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| dearestXANGAsubscribers:
We'd spent several odd hours together just one night that weekend, watching bands we were only mildly interested in and joking back and forth in our (or maybe just my) tipsy state. By 9pm, we were both tired and I was dreading the long drive home, so we opted to skip the rest of the festival and head back to our cars.
We had parked in entirely opposite directions, so as we reached the intersection where it made most sense for us to part, I fully intended to say our goodbyes there. Instead, he continued to walk with me, and almost instantly I was worried that maybe he felt compelled to walk me out of politeness alone.
"You don't have to walk me," I clarified, feeling saturated in the friend-zone and wanting to therefore make my intentions as crystal as possible - if not only to avoid awkward miscommunication. I had always been good at reading his subtle gestures and I had felt over the course of the night that those gestures had said that there was nothing between us anymore. Which, I surmised, was only fair. Other than that, I thought it best not to formulate an opinion.
"No," he interjected, "I don't mind-"
He paused, his sentence trailing off in a reluctant clarification of his own.
"...You didn't park far, did you?"
In my head, I couldn't help but feel odd about the offer coming with a packaged disclaimer of distance. I hadn't parked far at all, which I assured him of, but I had genuinely meant that if he didn't want to walk me he didn't have to. I was more than capable of walking to my car by myself, and, more importantly, I didn't need or want his feigned interest.
At my car, I opened the driver's side door and threw my purse into the passenger seat. I could feel him standing behind me, so I turned around and gave him a hug.
"It was really nice seeing you," I told him, and I really meant it.
"Yeah," he said, sounding equally genuine. "It was nice seeing you too."
"Let's definitely go kayaking next weekend," I said, referencing the plans we had loosely made earlier in the night. "I've been dying to go, but I can't get anyone to go with me!"
"Yeah, okay," he agreed, smiling, "let's go. I'll give you a call."
It was then, at that exact moment, in the lull that followed his sentence, that he looked at me: his eyes filling with a different expression, his face becoming softer; suddenly, all at once, I thought that he might kiss me. Confusion swept across my entire being, maybe even panic. I knew Brian well enough to know that look, that signal, and I could feel the weight of the ball in my court.
In my panic, I expelled the most ridiculous, awful reply I think was even possible to come up with.
After an incredibly awkward pause that only lasted a half second but felt as though it were an eternity, I looked at him, with an even more awkward stifled laugh, and said, "Welllll..... It was nice seeing you!" Leaning in to hug him again in this sort of offensive maneuver to reposition my lips and my eyes to a safer space beside his head instead of in front of it.
As I went in to hug him again, I saw the glint in his eyes morph almost instantly. Not in his own offense nor defense, but perhaps in his own brand of confusion or calculation of the scene that had just unfolded between us. Still, Brian was, if nothing else, the most diplomatic person I knew, and so he took the moment in stride, hugged me back, and then swiftly disappeared into the night.
It was over before I could even process it. And although I tried, I could not decide if I was even allowed to regret it or not.
carissa.dean | | |
| dearestXANGAsubscribers:
I never, ever give up on things. Even when I know they're hopeless.
I think that's a beautiful thing. Stupid, but beautiful.
carissa<3dean | | |
| dearestXANGAsubscribers:
Ryan From Kansas City had texted me that afternoon to inform me, all business, that I would be his valentine and that I should therefore be expecting something in the mail soon. I wasn’t banking too much on Valentine’s Day, as it were, so I thought the gesture was silly and sweet and all-around nice; and it prompted me into the habit of checking my mailbox daily, curious as to whether he’d drawn me a funny picture or picked out a silly card.
So when he texted me that Friday, the estimated day his valentine would arrive, to ask me if I had received it, I was sad to tell him that I in fact had not.
“Not yet,” I texted him, stuck in traffic and having just gotten off from work, “on my way home now!”
“Keep me posted,” he said. “I wish I could actually see the look on your face – but I’ll survive.”
I thought of his words and imagined him sending me pictures of cats or homoerotic porn – something entirely inappropriate and, therefore, hilarious. Instantly I was excited.
I drove all the way home itching to get to the mail. Speeding down the freeway, I exited, turned onto my street, and parked in the first space I saw in what seemed like one, swift motion. I always had a million things in my car I carried to and from work, but trying to carry them inside now would only waste time, so I hopped out with only my keys and headed across the street and up the steps to the communal mailboxes.
I found my box – 103 – slid my key into the keyhole, and turned the lock a full rotation before swinging open the mailbox door in a wave of excitement and anticipation.
