Worst Things

“I—” 

…love you too.

The words catch in my throat.

Across from me, Devin waits, one hand reaching across the table, fingers inches from my own. He clutches a glass of root beer in his other hand, his white knuckles the only visible sign of nerves. His honey-brown eyes are bright with hope. Or is it expectation?

Time stutters, crashing to a snail’s pace. My tongue presses to the roof of my mouth, the L shape almost fully formed, lips arrested, frozen in this one moment of time. Devin blinks, the motion slower than molasses. My staccato heart echoes like rumbling thunder, my racing thoughts somehow all that’s immune.

Those words. They should be easy to say, shouldn’t they? Three more words, three short syllables, ten letters, four of them O’s, so only seven letters really.

I will time to restart, for the rest of the sentence to follow, to pour from my mouth, drenched in sincerity, the slight pause reframed as a hiccup of emotion, rather than the uncertainty that throttles me.

But they don’t come. 

Does he mean it, those momentous words, or is Devin only interested in cementing me in place as his Girlfriend, with a capital G? Someone to ride beside him on the school bus, hands entwined. To wait beside his locker after class, English notes in hand. A guaranteed date for movies and school dances. Someone who will scream his name from the sidelines and envelop him in a hug, no matter how gross and sweaty he is after the game.

Or did he tell me he loves me because yesterday his ex, Stacey, strutted down the hall wearing Jake’s letterman jacket? Because until four weeks ago Stacey and Devin were Homecoming-King-and-Queen-apparent, and unless Devin can replace his lady love, he risks losing both the title and his standing as the most popular boy in school.

Does it matter how he feels? Shouldn’t the real question be, not does he love me, but do I love him?

I like him—really like him—no doubt there. I remember the moment I first laid eyes on Devin Williams, the first week of my freshman year. I’d turned from the lunch line, a plate of Shepard’s pie and a chocolate milk weighing down my lunch tray, and scanned the room for a vacant seat. My eye caught on a boy with curling brown hair, eyes crinkled as he laughed at some joke one of the other kids had made. He’d glanced up, our eyes meeting for an infinitesimal moment in time before they flitted away. But that’s all it had taken. For the next two and a half years, I’d be wallowing in a mire of unrequited love. Or if not love, then crushville central.

He was a year older than me and a world apart—popular in a way I could never dream to be, what with my stretched-out hand-me-downs and penchant for spending every spare moment with my nose buried in a book. 

Fast forward three years, Monday, September 6^th. The day Devin and Stacey called it quits—to the horror of the general population of Newberry High. The day a ray of hope broke through my chest, rekindling that spark that I’d forcibly quashed for so long. A fool’s hope.

No one knew why they broke up. Rumors abounded. She had cheated, kissing a boy on the Ice Hockey team. He had strayed—with a girl from two towns over. He wanted to have sex; she didn’t. They’d had sex, and his penis was too small, so she dumped him. (That theory gained some traction until the rumor that she’d had an abortion without telling him took its place.) 

For weeks, I watched as every single straight girl in school, and a few less-single girls angled themselves into Devin’s path. Bumping into him on their way to class, dropping their pencils, waiting outside the boy’s locker room before football practice hoping to find some way to snare his attention—I even saw a girl spill water down her blouse in the middle of the hall and turn her star-struck eyes on him as he stopped short to avoid running her down. He only blinked and stepped around, oblivious. But what did she expect? It’s not like boys carry handkerchiefs in their pockets anymore.

What we all expected, and secretly feared, was that he and Stacey would get back together. But as September wound towards October, the reconciliation seemed less and less certain.

What no one expected, least of all me, was the moment Devin burst from English class, passing paper in hand, and made his way to the cafeteria, where he caught me by the arm, spinning me around so fast my lunch tray clattered to the floor. He kissed me. In front of half the school, spaghetti casserole splashed across my feet.

I supposed I should write Ms. Walker a thank you note. It was thanks to her that Devin even realized I existed. If she hadn’t suggested I tutor him, we’d still be near strangers.

Fast forward three weeks after the spaghetti incident and here we are, sitting in a booth at the Olive Garden. Stranded in this moment of time between dinner and dessert, Devin’s declaration hovering in the air between us.

