innovative and comprehensive.”
“It was to find you.”
Silence. I took the purple crayon and watched as a butterfly appeared on the one lonely spot of white on a page that told our story. Wanting more of his compliments, more of his attention, I ripped another page from the roll, moved our plates aside, and set the fresh, clean sheet on top. My heart, again, was beating at the vicious speed it always did when it was around Jonas.
I like you , he wrote on the vacant area near my plate. Just three small words, but they managed to take up the whole page.
Good , I wrote back, timid, excited, uninhibited. I like U 2 .
No, not good , he added. Then, very slowly, he wrote, my girlfriend .
I recovered quickly from the blow.
I wrote, we're only friends, right? Did he notice my fingers were shaking when I added the smiley face?
Friends , he wrote.
The crayon became like a hot coal in my hand, so I flung it abruptly into the basket. Jonas took this time to casually finish off the rest of his sandwich. At this point, I didn’t care if he got mustard up his nose and in his ears, I wasn’t going to wipe it off. Remaining calm and balanced was a difficult task when the stinging of his admission was burning me up inside. Hadn’t I seen that little inconspicuous red flag and failed to trust it? Weren’t the signs evident? She was out there, someone beautiful and bright, and the envy, which would eventually turn into something larger and greater, incensed me.
“I know you’re mad,” he said, taking the last bite of his meal.
“Why would I be mad?” I asked, struggling to pick up a crayon and do something with my hands besides strangle him.
“I should’ve been up-front with you. It was never an issue because you and I were just friends.”
“We still are.”
“I know,” he said, leaning forward, setting his hands on the table. It was better that he wasn’t reaching for a crayon. What he was about to say needed to be said, not written on the paper. Now I knew how Demi Moore felt when she insisted Rob Lowe keep the lights on when he was dumping her, how they’d been in the dark for too long. “I like talking to you, and I liked dancing with you.”
The mere mention of that dance brought an intimacy to the table that I was sure the whole restaurant could feel. I looked up from my doodle of a dog, pretending that the reference had nothing to do with Jonas.
He continued, unflappable. “I’m happy when I’m with you, this whole experience, the crayoned words. I’ve enjoyed it, and,” he paused, hoping to lock my eyes into his, “there's something very sexy about writing you.”
“You can’t do this, Jonas. You can’t just say things like that and pull me close and then in the same breath tell me you have a girlfriend and we’re just friends.”
“ You’re the one who said we were just friends.”
“What did you expect me to say?” I questioned him. “How am I supposed to react when you tell me something like that?”
“I don’t know. Why don’t you just tell me how you feel? Forget twenty-two, forget sixteen, forget hypotheticals. Tell me what you feel.”
“Does it matter?” I asked, throwing down an imaginary white flag. He knew what it meant. What did it matter what I felt when there were things more forceful than feelings between us?
“You’re impossible,” he said, rising to go to the bathroom, giving me five minutes to compose myself and grow up quickly.
When he returned, I asked, “What’s she like?”
He took a sip of Coke. “She’s nice.”
“Nice? That’s all you have to say?”
He thought about it for a minute, and then he began. Interestingly, once he got started, he didn’t seem to want to stop.
“Her name’s Emily. Emily Cohen. She’s my age, and we’ve been close friends since the second grade. Her dad is an international banker, and he and her mom have traveled all over the world for most of Emily’s life. She and her sister, Barbara, were pretty
“It was to find you.”
Silence. I took the purple crayon and watched as a butterfly appeared on the one lonely spot of white on a page that told our story. Wanting more of his compliments, more of his attention, I ripped another page from the roll, moved our plates aside, and set the fresh, clean sheet on top. My heart, again, was beating at the vicious speed it always did when it was around Jonas.
I like you , he wrote on the vacant area near my plate. Just three small words, but they managed to take up the whole page.
Good , I wrote back, timid, excited, uninhibited. I like U 2 .
No, not good , he added. Then, very slowly, he wrote, my girlfriend .
I recovered quickly from the blow.
I wrote, we're only friends, right? Did he notice my fingers were shaking when I added the smiley face?
Friends , he wrote.
The crayon became like a hot coal in my hand, so I flung it abruptly into the basket. Jonas took this time to casually finish off the rest of his sandwich. At this point, I didn’t care if he got mustard up his nose and in his ears, I wasn’t going to wipe it off. Remaining calm and balanced was a difficult task when the stinging of his admission was burning me up inside. Hadn’t I seen that little inconspicuous red flag and failed to trust it? Weren’t the signs evident? She was out there, someone beautiful and bright, and the envy, which would eventually turn into something larger and greater, incensed me.
“I know you’re mad,” he said, taking the last bite of his meal.
“Why would I be mad?” I asked, struggling to pick up a crayon and do something with my hands besides strangle him.
“I should’ve been up-front with you. It was never an issue because you and I were just friends.”
“We still are.”
“I know,” he said, leaning forward, setting his hands on the table. It was better that he wasn’t reaching for a crayon. What he was about to say needed to be said, not written on the paper. Now I knew how Demi Moore felt when she insisted Rob Lowe keep the lights on when he was dumping her, how they’d been in the dark for too long. “I like talking to you, and I liked dancing with you.”
The mere mention of that dance brought an intimacy to the table that I was sure the whole restaurant could feel. I looked up from my doodle of a dog, pretending that the reference had nothing to do with Jonas.
He continued, unflappable. “I’m happy when I’m with you, this whole experience, the crayoned words. I’ve enjoyed it, and,” he paused, hoping to lock my eyes into his, “there's something very sexy about writing you.”
“You can’t do this, Jonas. You can’t just say things like that and pull me close and then in the same breath tell me you have a girlfriend and we’re just friends.”
“ You’re the one who said we were just friends.”
“What did you expect me to say?” I questioned him. “How am I supposed to react when you tell me something like that?”
“I don’t know. Why don’t you just tell me how you feel? Forget twenty-two, forget sixteen, forget hypotheticals. Tell me what you feel.”
“Does it matter?” I asked, throwing down an imaginary white flag. He knew what it meant. What did it matter what I felt when there were things more forceful than feelings between us?
“You’re impossible,” he said, rising to go to the bathroom, giving me five minutes to compose myself and grow up quickly.
When he returned, I asked, “What’s she like?”
He took a sip of Coke. “She’s nice.”
“Nice? That’s all you have to say?”
He thought about it for a minute, and then he began. Interestingly, once he got started, he didn’t seem to want to stop.
“Her name’s Emily. Emily Cohen. She’s my age, and we’ve been close friends since the second grade. Her dad is an international banker, and he and her mom have traveled all over the world for most of Emily’s life. She and her sister, Barbara, were pretty
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