,” he says, changing
the subject and appraising me from across the table. “This is the Lauren I
remember.” He reaches into his wallet and pulls out a bent and faded picture,
black and white, from those cheap photo booths at the mall. We were best
friends all through high school, and this was one of those blissful days where
we had cash in our pockets and time to kill.

In this picture, he’s kissing my cheek
and my eyes are wide open, mouth forming a perfect circle as I pretend to be
surprised. Long, frizzy, ash blonde hair spills down my shoulders and out of
the picture, and my hazel eyes are coated in more black eye liner than anyone should
wear in a month. His trademark backwards ball cap is pushed up on his head as
he kisses me, and his eyes turn sideways, gleaming for the camera, while his
brows slant playfully up.

“It’s the new Lauren,” I say with a
shrug as I gingerly take the photo from him and stare. This was just before
high school graduation, right around the time we decided we were much more than
friends.

“You look fantastic,” he says.

“Well, I’m healthy. I really am. Much
healthier than I was when we...well, I had to make up some classes after my
emotional train wreck, but I got a degree in psychology and just finished up a
master’s in counseling.”

He looks taken aback. “Wow, I didn’t see
that one coming!”

I hand back the image, that carefree
moment in time frozen on film. His hand brushes mine for just a moment as he
takes it back, and a jolt, hot like wildfire, rushes through my veins. “After
you dropped me like a hot—” I begin, but he cuts me off.

“I did what I thought I had to do,
Lauren. You were sick.” I can tell I’ve made his guard shoot up. He pulls away,
looking agitated, and I don’t want him on the defensive.

I laugh, not quite sure what else to do.
“I know! Seriously, I can’t thank you enough for what you did. I spent a few
weeks in the psych ward there, and then moved to residential rehab for some
more intensive treatment. I lived there about a year. But the staff was so
amazing...they inspired me to help others. I’m still looking for work, but I’d
like to help troubled teens, especially homeless girls and foster kids, help
them before they have a psychotic break like I did. Not every girl has an
amazing boyfriend like you to rescue them. Well...when I had you.” I look down.
“So many of them just have pimps, you know? If I can save just one girl from a
life on the streets, it’ll be worth it to me.”

“I lied,” he says quietly, looking away
and shaking his head. “You’ve changed quite a bit.”

“I hope so. Crazy girls are only fun at
parties.”

Silence falls between us and the air
feels heavy with the weight of what could have been. I guess sometimes things
really are better left unsaid. It’s comfortable and awful all at the same time,
being with him again. After so much time apart, I shouldn’t expect that feeling
of belonging to stay. Tears start to well up in my eyes and I’m mad at myself
for letting them form. He’ll think I’m still psycho girl if I let them fall.

He slides another picture across the
table to me. I snigger and wipe my eyes, hoping he thinks it’s because I’m
laughing at the memory. It’s our prom picture—we went together as a joke. He’s
wearing his grandpa’s vintage 1970’s polyester tux, in the single most wretched
shade of powder blue ever invented, with ruffles down the front of the
revolting long-collared shirt. I stole his black and white checkered fedora for
the picture, and it’s perched at a jaunty angle on my head.

I have on a ridiculous black dress with
a skirt cut so high I wouldn’t need to change into a gown at the gynecologist,
but the strapless, sequined gown is covered with a long-sleeved, lacy black
bolero hanging off my too-thin frame. I’m holding the ends of it in my hands as
he holds mine in the picture. I had already started cutting myself by then and
stupidly thought wearing long sleeves would keep people from seeing the angry
red slashes all over my arms. I hadn’t started putting matches out on the backs
of my hands when this pic was taken, but it wasn’t long after. I told everyone
I was allergic to bug bites when they called me on it. Everyone bought my lies
except Grant. He never said anything, but I knew he could see through my words.

“Look at us, grinning like dorks,” I
say, passing it back.

“We had fun, right? I can’t believe we
didn’t end up in jail for some of our stunts.”

“That’s where we belonged, really,” I
agree. “Whose bright idea was it to go shopping cart bombing, anyway?”

“I do believe that was Oliver’s
brilliant scheme.” He sighs with a grin, the one I remember so well. The one
that made me fall hard for him. “Vandalism at its finest.”

“Oliver,” I sigh. “I miss that little
troll. Whatever happened to him?”

“He’s here tonight,” Grant says, turning
in his chair to point at a table on the side, next to the brick wall near the
ladies room.

“Seriously?” I squeal, spinning around
to look for him. “I have to talk to him!”

“We’re roomies. Have been since I moved
back for law school.”

“Oh man,” I say as I catch Oliver’s eye
and wink at him. He gives me a confused look and keeps chatting up his date. I
realize he probably has no idea who I am, since I have short dyed hair, a nose stud,
and something resembling a chest now. “We had good times, didn’t we?”