So… what if I tell him I love him, even if I don’t? 

What’s the worst that could happen?

My mind spins forward in time, and I find myself in the backseat of Devin’s car a few months later, his letterman’s jacket cushioning my head as his hands fumble with my jeans. I love him, but not loving him wouldn’t have stopped the heated groping, the crush of lips against flushed skin. Sex doesn’t require love, it doesn’t even require desire, though the craving for more pulses between us with every breath.

A few weeks later, the consequences of those fleeting moments flow, unlike my period: pregnant at seventeen. A single mom by graduation. Devin long gone, rushing to freedom on a football scholarship. His love shredded by the reality of 3 AM feedings, mounds of dirty diapers and a perpetually blue baby mama. He gets drafted to the NFL after college, and his infrequent visits become an alimony check sent by mail, his star-quality too bright to be dimmed by an unwanted child born from a white-lie.

Or—my mind spins to another potential future, and in it, this time we wait. I watch him graduate, whisked to the West Coast to play ball. Only one year, he promises, love hot on his lips, and then I can follow. My fingers cramp from scrolling through his feed, cataloging his new friendships, searching the girls tagged in his posts, laying in bed waiting for a response to my latest messages. I scribble a list of reason’s to stay together. Draw a star next to: because he loves me.

It’s hard to say which of us is the first to ghost.

Another future spirals before me. He takes a gap year, giving up the football scholarship and staying in the Midwest, working for a construction company while I finish school. He’s my date for Senior Prom. After graduation, we attend the local community college for a few years before moving to the East Coast. We get an apartment, make friends, become that couple, known for being the high school sweethearts who actually made it. For our fiftieth anniversary, he gives me a star sapphire ring to celebrate.

But what if I don’t love him? Not fully, not yet.

We’ve only been going out for a few weeks, most of our time together spent between classes and at lunchtime. We’ve gone to a movie and taken a walk along the reservoir where we got caught in a sudden downpour and hid in an abandoned barn, with only our lips and hands to keep each other warm. 

So, what if I don’t say I love you, too? What if I stay silent and only smile, or lean in and press my lips to his?

What’s the worst that could happen?

Again my mind spins, pulling me across parallel timelines, from this moment to one of a trillion possible futures. This time I keep silent, and watch the light in Devin’s eyes flicker and fade when I don’t return the sentiment. He pulls his hand back across the table, pretending to reach for a breadstick, that he shoves in his mouth as he looks away. It’s the last dinner we share, the last time he asks me out on a proper date. We still hold hands as we stroll the halls, but his attention is elsewhere. He doesn’t say he loves me again. 

I search for him, one afternoon, by the boy’s locker rooms, surprised and worried when he doesn’t meet me after class like he always does. I turn the corner, a thousand fears tearing through my mind. Did he go home sick? End up in detention? Was there an away game that I forgot about, and he’s already on the bus, miles away? But, no—I spot him, his curling brown hair a dead giveaway. Those curls bent towards another girl, her face angled up towards his. For a sinking moment, I fear it’s Stacey, but then I realize it’s the girl who’d spilled water across her chest. She’s wearing a Stars and Stripes t-shirt, dry—for now. Her interest in scoring a senior boyfriend more tenacious, it seems, than my own desire to keep Devin by my side.

I turn and walk away, unsure if I regret not lying, not pretending that the so-called love Devin required of me had yet to take seed. 

Another time I’m in the school gym, helping myself to a third cup of punch, holding the ladle out so as not to spill on my layered organza dress. I look like an over-frosted cupcake, but Devin chose the dress from the three I modeled for him at the mall. Unfortunately, the dangerous lack of straps mean I spend every other millisecond tugging at the bodice. I’m trying to tug at the front without spilling my punch as Stacey strolls in, her black dress clinging to her in all the right ways, the rhinestone encrusted straps mocking me with their functionality. I turn away, spilling the damned punch across my hand. Devin’s brow furrows when he clutches my sticky fingers a few moments later, tugging me towards the front of the dance floor. The music cuts off and Mr. Envers appears, mic in hand. Devin’s buddies press in around us until all I can see it the gleam of the overhead lights and the shoulders of a suit jacket. 

