Make Me Bad - R.S. Grey Page 0,42
about this.
I hate that I’m such a cliché. How many of us are out there roaming the earth waiting for Ben Rosenberg to text us? We should form a support group. Make t-shirts. Cry on each other’s shoulders while we stare lovingly at life-size cutouts of him.
I should feel embarrassed to be a card-carrying member of this group, but I’m not. Maybe it’s okay to be a cliché, to reach for something that might be unattainable. I know how it feels to have lived twenty-five years with a safety net. I know how it feels to stand on the sidelines and watch other, seemingly more deserving girls get the guy.
The whole point of my birthday wish was that I want this year to be different. The funny thing is, if someone asked me now, in this moment, if I would proceed forward knowing there’s a good chance Ben will ruin me, ruin my life, leave me heartbroken and sad, I’d still press down on the gas and take the leap, if only to see what happens.
Who cares if I go SPLAT against the ground? I have the rest of my life to recover. I’ll be old and weary, rocking back and forth on my front porch, dreaming of the time I almost, nearly got Ben Rosenberg. And yes, even in old age, I’ll still be wearing the support group t-shirt, threadbare and all.
It’s Saturday and Ben is scheduled to volunteer this morning. I hardly slept, I was so anxious to see him again. I hop out of bed with so much enthusiasm I’m liable to break out in song. I put on a long-sleeved white sweater dress and my brown leather boots. I tell myself I’m not really doing my hair, just curling it a little. This makeup is really what I normally do for any ol’ workday, just…jazzed up a little. It’s Saturday, after all! Everyone wants to feel pretty on Saturdays!
I’m in the auditorium setting up for toddler story time when I hear the door open behind me. The library doesn’t open for another hour. It could be Lenny, the security guard, checking in on me, but he prefers to keep to himself. He’s into watching sports on a little TV at his desk. Sometimes, when his team surges ahead from behind, his whoop of joy carries through the whole building.
Besides, I know it’s not Lenny. I know it the same way I know the sky is blue and the earth is round and day follows night. It’s Ben. It’s Ben walking up behind me and I need to turn to address him now or things are going to get awkward.
I glance over my shoulder, picking a spot on the wall behind us. It assures I don’t make a total fool of myself. “Morning. There’s coffee and bagels over there.”
I point to the side table where I carefully arranged breakfast for us. Now that I’m seeing it from his perspective, it looks a little intense. There are five different types of bagels. Two kinds of spreads. The napkins are fanned.
He smiles. “Oh, I brought bagels too.”
I muster up the courage to look at him, and sure enough, he has a brown paper bag of his own—but that’s not the sight I get hung up on. God, Ben. He’s wearing a pair of dark jeans and a black t-shirt. His hair is mussed up a bit, not quite as perfect as he wears it during the week. His jaw is clean-shaven.
Oh, I’m gawking. He notices, but thankfully, he saves my dignity by holding up the bag.
“But these are special,” he says, waving them. “Apology bagels.”
His mouth is on the brink of a smile.
“Oh really?”
“For Monday.”
I swallow, not wanting to delve into all that again. I turn back to the task at hand and shake my head. “Oh, it’s no problem. It was my fault too for suggesting the stuff about Andy. That was—”
He steps up behind me. “I reached out to him like you asked.”
I squeeze my eyes closed, wishing we could just skip over this whole conversation.
“Sorry, Madison, he—”
“No, it’s fine.”
Why are tears gathering in my eyes?
“He’s hung up on Arianna.”
“I get it. I mean, c’mon—Andy and I weren’t going to date.”
My self-deprecating laugh hurts.
For some insane reason, this feels like a rejection, even though I know with all my heart that’s not the case. I don’t want Andy, but now I know Andy doesn’t want me, and that hurts because why doesn’t Andy want me? I’m not