Punk Love

Me: Alex who?

209898179: I need to get drumsticks this week. I’m driving into the city.

Me: Thanks for the fun fact?

209898179: You coming or what?

I stood up and went to the kitchen. My knees felt like Jell-O. The rest of me like rice pudding. I grabbed a glass. Poured myself some water. Proceeded to spill it all over my shirt trying to gulp it.

He was asking me out, that much was clear.

We were going to get married and have Viking-looking babies. That, too, was a given fact at this point.

Now that I knew where my life was heading, the least I could do was keep my future husband waiting for a few minutes. Play hard to get.

After drinking two glasses of water, then proceeding to pee for a full minute, then looking at myself in the mirror and screaming silently, I went back to my PC.

Alex wasn’t online anymore. I knew he wouldn’t be. Guys like Alex didn’t like to be kept waiting.

I wrote him back, anyway.

Me: I guess. Pick me up Friday at four?

I wore a stripy black and white dress that clung to my curves and killer fake-leather army boots for my maybe-date with Alex.

My makeup, I thought, was on point. From my thick eyeliner to my nude lip gloss. I blew out my hair several times, straightened, then styled it, and flossed my teeth until my gums wanted to file a restraining order against me.

I still looked like a good girl posing as a bad girl at a tame Halloween party, but I told myself Alex already knew who I was and still chose to send me a message, so maybe good girls were his jam.

We hadn’t talked on ICQ since agreeing to meet on Friday.

It was excruciating, watching his name turn green every evening, knowing he was online and not being able to do anything about it. I wondered if he felt the same. If he saw my name, too, and wanted to talk. If so—why didn’t he?

I also wondered what he was doing online (but at seventeen, did I really have to wonder? He was most definitely watching porn).

There was only one thing that put a damper on my complete and utter euphoria—Ryan.

I still hadn’t told my good friend that Alex had contacted me. That we were going into the city together on Friday, without him.

Even though I hung out with Ryan every day at school, I never broached the subject of Alex.

There were a few reasons for that:

The first and most obvious one was that it had become pretty apparent that Ryan liked me, but not apparent enough that I could flat-out tell him that I only saw him as a friend.

Secondly, I knew he didn’t like Alex. I was afraid to lose Ryan’s friendship, especially if things with Alex didn’t pan out, which—let’s admit it—was always a possibility when dealing with high-functioning sociopaths.

Third and most bizarrely of all, it almost felt like betraying Alex.

Without knowing him much at all, I already suspected he was a very private person. There was no other reason why Ryan would think Alex wasn’t getting any action. Clearly, Alex hadn’t shared with Ryan that we were seeing each other Friday. Otherwise, Ryan would have clubbed me with a ten-foot pole long ago. Ryan had mentioned fleetingly that he met up with the band almost every day that week for rehearsals.

If Alex chose not to tell him, maybe there was a reason for that. A reason beyond the fact Alex wasn’t big on talking to people (or at all).

It felt like a secret, and I didn’t like having secrets.

Anyway. Excuse this five-hundred word long detour.

It was four o’clock on Friday, and your girl was buzzing with excitement.

I watched VH1 in the living room, gurgling milk to make my teeth appear whiter before chewing on a piece of mint gum to get rid of the milky residue.

The last thing I needed was to taste like cow milk in case he kissed me.

I did make a fairly honest attempt to go vegan the entire week, and mostly succeeded, save for a dash of cream in my coffee (this was mid 2000s, back when oat milk, almond milk, and soy milk still tasted like sweaty feet).

Four twenty-five rolled around, and my excitement morphed into annoyance, dipped in embarrassment. Was he standing me up?

At four thirty-five my phone buzzed with a message. By then, I was deflated, furious, and my eyeliner melted under my eyes.

Alex: I’m here.

I let him wait nine minutes before coming out the gate.

One look at Alex, with his blond bun, massive shoulders, and don’t-fuck-with-me expression waiting behind the wheel, and my ire dissolved into thin air, replaced by heart eyes and the urgent need to browse baby name books to choose what we’d call our children.

Of course, I couldn’t let him know that. Outwardly, I was still fuming.