made him run a
million errands. Or he lost his phone, or he couldn’t find his keys. Or his car
wouldn’t start, or his alarm didn’t go off. Or he overslept.
And all I will hear is, Look, Mandy, I just don’t
care enough about you anymore.
2
As he approaches, I
try to seem as detached and disinterested as possible.
“Hi,” he says, keeping his voice
low and his smile shy. Tristan is always pretending to be more timid than he
actually is—the guy version of a girl trying to be demure, trying to
project that Maria Clara-ness that has become so rare these days. I don’t know
why he does this. Girls don’t like shy guys; they think they do, but they
always end up with the ones who speak up and assert themselves and win people
over with the grandest of gestures. Girls don’t notice shy guys, and it is
ironic that Tristan’s attempt to be a shy guy is secretly a call for attention:
he only does it around his crushes, or in a room full of beautiful strangers
he’d like to charm. Or with me, when I’m mad and trying to ignore him. He only
does it to stand out.
“Hi,” he repeats, and I tell him,
“You’re late.”
He says, “I know,” and sits beside
me, but not close to me. The space between does not allow our shoulders to
touch, and I do not feel the satin smoothness of his varsity jacket on my bare
arm. There are so many things I cannot touch and feel right now. He tries to
make eye contact, but I concentrate on studying my resumé. There is a speck of
red ink, barely noticeable, on the upper right corner of the page, just above
the photo of a very prim-and-proper me. I want to swipe at it with a correction
pen, but a) I don’t have one with me, and b) doing so would only draw more
attention to the flaw, as most cover-up attempts do. I flip it over so that I
am left with a blank white sheet, which I can no longer pretend to be
concentrating on.
“I forgot to give you this,” he
says, and hands me a copy of his yearbook photo. He is bright-eyed and at ease,
wearing a navy blue toga and smiling widely, almost goofily, for the camera. At
the back, he has written in all caps, Dear Mandy, I’ll make a wish for you and hope it
will come true... If you lose your way, think back on yesterday. Remember me
this way, remember this way. Love, Tristan. The “o” in “love” is a heart, and I look up to see him grinning
expectantly at me. He thinks the clever cheesiness and the ‘90s movie reference make up for the fact that this is the
exact same thing he wrote on the copies he gave out to everyone else days ago.
He seems to find it funny. I don’t.
I force a smile. What else have you forgotten?
“Hey, what’s wrong?” he asks,
moving to tuck a stray strand of my hair behind my ear. I try not to flinch,
consciously arranging my face into something resembling receptiveness, but my
hand involuntarily reaches up to swat his misguided affection away. It is hard
to imagine that, three years ago, this was the very gesture that made me fall
in love with him. It was the end of freshman year, and we were hauling dusty
boxes of old files from our org’s room to the common storage room. He was
trying to convince me to tag along with his block to the beach, but the way he
was trying was just not enough for me—he was being annoyingly coy,
playing it safe, not really saying what he was supposed to be saying.
“I hate the beach,” he told me,
kicking the door of the storage room open with his foot and letting me through.
With my back to him, he continued, “It’s full of sweaty guys who try to show
off their abs—you know, one ab per dude.”
“It’s also full of sweaty girls
who show off their boobs,” I reminded him. “Two boobs per chick, no doubt about
that.”
“Yeah, okay. But it’ll be really
hot.”
“Of course it’ll be hot, you
idiot,” I snapped, getting more irritated by the minute. “I think that’s kind
of the point.”
“And I hate getting sand in
million errands. Or he lost his phone, or he couldn’t find his keys. Or his car
wouldn’t start, or his alarm didn’t go off. Or he overslept.
And all I will hear is, Look, Mandy, I just don’t
care enough about you anymore.
2
As he approaches, I
try to seem as detached and disinterested as possible.
“Hi,” he says, keeping his voice
low and his smile shy. Tristan is always pretending to be more timid than he
actually is—the guy version of a girl trying to be demure, trying to
project that Maria Clara-ness that has become so rare these days. I don’t know
why he does this. Girls don’t like shy guys; they think they do, but they
always end up with the ones who speak up and assert themselves and win people
over with the grandest of gestures. Girls don’t notice shy guys, and it is
ironic that Tristan’s attempt to be a shy guy is secretly a call for attention:
he only does it around his crushes, or in a room full of beautiful strangers
he’d like to charm. Or with me, when I’m mad and trying to ignore him. He only
does it to stand out.
“Hi,” he repeats, and I tell him,
“You’re late.”
He says, “I know,” and sits beside
me, but not close to me. The space between does not allow our shoulders to
touch, and I do not feel the satin smoothness of his varsity jacket on my bare
arm. There are so many things I cannot touch and feel right now. He tries to
make eye contact, but I concentrate on studying my resumé. There is a speck of
red ink, barely noticeable, on the upper right corner of the page, just above
the photo of a very prim-and-proper me. I want to swipe at it with a correction
pen, but a) I don’t have one with me, and b) doing so would only draw more
attention to the flaw, as most cover-up attempts do. I flip it over so that I
am left with a blank white sheet, which I can no longer pretend to be
concentrating on.
“I forgot to give you this,” he
says, and hands me a copy of his yearbook photo. He is bright-eyed and at ease,
wearing a navy blue toga and smiling widely, almost goofily, for the camera. At
the back, he has written in all caps, Dear Mandy, I’ll make a wish for you and hope it
will come true... If you lose your way, think back on yesterday. Remember me
this way, remember this way. Love, Tristan. The “o” in “love” is a heart, and I look up to see him grinning
expectantly at me. He thinks the clever cheesiness and the ‘90s movie reference make up for the fact that this is the
exact same thing he wrote on the copies he gave out to everyone else days ago.
He seems to find it funny. I don’t.
I force a smile. What else have you forgotten?
“Hey, what’s wrong?” he asks,
moving to tuck a stray strand of my hair behind my ear. I try not to flinch,
consciously arranging my face into something resembling receptiveness, but my
hand involuntarily reaches up to swat his misguided affection away. It is hard
to imagine that, three years ago, this was the very gesture that made me fall
in love with him. It was the end of freshman year, and we were hauling dusty
boxes of old files from our org’s room to the common storage room. He was
trying to convince me to tag along with his block to the beach, but the way he
was trying was just not enough for me—he was being annoyingly coy,
playing it safe, not really saying what he was supposed to be saying.
“I hate the beach,” he told me,
kicking the door of the storage room open with his foot and letting me through.
With my back to him, he continued, “It’s full of sweaty guys who try to show
off their abs—you know, one ab per dude.”
“It’s also full of sweaty girls
who show off their boobs,” I reminded him. “Two boobs per chick, no doubt about
that.”
“Yeah, okay. But it’ll be really
hot.”
“Of course it’ll be hot, you
idiot,” I snapped, getting more irritated by the minute. “I think that’s kind
of the point.”
“And I hate getting sand in
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