It was empty.
My heart sank as I just stood there for a moment, getting over the calm disappointment and rationalizing that whatever it was would probably come in the Saturday mail, before collecting myself and heading back down the steps. I went back to my car then, gathering my purse and my books and my tumbler that I used for my morning tea, and heading towards my apartment. I balanced the items in one arm, opening my phone with the other and preparing a text message to Ryan to let him know the outcome.
Heading down the steps that lead to my front door, I was walking absentmindedly, not really watching where I was going, because I was spelling out my text with one hand, already anticipating the sad face I would tack onto the end of it.
“No v-a-l-e-n-t-i….”
I had reached my door and, swapping my phone into my other hand in order to unhook my keys from my belt loop and unlock the door – I was suddenly, abruptly surprised by something large and green.
It was a box! Tall and narrow, it leaned against my front door in the happiest ton de vert I’d ever seen. My face instantly lit up with a mixture of surprise, elation, and confusion as I scrambled to pick up the box while holding all the things in my arms and not letting the cats out (whom always met me, needy, at the door).
I dropped my things in the hallway and took the box into the kitchen where I sat it in a chair and just stood there, staring at it for several befuddled moments. I already knew what it was, but my complete and total surprise to such an alarmingly (if not only for lack of frequency) thoughtful gesture made it impossible for me to do absolutely anything. It was several minutes of strange, but ultimately happy, hesitation before I even thought to get a pair of scissors: collecting them sloppily from the kitchen counter and returning back to the box.
I cut the tape from the creases of the contraption, sliding the scissors along in gentle, smooth motions before setting them down and wedging my fingers between the folds. The box came open without any effort, blindsiding me with the heavy aroma of fresh, beautiful flowers.
They were tiger lilies.
There was a card attached, and I peeled it away from its sticky placement, unfolding it to see the message inscribed.
“Dearest Carissa,
“You’re such a charming and special young woman. Don’t let anyone or anything let you think otherwise. Keep smiling: it looks great on you.
“-Ryan”
I could have dissolved or melted right there if not for the fact that I was solid and human. And I couldn’t think of a more unnecessary or nicer thing for anyone to have done than for Ryan to have taken the time and money to actually send me flowers – just so to remind me that I was someone special. I wondered how there were ever people that good.
And maybe it was just the timing, in the aftermath of the sudden, unexpected burn of Mr. Impossible – or even the fact that I knew Ryan read my blog and that he knew things had not worked out for the best – but I couldn’t have needed anything more… because he made me believe that I did have better taste in people than my most recent exploits had suggested, or that, more importantly, there were better people out there. The best kinds of people were out there.
After I had called to thank him and we hung up, he texted me.
“It sounded like you were halfway crying, goofball.”
He always, always called me ‘goofball’.
“You’re adorable.”
And I smiled, thinking that I didn’t care if I seemed the silliest, maddest creature on the face of the planet. Because – to me – things like this just made sense.
carissa<3dean | | |
| dearestXANGAsubscribers:
I texted Sasha early the next afternoon because I felt guilty about the confusing sequence of communication the night before.
"Hey lady," I said, "sorry about last night, I didn't mean to bail on you guys. The night totally got away from me."
She had finally texted me the evening before, as planned, to confirm what bar I would meet them at. But by that time Mr. Impossible was hustling across the stage, setting up his drum kit and connecting pieces of equipment I didn't understand to other pieces I knew even less about, and I figured it would be an awkward time to jet. But by the time they finished playing, it was nearly 2am, and I knew that the girls would be wrapping up the night and heading home. In the end, I went home with Mr. Impossible and never met the girls at all, which was ironic because I had awoken that morning annoyed with Mr. I and focused on my plans for Me Time and Girl's Night. Instead, I ended up a handful of different places with completely different people and before I knew it was waking up in Mr. Impossible's bed to the afternoon dawn of Saturday. The night had gone completely haywire.
"No big deal," she told me, "I understand," but I suspected she was just being indifferent.
"Well do you have any plans tonight?" I asked, knowing full-well it was Saturday and Anna's last night in town - and thus they would obviously be going out.
"I don't really know yet," she said, "I'll text you later tonight."
"Okay, seriously, do!" I egged, wondering if maybe she was annoyed I'd essentially bailed on girl night and, in fact, wouldn't at all. "We MUST have girl night!"
