my
flip-flops. And in my shorts. And in my underwear.”
“Tristan. I
don’t think I needed to hear that last one.”
“Sorry,” he mumbled, and I thought
I had been harsh enough to make him stop, but he went on, “The thing is, the
whole block is going. I can’t not go.”
“Of course you can. Nobody can
force you to go.” I felt guilty for calling him an idiot and turned around to
smile at him. “Fight for your rights, man.”
He smiled back. “I could use some
company.”
I didn’t answer until we had gone
back to the org room and picked up one big box each, letting his unspoken
invitation hang in the air between us, making him tense and insecure. “It’s a
good thing you’ll have your block mates, then,” I told him, but as I watched
his face fall, I was surprised that I didn’t derive any form of satisfaction
from it. We had been playing The Game for months, and maybe it was time to
quit. The question was, what was the definition of quitting in that scenario?
Giving up the game to make way for something genuine? Or giving up on each
other to play the game with someone else?
He walked ahead of me, and I felt
like maybe I should say something—not exactly apologize, but at least
make him feel a bit better about himself and his moves, or lack thereof.
“Wait,” I said. He turned back to see me clutching the heavy box with both
hands, the struggle to come up with something substantial enough to say after
“wait” completely visible on my face. A sudden gust of wind blew across the
corridor, and I blinked as shorter strands of my hair escaped from my ponytail
and poked my eyes. “A thousand yellow daisies,” I blurted out, quoting Lorelai
Gilmore. There
should be a thousand yellow daisies...it should be more than this.
He reached out to tuck the stray
strands behind my ear and told me, “It’s okay, Mandy. I get it.”
We walked silently to the storage
room and set down our boxes. Outside, the sky was getting dark, and the din of
voices was steadily fading—we should probably move fast if we both wanted
to get home in time for dinner. He stepped towards the door, but I found myself
sitting on the floor, grabbing his hand, and pulling him down. “Get what?” I
asked.
“Nothing,” he said.
I scowled.
“Get what?” I repeated, elbowing his ribs.
“That you don’t like me,” he
replied.
“Are you serious? Of course I like
you.”
“But you treat me like crap.”
I laughed. “Of course I treat you
like crap. Didn’t you ever do this in kindergarten? Didn’t you ever call your
crush names, or steal her crayons, or pull her pigtails?”
“But we’re not in kindergarten.”
He was right. We were in college,
and we were good friends. Or at least he was a
good friend to me. The past few months paraded themselves in front of me: him
waiting for me outside my classroom, offering to spend my long breaks with me,
volunteering to return my books to the library, walking me to the parking lot.
It wasn’t a game; I was never a game to him.
I opened my mouth to speak, but he
stood and said, “We can finish this tomorrow. Come on, I’ll drive you home.”
The next morning, he showed up at
my doorstep with coffee, bacon, and waffles swimming in syrup. And then he
tucked my hair behind my ear and handed me a bouquet of yellow daisies.
“It’s not a thousand,” he said.
“But I hope it’s enough. And I hope it’s not too late.” He said it with
confidence and conviction and undeniable sincerity. He said it like he meant
it.
Now, three years later, he asks me
what’s wrong, and what I want to tell him is that I don’t even know what’s
right anymore.
3
“Nothing’s wrong,” I reply. When we first got together, we promised we would always be honest with
each other. We promised we wouldn’t play games, and we promised we would always
say what we mean and mean what we say. But that was three years ago, back when
we were eager to love and be loved, back when we
flip-flops. And in my shorts. And in my underwear.”
“Tristan. I
don’t think I needed to hear that last one.”
“Sorry,” he mumbled, and I thought
I had been harsh enough to make him stop, but he went on, “The thing is, the
whole block is going. I can’t not go.”
“Of course you can. Nobody can
force you to go.” I felt guilty for calling him an idiot and turned around to
smile at him. “Fight for your rights, man.”
He smiled back. “I could use some
company.”
I didn’t answer until we had gone
back to the org room and picked up one big box each, letting his unspoken
invitation hang in the air between us, making him tense and insecure. “It’s a
good thing you’ll have your block mates, then,” I told him, but as I watched
his face fall, I was surprised that I didn’t derive any form of satisfaction
from it. We had been playing The Game for months, and maybe it was time to
quit. The question was, what was the definition of quitting in that scenario?
Giving up the game to make way for something genuine? Or giving up on each
other to play the game with someone else?
He walked ahead of me, and I felt
like maybe I should say something—not exactly apologize, but at least
make him feel a bit better about himself and his moves, or lack thereof.
“Wait,” I said. He turned back to see me clutching the heavy box with both
hands, the struggle to come up with something substantial enough to say after
“wait” completely visible on my face. A sudden gust of wind blew across the
corridor, and I blinked as shorter strands of my hair escaped from my ponytail
and poked my eyes. “A thousand yellow daisies,” I blurted out, quoting Lorelai
Gilmore. There
should be a thousand yellow daisies...it should be more than this.
He reached out to tuck the stray
strands behind my ear and told me, “It’s okay, Mandy. I get it.”
We walked silently to the storage
room and set down our boxes. Outside, the sky was getting dark, and the din of
voices was steadily fading—we should probably move fast if we both wanted
to get home in time for dinner. He stepped towards the door, but I found myself
sitting on the floor, grabbing his hand, and pulling him down. “Get what?” I
asked.
“Nothing,” he said.
I scowled.
“Get what?” I repeated, elbowing his ribs.
“That you don’t like me,” he
replied.
“Are you serious? Of course I like
you.”
“But you treat me like crap.”
I laughed. “Of course I treat you
like crap. Didn’t you ever do this in kindergarten? Didn’t you ever call your
crush names, or steal her crayons, or pull her pigtails?”
“But we’re not in kindergarten.”
He was right. We were in college,
and we were good friends. Or at least he was a
good friend to me. The past few months paraded themselves in front of me: him
waiting for me outside my classroom, offering to spend my long breaks with me,
volunteering to return my books to the library, walking me to the parking lot.
It wasn’t a game; I was never a game to him.
I opened my mouth to speak, but he
stood and said, “We can finish this tomorrow. Come on, I’ll drive you home.”
The next morning, he showed up at
my doorstep with coffee, bacon, and waffles swimming in syrup. And then he
tucked my hair behind my ear and handed me a bouquet of yellow daisies.
“It’s not a thousand,” he said.
“But I hope it’s enough. And I hope it’s not too late.” He said it with
confidence and conviction and undeniable sincerity. He said it like he meant
it.
Now, three years later, he asks me
what’s wrong, and what I want to tell him is that I don’t even know what’s
right anymore.
3
“Nothing’s wrong,” I reply. When we first got together, we promised we would always be honest with
each other. We promised we wouldn’t play games, and we promised we would always
say what we mean and mean what we say. But that was three years ago, back when
we were eager to love and be loved, back when we
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