Keeping this ball rolling, continuing where we left off:
There was this boy I was “occasional” friends with in DC who told me a few weeks after the aforementioned drunken evening that a girl always has her next love interest lined up, that she won’t ditch the first until number two has been secured. I try to avoid (and defy) such generalizations, but in this instance I had to declare myself a stereotype’s statistic. But this isn’t to say my decision to end my relationship with my boyfriend was an easy one. I loved him; so what if he occasionally pissed me off? I felt like I was defying tradition, committing sacrilege against such a nice boy.
But on the other hand, I would be free.
Free to be single, free to openly flirt. Though I don’t know why I was so excited at the time because DC was (and still is) heavily deficient in hot, bearded, bespeckled boys. Perhaps this is why I thought of crushes from my past, and of my friend’s Facebook.
My Facebook message to Gabe was corny—probably why I forget the exact wording, as I've repressed that memory—but it said something to the effect that I had a huge crush on him during our internship and, btw, here’s my telephone number. For when you visit DC, of course. Because everyone loves the Nation’s Capital.
I think it was a whole day later when I started feeling regret for my actions. I was in my apartment and, always obeying my rash impulses to communicate, made the decision that I was going to email Gabe, apologizing.
Sorry about that. I had just broken up with my long-term boyfriend and was a little drunk. But feel free to get in touch with me if you ever do visit the area.
I spent the next few days worrying about other things: schoolwork,
workwork, decorating my new apartment. Also preparing for how I would let my boyfriend down easy, since we were still “together.”
Then one day at school I noticed an email from him in my inbox. From Gabe. He said he thought both of my messages were sweet, and—to top that off—he had always thought I wore the coolest outfits (
+1, Gabriel). And here was his number for when I next visited NY.
I didn’t lose any time. The Brooklyn Museum (my old place of intern) was having its monthly First Saturday party in a few weeks, so I sent him an email saying I would be in the area for that reason and we should hang out. So we planned an outing to The Met, of course.
The next weekend I broke up with my boyfriend. That was painful.
Only a few days later I found myself on a five-hour Bolt Bus ride, reliving all of those nerves I had felt during our summer internship. I spent that Friday night with my sister and her fiancé in Astoria, as they were gracious enough to let me crash with them. The next morning I put on a summery dress—the Target gingham dress that was all the rage a few years back—and made my way across the island. Of course I got there first, something I always try to avoid doing, especially in this instance. I called his phone. No answer. He must be on the subway. Or maybe he came to his senses and ditched me.
A few minutes later my phone rang and it was him.
Hey, where are you? I’m on the steps. I looked up and saw him, cigarette in hand and plaid shirt on body. He looked so good. I was freaking out, shaking.
I made my way up the steps and called out his name, voice wavering. He turned and smiled. Of course the first thing out of my mouth was that he looked really good. He lost some weight, after all.
Real smooth, Megan. Real smooth.
To be continued (the most exciting posts are yet to come)...