The night dragged on forever while I became more and more stir-crazy and badgered my roommate incessantly to go out somewhere with me. Although I thought he'd be an easy sell, having only just turned 21 and not really gone anywhere or done anything, he didn't budge on his level of interest. And so, by 10pm, I had resigned myself to a forfeited night, gone to my room, and started folding clothes.
It wasn't too long after that Sasha, much to my delighted surprise, texted me.
"Hey, we're going to go out in about an hour," she said. "Come ovah!"
And, of course, I jetted right over.
Sasha's friend Josh was in town (having come down with Anna) and it was the last time they would see each other before Josh moved to South America the following week. So we were doing the night big with ample amount of booze and dancing. It was what had to be one of the coldest nights of the year, so we each had a whiskey for good-luck warmth, suited up, and headed downtown.
We hit a bar on the Eastside first where some band was playing that had a keyboardist that very possibly suffered from touretts. Because it was so cold outside, the bar was jam-packed with patrons not bold enough to brave the outdoor space, so I thought it a miracle or a sign when we actually managed to snag sitting space for all three of us. We each had a drink, took a few photos, and generally loosened up before our next stop: dancing.
Barbarella was this incredibly hectic dance club downtown that spinned indie jams and could always be counted on to be packed to the brim with an assortment of people ready to get down. It was the stop you made at the end of the night, after a few drinks, to let go and feel as though you were part of something magical. Because dancing could make anyone drunk feel magical.
Anna was already there when we arrived, but we had gotten there so late in the evening that there was now a $3 cover charge (a trick some bars pulled to compensate for the time you wouldn't spend drinking) that Josh hadn't come prepared for. Sasha literally had $3 in cash and I had $4, so although I offered my extra dollar to the cause, Barbarella wasn't really going to split the difference. The girl at the door informed Josh there was an ATM inside that he was more than welcome to use, providing he left his ID with her at the front, so Josh handed over the card and we made our way to the ATM. The ATM in question, however, tacked on a hefty $6 fee, and all three of us agreed that was absolutely ridiculous and should not be paid by anyone, ever. We were back to square one.
That was when Tim, Sasha's friend from her home town who had recently moved to Austin, showed up. He luckily did have cash on him, and so it was decided that if he would spot Josh the $3, I would buy him a beer.
We waited at the bar for what seemed like an eternity before I was finally able to order two beers and we hit the dance floor. Sasha disappeared soon after to find the bathroom and head to the bar herself. Anna had befriended some guy and the dance floor, and was now proceed to grind him dirty-style to the bump, bump, bump of the music. Josh and I had decided to pursue a different path and began waltzing around in circles, spinning and him dipping me periodically. I hadn't had this much fun in ages.
Sasha retuned from the bar with Colton in tow, a new addition to our party, to resume dancing. She leaned into me then, yelling over the music.
"Hey!" she said. "I saw Mr. Impossible at the bar!"
"Really?" I yelled back, albeit rhetorical.
"Yeah!" she confirmed. "I told him you were on the dance floor!"
We danced for a moment while I considered this.
"Was he drunk?" I yelled, and she laughed.
"No! Totally sober!"
I looked around the crowd for a moment then, thinking maybe I'd see him. But his face was nowhere to be found in the sea of people, and so I assumed that he was buying drinks or talking to someone and that, of course, he would come say "hello" to me.
But as the minutes kept ticking, and I, admittedly, kept checking my phone, it became Impossibly clear that he wasn't looking for me at all.
Sasha, also, thought he would come. And as it dawned on her, also, that he wouldn't, she took to nudging me every few minutes and mouthing things like "forget about it" or "he's an asshole". As though I couldn't be more humiliated, Colton had also noticed, and he began to look at me with the same pity in his eyes that he had reserved for me only a few nights ago when Mr. Impossible had pulled his last stunt. I couldn't have been more embarrassed or, subsequently, enraged.
By the time Mr. Impossible did call, it was 2:30am, over an hour since he had ran into Sasha at the bar, and the club was closing. It was just the last straw. I thought about calling him back briefly then, but I was so pissed off at him that I figured it best to not ring him in front of the girls - lest I only humiliate myself more with the scene of a drunken phone argument.
We wandered off into the night in search of Sasha's car. She was drunk and insisted it was in one direction while I knew it was in another. We wondered around for some time before Colton began to question why anyone was listening to his drunk girlfriend and the two of us ushered the group in a new direction. Sasha began to apologize for leading drunk me around in the cold looking for a lost car just as Mr. Impossible had only two nights prior. I laughed as she said it but it really only made the whole situation worse, and I could feel myself itching to call him for an explanation.
