Take Me On

~ Lincoln

The moment I open the door, I immediately regret not heeding the advice on the yellow Post-it note clinging near the small round hole: Lila, Always check the peephole before answering the door. You never know who’s on the other side.

Translation: serial killers knock before attacking. I watch CSI. It happens.

Standing before me isn’t a serial killer but a different type of nightmare. Stephen, the guy I’ve dated on and off since sophomore year, tilts his head with a way too smug I’m concerned look on his face.

“Are you okay?” he asks.

I sniff and use a crumpled tissue to wipe my runny nose. Let’s see: swollen, puffy red eyes with dark circles? No, I’m not okay—and now I’m worse because he thinks I’m crying over him. “I’m fine. What are you doing here?”

“Checking on you.” His green eyes survey the empty living room behind me. “I know your parents and brothers left yesterday for vacation. I wanted to make sure you made it through your first night alone.”

First night alone—ever. And it epically blew. I’ve got six more days of alone and then, come fall, the rest of my life. “I survived.”

Stephen scrutinizes me with a cocked eyebrow that says he can tell I didn’t sleep. Which I didn’t because I was too busy being terrified. My imagination boarded a train south to crazyville and convinced me that someone was scratching on the windows.

A hot June evening breeze drifts into the house, bringing with it the scent of the sickly sweet gel he uses to force his brown hair into a styled mess.

“Can I come in?” he asks when I’m obviously not offering.

No. I sigh. “Sure.”

Stephen enters and fingers the purple Post-it on the phone reminding me to check the caller ID. When I woke up yesterday morning, I found the peephole note, along with about a hundred other Post-its stuck to various objects around the house. All of them my mother’s desperate attempts to teach me how to live on my own so I’m prepared when I head fourteen hours away from home to the University of Florida.

“You can call me if you’re scared to be alone at night,” he says. “I’ll come over.”

I snort. “I’m sure you will.”

Stephen was my first...and last. When I gave him my virginity, I thought I loved him, and maybe I sort of did, but then everything became complicated. Not everything—me. I became complicated and I didn’t want to have sex anymore. Stephen lacked sympathy.

And then there was Lincoln...

My lips tremble and a new pool of warm tears builds in my eyes.

Stephen turns toward me with his mouth popped open for his next witty suggestion. It snaps shut when he spots my face. “Whoa. Lila. It’s okay.”

It’s not. My bones suddenly weigh too much for my body, and I collapse onto the couch. The tissue in my grasp balls into a rock. “I’m fine. Just tired.” Just heartbroken. Lincoln lied to me this morning and then he cut me off. As if the past two years of letters meant nothing to him.

Letters—not emails, not texts—letters. It’s what we promised each other when we met. Because somehow, letters made our relationship private...different...real.

I stare at the red-and-black amoeba patterns on the Oriental rug covering the hardwood floor. My stomach aches when I see the project that started or ended it all, depending on how I choose to view it, peeking out from underneath the cherry end table. The sturdy scrapbook paper represents hours of cutting and pasting and care meant to celebrate Lincoln’s graduation from high school. The petals of the dried-out lilac-colored roses Lincoln sent me for my graduation last week create the border.

I’m so unbelievably stupid to have fallen for a guy I’ve met once. Stupid because nice guys only belong in the land of make-believe.

The other end of the couch shifts as Stephen half sits on the arm. How many times did my mother ask him not to do that? Stephen licks his thumb and rubs dirt off his new prized possession: the two-hundred-and-fifty-dollar athletic shoes he stood in line for overnight.

“Seriously, Lila.” One more lick. One more rub. “I’ll stay with you this week. No strings attached.”

I blow out enough air that my hair moves. I’m not being fair. Stephen’s a good guy. It’s my fault I fell for someone else. Someone who doesn’t really exist. “I know, and thanks. But I’ve got to work this out for myself. How can I even imagine moving to Florida on my own if I can’t stay the night in my house alone?”

Stephen scratches his chin, indicating I’m going to hate whatever gushes out of his mouth next. “Look, I know you better than anyone else and here’s the thing...you’re not as strong as you make everybody think you are.”