Pastel Crush

January 4th, 2013

11:23 pm

He was so beautiful. But it wasn’t because of his Clark Kent jawbone and chin dimple, his beauty resulted from all of the little traits—how he matched his socks to his shirt, how he combed over his thick copper hair—maybe to appear more like a professor than a student. Or, how his pale blue eyes penetrated you. Patrick swirled his beer on the bar, his gaze transfixed on the glass bottle. He took a sip. I studied his lips on the rim.

“Are you seeing anyone?” He let his eyes off his drink, and turned in my direction.

I stopped breathing.

Eight Hours Earlier

The screen of my phone lit, the vibration buzzed on the wooden table. I glanced over. Immediate adrenaline coursed through my body. I grabbed my phone, my arm moving in slow motion, and stared at the name on the screen. Patrick Campbell. I bit my lower lip, savoring his name. Don’t open the text, not right way. I liked looking at how his name fit into my virtual world. I began to imagine what the message might say, day-dreaming a moment where he returned my sentiments—wait, stop. Before I worked myself up too much, I swiped the lock-screen open.

Patrick Campbell: I’m in town this weekend, staying at James’. We’re having some friends over around 7pm—want to come?

What? Did I want to come? And hang out with Patrick? The hopeful thoughts sprouted. Hopeful thoughts and questions. Like, why was Patrick inviting me now? He’d been back in town two or three times since moving to Chicago. And I’d never heard a word. In the few and infrequent emails (97% of the correspondences initiated by me, by the way) our conversation resembled that of polite small talk. Although I pushed the boundary of friendship with an occasional flirty, “Thinking of you,” or, “Edward Sharpe and the Magnetic Zeros are playing in a few months, we should go if you’re in town.” 

The replies usually skirted around my subtle hints of admiration, if I received a reply at all. And now, he was inviting me to a party with his friends?

I understood why he didn’t engage with me fully before he moved away, before he left his teaching position at the university—it would have been too soon (for him). But the situation changed. I graduated, and he resigned. Hell, we don’t even live in the same state.

Repeat. We don’t live in the same state. The idea of “us” feels unlikely with 300 miles between us, and, well, the small insignificant detail that he had been my professor.

My knee bounced underneath the table, and I hunched forward, my hands clutched together under my chin. Afternoon January sun fought the gray clouds casting hazy light through the sliding door. I stared at the white dining room wall, my brain deep in speculation.

On the other hand, maybe he and I could be a “we.” Review the history.

Good conversation. During rare moments where he and I found ourselves alone in the studio last year, we shared stimulating conversation. I asked about his family, his life. He shared openly with me when given the opportunity, and I loved to give it to him. The way he smiled when he talked about his passions—it likened to a person opening a Christmas gift. Remembering his laugh brought a smile to my face. The sound of him echoing in my head.

Flirty emails. I didn’t email him much with personal anecdotes as his student, but toward the end of the year, with my graduation date near, I became brazen. I remember emailing him a song. One afternoon, “Pursuit of Happiness,” by Kid Cudi played in the studio where class was held. Patrick’s head bobbed along. I noted the observation: he liked hip hop. This piece of information placed itself on the shelf I reserved for him, the detail fit snug with the others I kept. The space in my mind grew little by little with the collection of his particulars.

Later that evening, I sat on my bed in the glow of my email. A tap tap tapping broke the silence of the late hour. I punched each key with careful consideration. I shook out my hands, re-reading the email I formulated for him. A steady stream of air exited through my parted lips.

The line was simple, “Your jam—in case you didn’t have it.” The Kid Cudi track attached to the message.

The send button waited for me; a game of Chicken. I ran my hands through my hair, and brought my finger to the mousepad. I clicked. A chestful of air depleted from my body, taking my anxiety with it. Too late now.

Thoughts circled in my head like cars loud and roaring at the Indy 500. How would he react? Was the message too much? No, it was only a song. The pictures in my head braked to a screeching halt at the fresh white highlight in my inbox. I stopped breathing. Fast. Too fast, I didn’t prepare for a response.

Open it.

The curve of my spine straightened and my shoulders squared. I clicked his reply.

“That just made me smile.”

The air in my bedroom dried my throat and eyes. I didn’t blink, rereading the single sentence over and over. I made him smile. I tipped my head toward the ceiling, my face beaming. I made him smile. I wanted to do it again.

Kind gestures. In the last week of my time at university, Patrick and I shared a simple moment, but a moment packed with the power to change my life forever.

Our final semester ended with a gallery showcasing student theses. The week leading up to this concluding event consisted of the 12 graduating students running around like chickens with their heads cut off. The event needed to be catered, projects needed to be displayed, studio walls needed paint. All of us worked to prepare the space, including Patrick.