“This year’s Homecoming King…” Mr. Envers says, “…is Devin Williams.”

The boys erupt into an ear shattering whoop, shoving at Devin as drops my hand and climbs the steps to the stage.

“And, Homecoming Queen is…”

My cheeks flush and I preemptively tug at my top, deciding to keep my arms glued to my sides and pray the absurd dress doesn’t decide to rebel during the few moments I’m on stage in front of everyone. 

“Stacey Jacklyn Hayes.” Mr. Envers steps aside, making room for Stacey, who struts on stage as if she were born to be there. I stand in the crowd, forgotten. Devin grasps Stacey’s hand in his and their eyes meet, alight in triumph. My vision blurs until the rhinestones on Stacey’s dress, on their crowns, look like stars, glittering in the sky.

I stumble to the bathroom, punch churning in my gut, and when I return, Devin and Stacey are nowhere to be seen.

Or, in another future, Devin becomes insatiably needy. My inability to proclaim my love is a harbinger; a sign that he is going to lose me, the way he lost Stacey. He doubles down. Boxes of candy, stuffed animals, flowers, costume jewelry, love notes. They appear in his hands as if he’s become an amateur magician overnight. He wraps his arm around my shoulders, gluing me to his side as we step through the halls, kissing me with a ferocity that makes me blush, and gets us yelled at by teachers more than once. Class time becomes my haven, the only times I am free of his cloying affection. 

I feel myself pull away, even as he becomes entrenched. He corners me outside the lunchroom one day, pulling me into an empty classroom. His fingers clutch at my cheeks, my waist, as if he’s drowning, but his words are like poison, wild accusations flying. “I love you so much I think I’m dying,” becomes: “Why do you pull away when I kiss you,” and: “I saw you flirting with that freshman,” until: “If you actually loved me you’d understand.” 

I roll my eyes, try to break free. His fingers loosen and for a moment, I think he’s going to let me go. And then they’re tangled in my hair, pulling. He presses his lips to mine, hard, like he doesn’t care that it hurts. I shove at his chest, but he’s too big and now I’m backed against the wall and his hand is under my t-shirt. I shove and shove and then I bite down on his lip. I taste blood. And then more blood as he backhands me across the face so hard I see stars.

Back in the restaurant. Devin’s eyes are still bright with unbroken love. The words remain unsaid on my lips. Time lingers, stretching, stretching. 

It seems nearly every way my mind spins leads to eventual heartbreak. What if, no matter what I say or don’t say, my heart breaks so completely that it bleeds dry, desiccates until it’s a wonder it still beats in my chest? What happens if it stops beating altogether? Will I become an emotion vampire, feeling on the passions of others, eternally denied a love of my own?

My mom says that love at first sight is a misnomer. That love, real love, is built on a foundation, and laying one takes time. Longer than three weeks of holding hands and quick make-out sessions in the rain. But what if she’s wrong? What if love falls on a spectrum? What if the feelings I have for Devin now will only grow and that this moment, this single moment will dictate our chance for happiness?

 How can I say anything, knowing I might doom us to misery? That silence kills, and lies, even white ones, can light fires? I can’t say I love him, when I’m not sure it’s true. But to say nothing—my heart crumbles at the thought.

But… I could tell him the truth. 

Time snaps, like a rubber band, returning, gratefully, to its shape.

I— “…really like you,” I say, the gazillion futures flickering away, crystalizing in the stark realization that only honesty really matters.

“But…” he says, resignation taking root in the tone of his voice. In the way his fingers stop reaching.

“Not but. And. I really like you, and—” I take a soft breath, exhale. “This is only our third actual date. I really like you and I think I might almost love you, like really love you, and I need a bit more time to get there. I’m new at this, but—” I flush, let out a breathy laugh. “I guess there is a but… But I don’t want to start out by not being fully honest with you.”

I tense, wondering which of the thousand and one possible futures will spin out from here. 

Stars spark in Devin’s eyes as his lips curl. I reach out my hand and weave my fingers through his, bridging the distance between us.