As soon as Colton, who was driving Sasha's car, dropped me at home (across the street from Sasha's), I dialed Mr. Impossible's number and pressed send.
I was mad and drunk and by all means should have turned my phone off and called it a night... but, like I said, I was mad and drunk, and so I called him anyhow. He answered in a smooth, easy tone and I could tell of the bat he was sober, which only made me feel worse because I couldn't even excuse his behavior with liquor.
"Hey," he said, "what are you doing?"
"Nothing," I told him, stepping into my apartment and locking the door behind me, "I'm just getting home."
"Oh," he said, "yeah, I heard we were both at Barbarella..."
I replied my voice total malice.
"Uh, yeah, we were."
There was a pause.
"Well, yeah," he said, "I ran into Sasha and she told me you were there. I tried to call you right after, but you didn't answer."
As I stood there and listened to him ramble on, I wondered how many shitty moments I would let him immerse me in only to say a nice apology later and get away with it. This may have been the least of all his poor forms, but this was also definitely the last.
"Um, no you didn't," I stated.
"What?" he asked, sounding confused.
"No you did not call me right after," I clarified. "Sasha came back and told me when she saw you at the bar. You didn't call me for an HOUR after that."
There was another long pause as he considered my matter of fact tone.
"Yeah," he said, "well I'm sorry about that... I was just hanging out with my friend Tim, so..."
It was the ultimate bullshit from him yet.
"Oh, really?" I retorted. "THAT'S funny, because I was with Tim earlier tonight and I bought him a beer and I didn't see YOU anywhere!"
"Really?" he asked me, his tone so crystal genuine that it caught me off guard. "Hey, Tim," he said, "did you see Carissa tonight?"
I heard the voice then, tiny from the background but perfectly clear in it's confusion.
"Uhhh..." Tim said, "uhhh... I don't... I don't even know who that is."
It dawned on me then that this was not the Tim I had been with earlier that night and that this Tim, in fact, did not have idea in hell who I was. My embarrassment was nearly instant.
"Oh... oh, well I was with Sasha's friend Tim earlier in the night," I attempted to explain. "I just assumed it was the same Tim..."
And here I inserted my absolutely most brilliant conclusion yet:
"Because, you know... how many Tim's could there be?!"
Queue face palm.
Mr. Impossible didn't even laugh.
"No," he said sounding palpably awkward, "this is my friend, Tim."
If I could have sank into the earth I would have.
After a ling pause, I said the only thing I could.
"Okay."
"Yeah..." he said. "Well, I'll talk to you soon."
The word "soon" hit me like a slap in that face. Offended, I replied in repetition.
"Yeah," I said, "okay."
Then I hung up.
carissa.dean | | |
| dearestXANGAsubscribers:
I walked into the Highball (this vintage bowling lounge in the south central part of town that we had taken to hitting, as of late, on slower days for our weekly bowling nights) that evening without any sense of anticipation for how the night would go. Honestly, I didn't really care; I had made plans with the girls for later that night, but we were waiting on the arrival of some of them from out of town (Austin: always someone happy to come and always someone sad to leave), so Sasha had agreed to text me when they did and I would meet them at the bar. In the meantime, I just needed to get out of the house, be surrounded by people, examine faces I didn't know, be deafened by music, and, in general, rinse the remnants of the prior evening away from my memory; so I decided, only last-minute, to join them.
The guys were already there when I arrived (my roommate, oldest friend in Austin and his roommate), and I spotted them in the thick crowd with surprising ease. After a round of salutations, I bought a beer and joined them on the dance floor where no one was actually dancing because the entertainment hadn't yet commenced. It was Friday, 80's night, and just one in a series of musically-theme events hosted daily by Highball (Motown Mondays, Jazz Brunch Sundays, Honky Tonk Thursdays...) that I was unfamiliar with.
The place brought in an ecclectic crowd, an interesting mixture of styles and interests that weren't really factors in the places I frequented on weekends; it was exactly what I needed. The three of us stood in a circle, soon joined by the anticipated addition of a fourth, a mutual friend for some of us, in town from California on what seemed like the most random of whims, catching up and joking about mostly nothing. It was the ultimate change of pace for me, and I couldn't have felt more pleasant in the the realization that this was turning out to be one of those nights you went into expecting nothing worthwhile, but then, alas, it turned out to be after-all.