The fluorescents flickered above me as I stared at the empty white wall in front of me. Mentally, I mapped out my display. Shelves would go in the middle, my posters would cover the top. The other design students hammered and drilled next to me.

Patrick helped with shelving. He looked amazing, wearing a worn gray tee, faded blue jeans, and dark brown sneakers. This level of casual wear caused me to stare. These are the clothes he wears when he works with his hands. I jotted the note in my mind, immediately followed by the thought, get to work.

Bzzzzz—bang bang!

The noise of power tools drifted away as I hung shelves and plastered posters. Before I noticed the sounds dropped off, tool, by tool, a couple of hours passed. I was alone. Traffic stopped and started outside the gallery, brake lights illuminating the encroaching dark. I approached the front counter, surveying all that needed to be finished. The front door opened, letting in the sound of voices and laugher from the street.

Patrick let the door fall shut behind him. He carried a grocery bag, and set it on the counter between us.

“Looks like it’s just you and me,” he said, pulling out a tall boy and handing it to me.

“Thanks.” A smile grew on my lips. The voice in my head squealed. He brought you a beer.

Patrick opened a bag of pretzels, sticking one in his mouth like a cigar. This simple gift he presented me with left me without words—which was a rarity. We sipped in silence, and snacked on pretzels. The beer soothed my sudden dry throat.

Spending one on one time with Patrick caused two immediate reactions in me:

First—Absolute elation.

Second—Crippling anxiety.

The footage of our moment played in real time before my eyes, but I watched from outside my body. He leaned against the counter, his eyes prodding mine. The walls of my heart started cracking from an emotional influx. The intensity of his focused pained me—in a good way.

“What are your plans for the summer, any job prospects?” he asked.

I exhaled, raising my eyebrows. “Well, actually, I’m worried I might have to move back to my parents’.” The tension in my body released. “I have to leave my current apartment, and I haven’t been able to find another place. I’m frustrated because I know if I move home, I could get stuck.” I drummed my fingers on the counter, looking out the front windows.

Patrick nodded, and took a swig from his can. His eyes met mine again. We shared a moment of quiet before he said, “You can stay at my place.” His voice floated above him. So casual. “You know Reed?”

I moved my head, yes, unable to form actual words.

“He’s taking my room temporarily while I’m in Chicago, and another room just opened up for the summer at least. That could give you enough time to find a place more permanent.” He watched me.

Hopefully he couldn’t see my insides malfunctioning. I managed to respond, thanking him.

“You can stay for free—aside from utilities,” he said, pausing. “If you mow the lawn.” He pushed back from the counter, his blue eyes dancing over his smirk. He returned to his power tools. I let the counter hold me upright. Unseasonable heat engulfed me, as I watched him hang display units.

The significant times we shared played like a movie on the blank wall as I sat alone at the kitchen table. His kitchen table, in the dining room of his house, where he gave me a room. Patrick left seven months ago, 210 days, and each month, and every day since he left, I dreamed of him.

The day I moved from my previous apartment, a new, and different life began for me. I graduated, I started a new job. I stepped into a new world taking with me very little from my previous years, except Patrick. I held on to him, and the idealistic dream kept me company during moments of new insecurities and solitude.

Patrick lived 300 miles away. He had been my teacher. Loving him was safe, I knew our outcome. But, let’s be real, a woman needs inspiration. Did I want to come to James’ tonight? Did I want to spend time with Patrick? Hell yes.

The 15 minute drive to James’ spanned an hour inside me. Reed decided to come, thankfully. Our light chit-chat occupied my mind enough to keep it from exploding with imagined scenes and answers to questions shaking my brain.

The car rolled to a stop. I looked through the windshield to the window-lit house where Patrick was this very moment. What was he doing? What was he drinking? Eating? My heart palpitated. Reed stepped out of the car. Ok, unbuckle seatbelt. Stand. Walk. I instructed myself to the front step. Reed pushed opened the door. A wave of warmth, laughter, and the smell of baking bread hit us as we entered.

The cuff of his dark navy jeans revealed argyle print socks from where he rested on the faded leather sofa. The light diamonds corresponded with the fine salmon thread of his faint pink shirt, a blue blazer fit snug overtop. Did his father teach him how to dress? Did he have color coordinating compulsions? Or, was he just that adorable?

I attempted to clear the goofy smile from my face, but failed before he looked across the room and saw me. The quick motion caught me off guard—his eyes shocked me. The air exited my lungs and I stood frozen in the entry way. The space between us disappeared in the collision of our gaze. I hadn’t seen him in months. My heart thumped in my throat. In unity, we looked away from each other, and I took a deep breath. I shed my jacket and stepped into the kitchen, opposite him. Breezy, be breezy.

