14
September 2002
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Tropical Storm Hannah brought rain to the city, which is appropriate because I feel like unleashing a storm. It's never easy facing rejection, no matter how many times you've stared it down. It's even harder once you've already let the person taste you, kiss you, know how much you like them. I sat on his couch, my legs across his lap, his hand sweetly rubbing my foot as he told me that he couldn't "do this." He said that while, yes, he did like me and loved spending time with me, that the "more" just made it all too complicated. He said that he could feel himself getting too attached and that he couldn't handle all that right now. "Are you still going to talk to me?" he asked. I told him that I didn't know, but that I wasn't really looking for a buddy. Especially, as far as I was concerned, you can't go backwards. We sat in silence for a moment, my hair still tangled from his hands, his arms still locked across my legs. I removed myself from his embrace and let myself out of his space, my heart heavy. I wanted more from him emotionally and physically than he wanted to give. I think that's harder than being on the other side. Where they want more from you than you're ready to give, and with boys - and they were all boys - it's almost always more than you're ready to give in the physical sense. Because when you're a teenager you're almost always too willing to give up your heart. I was 17 when I was first ran into that kind of rejection - it happened fast and I think a part of me is still a little stunned. He worked with me at Randall's. His name was AJ and he was a stocker. He told one of the sackers that he thought I was hot and had a great body. One day I ran into him outside the bathroom, where I'd been freshening up my Cover Girl powder, and he pulled me into the stock room. Standing close enough to me that I could feel the heat of his breath, he asked me out. We went to dinner at Bennigan's, where I had broccoli cheddar soup and he ate a Monte Cristo, or some other meat and cheese monstrosity, before heading back to my house to watch his copy of Faces of Death III. (That should've been my first sign. Actually, that he was from Tomball and drove a Camaro should've been my first signs.) We sat on the living room floor, our backs against the ottoman. I'm not sure how long we sat there trying not to touch each other before he kissed me. He pushed me back and laid beside me, his hands moving down my neck, shoulders and arms. I was concerned that the only thing separating us from my mother was her bedroom door. I could feel his hands moving and when his left hand found my right breast, I grabbed it and moved it away, but continued to kiss him. Almost immediately he jumped up, announcing that he had to go. I straightened myself out and walked him outside. I stood on the driveway,
my arms folded across myself, and watched him walk to his car.
He opened the door, turned to me and said, "Oh, I hope you didn't think anything was going to come of this, because I sort of have a girlfriend." He peeled out and I stood shell-shocked under the flood light, just waiting for the punchline. I'm still waiting. All of this has to be a joke, right?
The notify loves a good hurricane.
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