After a few rounds of drinks, the boys had decided to hit the convenience store for more brews and go back to Devin's house to wrap up the night a little early (or, at least, early for a Friday night). I wasn't sure what time the girls would be ready, so I agreed to join them until then, and the four of us split up: Ryan and Devin taking one car to stop by the store and then swing back to pick up Christina (our friend in town from California), while myself and Willy, Devin's roommate, headed back to their house.
They didn't live far from the Highball, but their house was smack in the middle of the most elaborate labyrinth of a neighborhood I'd ever ventured into, and I almost always got lost. Willy and I were joking around about something I wouldn't remember later, he was probably making fun of my music or talking about the weather, while he periodically interjected directions - "turn left", "turn right", "it's this one here". We were almost to his street when Mr. Impossible called me.
I hadn't talked to him that day and hadn't really expected to, so I answered his call in a tone of question and surprise like I had no idea whom he was.
"Heyyy," he said, "what's going on?"
"Nothing much," I told him, "I'm just out with some friends."
"Oh," he mused in a simultaneous tone of interest and surprise, "well I'm playing this-"
I cut him off for a moment as I spoke to Willy in the back ground.
"Is it this one?" I asked Willy, suspecting we'd arrive at the street I needed to turn on.
"Yeah, yeah, yeah," Willy said in quick succession, nodding and pointing down the street.
I had confused Mr. Impossible.
"Hello?" he said, unsure of what was really going on on my end of the phone.
"Hey," I responded, "sorry, I'm just getting directions... what were you saying?"
"Oh, no, that's okay," he told me. "I was just saying that I'm actually playing this show right now... I don't know what you're doing, but, uh, you should come... if you want to..."
I thought back to his behavior the night before, trying to decide if I did want to see him. He had been unimaginable thoughtless in all regards towards me, and I wasn't sure that going to his show, standing in the crowd, watching him play was necessarily something I felt copacetic with in the moment. It was just such a girlfriend thing to do, and I wasn't sure he was deserving of that. Then I thought of that morning, how I had gotten up and left without saying anything to him; and how I had spent most of my day at work kicking myself over the idea that I would let anyone treat me like that and get away with it. In the end, although I knew it probably wasn't the time or place, I decided to meet him if not only to confront him about the whole thing.
He was playing at a bar I'd never been to, so after a bit of confusion and running around I finally arrived. He saw me before I saw him, and so he followed me into the bar where I had ventured thinking I'd find him. He greeted me with a smile and a hug the way he always did, and then led me back outside to where his band mates were all sitting, drinking beers and waiting for their set time.
That was when he mentioned it: something in passing, a sentence entirely frivolous - blah, blah, blah, last night.
Which was when I quickly retorted, without any hesitation, "Ohhh... right, you mean the night you were a total drunken asshole to me?"
He looked at me a little dumbfounded for only a second, reply after, "A drunken asshole?"
He laughed then, playfully.
"Yes," I said, "you were a complete drunken asshole."
Suddenly, he adopted this sympathetic tone.
"Oh, come on now... it wasn't that bad, was it?"
I laughed then to, mostly out of shock.
"Yes," I stated, "it was. It was really that."
"Noooo... I mean, we were having fun, right?"
There was a long pause while I just stared at him.
"Mr. Impossible," I said in an effort of personal emphasis, "you passed out on me. In a bar. At one o'clock in the morning.
"Yeah, it was that bad."
He seemed a little embarrassed then, but only slightly. But it was the immediately sincerity he adopted in his tone that got me in the end.
"I'm sorry," he said, "that probably wasn't very fun for you. I really am sorry about all that."
To which I didn't respond, but rather nodded at him with raised eyebrows in a gesture that I hoped said, "Yeah, I bet you are..."
"Well, that kind of puts a damper on tonight, huh?" he said, smiling sheepishly at the table while my mood shifted against my will.
I knew that I was letting him off too easy, but I guess I didn't have it in me to be mad at him. He had me.
"No..." I mused at him. "No, water under the bridge. Apology accepted, let's just not talk about it anymore-"
I paused then, thinking for a moment about clarity before continuing.
"But, Mr. Impossible, let's get one thing straight - if you ever do that to me again, I will just leave. I'm serious - I will leave."
He giggled at me then in a way I didn't mind, raising his eyebrows in mock shock and fear and asking, "Geeeez, how feisty do you plan on getting?"
I laughed then also.
"Pretty feisty," I told him, "so you better watch out!"
And with another giggle and a nod of his head, I just let the night float on.
carissa.dean | | |
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