The evening filled me with joy, and ceaseless excitement being near Patrick. I conversed with his friends, and grew comfortable in their presence. With each beer, I found another sliver of confidence. And by the time the group of us arrived at a bar, I dared to sit next to Patrick along the dark stained counter that smelled of stale beer and sticky liquor. Reed and others grabbed pool sticks, and began a game in the dimmed light.

11:23pm

He was so beautiful. But it wasn’t because of his Clark Kent jawbone and chin dimple, his beauty resulted from all of the little traits—how he matched his socks to his shirt, how he combed over his thick copper hair—maybe to appear more like a professor than a student. Or, how his pale blue eyes penetrated you. Patrick swirled his beer on the bar, his gaze transfixed on the glass bottle. He took a sip. I studied his lips on the rim.

“Are you seeing anyone?” He let his eyes off his drink, and turned in my direction.

I stopped breathing. Breezy. I repeated the mantra, and took a deep breath. “Uhh, no, I’m not. I ended a relationship a month or so before you left. Haven’t dated since.” I raised an eyebrow.

“Well,” he said, not taking his eyes off mine. “What are you looking for?”

I pressed my lips together, and turned to the mirror behind the bar. A reflection of booze and Patrick. “I’m looking for someone who enjoys music, art, and can share meaningful conversations, can laugh with me.” Patrick smiled. And I asked, “You?”

“I’m looking for a woman who cares about family, and is passionate about education and intellect.”

I took a gulp of beer. “And, are you seeing someone?” Weight lifted from my body, my chest felt light.

Patrick remained silent for a few seconds—seconds that lasted a minute each. “Yeah, I’m dating,” he said, hesitating. He shook his head with the slightest movement. “But, I’m just a lost soul.”

I processed his answer, chewing it slowly. He was a lost soul. Yes, he was dating, but right now, it didn’t seem like he was. I didn’t know what to make of his reply, but I could hear his voice as clear as I saw him in the bar mirror. He didn’t know what he wanted.

Patrick and I spent two hours talking and laughing, drinking. The bartender shouted for last call. Reed approached us at the bar.

“Hey, you ready?” Reed asked.

I didn’t want to go. I didn’t want to leave Patrick, who studied me, like he heard my thought.

“I can take you home in the morning,” Patrick said. “I think James and Kate will stay out.”

“Oh, ok.” I waved and nodded an “I’m good” to Reed, and he took off.

A group of eight or so dwindled down to a group of four—James, Kate, Patrick and myself. We walked the dark sidewalk under dull street lamps, hoping to find a late night establishment. No luck.

“What now?” James asked, rubbing his arms in the chill. 

Kate invited us to her place, walking distance. Upon entering, she led James to a room. “We’ll be in here,” she said, biting her smiling lip. She closed the door behind her.

Patrick and I took a seat on a bright blue couch. Kate’s home was cozy. Plants and books lined her shelfs. I smelled flowers from another room. Patrick leaned over the arm of the couch and handed me an auxiliary cable.

“Music?” he asked.

I played a collection of songs I compiled for him over the last half year. The tracks lulled us closer together on the couch. I brushed the blue velvet with my hand, not knowing what else to do with it.

“The way you talk to me is different,” he said, almost making the statement a question.

The 100 beers I consumed encouraged me. “Yes, it is.” I met his gaze, my lips curving. “I made this playlist for you.”

Patrick’s eyes bore into mine, and he slid his arm behind my back. His fingers grazed the sheer fabric of my top. My limbs tingled, and I couldn’t breathe. He leaned in and kissed me. Our lips moved together, fierce and heavy. I could feel his stubble. He stopped, and pulled from me.

“This is a mistake,” he whispered.

“It’s not. I’ve wanted this—”

Patrick kissed me again, interrupting me mid-sentence. Our mouths opened to one another, and I let my hand find his hair. Soft.

He pulled away again.

“I can’t.” Patrick stood. He walked across the room to another sofa. “We should really get some sleep,” he said. He didn’t look at me, and I remained seated, quiet. I fixed my sight to the floor, tracing the patterns in the woven rug. My chest tightened.

We slept on different couches. And in the morning, he drove me home, to his house, where he gave me a room. The alcohol left my system over night, and no courage remained. We didn’t speak sentences that meant anything. I don’t remember a word now.

I waved goodbye to him from the front porch, and he drove off. Our night faded, like his truck from my sight, like the pastels he wore.

Loving Patrick was safe. Until it wasn’t.