Brown sweater draped over his shoulders like a second skin. The brown dress shoes reminded me of my Dad’s. His grey golf pants added a corporate pop of neutrality, a cool contrast to the warm stare he gave the chocolate coin in his hand. He towered two inches over me while we sat. He flipped the chocolate wrapper around.
Away from prying eyes of our trainer, I took a closer look at my fellow trainee. We’re in the training room at Willow Bank. The woman on screen rambled about robbery procedures. He bit the chocolate coin in half and gave me a pointed look.
“Mint?” he said.
“Yup,” I said.
“Weird.” He pulled out his phone, swiping on the keyboard while keeping an eye on the TV.
“I feel for ya. You’ll need this training way more than I will.”
“Oh yeah, you’re going to the call center, aren’t ya?”
“Yup.”
“It’s next to the main branch though.”
“Yeah, but imagine a robber cleaning out the branch and thinking ‘dang, what a nice lick. You know what would make it better? Rubber bands.’”
His giggle was oddly comforting. Curiosity uprooted the typical boulder of anxiety in my stomach. I leaned over and saw the Lake Champlain chocolate logo.
“You like it?”
“Wondering how many calories are in it,” he smiled breezily. I scooted closer. His fingers brushed my palm while grabbing another coin I offered.
“I forgot your name,” he said sheepishly.
“Amber.”
“Spencer.”
The following week, we split slices of toast and conversed about vacations and attire before being pulled into different training rooms. The harsh February chill lost its potency when I saw his frame in the doorway. Huddling together became my favorite part of training while waiting for our trainer to rescue us from 8:52 chill. One Monday morning, I marched up to our usual spot, toast in hand. His towering presence was nowhere to be found.
“Where’s Spencer?” I asked my trainer.
“He’s training at his branch.”
“Oh.” The building was cooler than usual.
**
Planted in separate branches to tackle throngs of members, I spent countless hours chatting with Spencer, envisioning his neatly trimmed beard and easy grin on the other side of the screen. Our conversations filled me with warm connection and broke through my foggy depression, so my brain told me he’d ghost me in a few months like the countless people I tried befriending throughout my young adult years.
But what’s the harm in superficial conversation?
Spring welcomed budding flowers and connections. We talked about childhoods, Savannah – his potential girlfriend – secrets, and fears. I eagerly awaited his bold name in my Teams. I cherished these conversations, my face aching when replaying them. One April morning, he popped by my branch bearing chocolate rabbits for everyone. I leaned against the building exterior, fighting the urge to rest against him as he read a passage from his favorite religious book. I can’t remember what he read, but he smelled like optimism and safety.
My brain sent countless images of dwindling texts once he grew bored, thoughts of him avoiding me on Teams, an echo of the past five years. I told him I might go to Melting Pot to celebrate the end of the semester.
Is it good? What do they serve? Are you going alone?
Haven’t been in nearly a decade, but last time was great! Probably will go alone.
Three dots danced. Vanished. Danced. Something bright and warm bloomed in me.Is this what connection felt like?
But why alone? It’s a fine establishment and it looks cheaper to go as a couple, especially if you go Dutch.
Eh, I’ve grown used to being a solo act.
I never had the luxury of choice.
I have a saying: the only thing better than admiring the moon alone is when you’re not.
Bliss pooled in my stomach, mingling with something rotten and slimy as it rose into my chest, revealing decaying hope.
What if he didn’t leave?
I lost countless nights replaying tender, precious discussions.
**
One scorching June Saturday, I glanced at the texts I sent inviting him to the bookstore with me. His one-word response injected me with giddy anticipation.
Sure.
That single word powered me through sluggish work hours and cumbersome phone calls. I looked at the clock on the wall.
1:23.
The phone rang. My mouth moved in mechanical greeting. I repressed a sigh as someone complained about his low balance.
1:50.
Spencer strode past the window, a pillar of contentment and bergamot. The phone rang before I could usher him in.
2:00.
He gave me a wry smile as I got into this car and sighed.
“Chick Fil A?”
“Chick Fil A.”
**
“Oh dear, that was more awkward than I anticipated,” he chuckled as we piled back in his car, hands full of bags and lemonade. He took a bite out of his sandwich.
“Why?”
“I dated the cashier’s sister and she HATED me for it.”
I nibbled on a fry and wondered if he’d actually finish his two sandwiches, large fry, and lemonade.
“Bro, why’d she hate you?”
“She thought I was stealing her sister.” He turned down a street away from the highway.
“Freeway’s back there.”
“I wanted to take you to a library I frequent.” He scratched the back of his neck. “It’s closer to the train station.”
I shrugged. He popped a fry in his mouth.
“Oh my gosh, imagine if people thought we were a couple,” he said, eyes darting between me and the road. I gave him an incredulous grin, my heart skipping a beat.
“Why would anyone think that? Interracial couples aren’t common around here.”
“We could kiss while walking around.”
“You can’t walk and make out!” I sipped on my lemonade in vain attempts to cool my hot face. “Someone would have to walk backwards, and it’d be hard to focus if you’re tonguing the other person.”
“I love how you have no comment about us making out,” he said.
Our eyes locked before he redirected his attention to the road.
“Well – the logistics of making out and walking caught me off guard. Also, there’s no way you’re finishing all your food,” I said.
He waved his last fry in my face while pulling into the library parking lot.
“Already did,” he said.
Shuffling through the bags revealed he did finish his meal.
I followed him into the library. Staring at his broad back, my chest ached with growing confusion. Why was my face still hot?
**
We found an empty table near spanning windows. While chatting about proper summer attire, I gingerly grabbed one of his hands, rubbing my thumb over his blonde hairs. There was a tiny cut on his index finger. My lips throbbed with the urge to kiss it. I flipped his hand over, unsure why my heart hammered faster.
“You have really soft hands,” I said.
“They’re not that soft, you know,” he said. I shook my head.
“Yes they are, oh my gosh.” The hell did he mean they weren’t soft? Why were they so warm? Clearing my throat, I asked why he never wore sweatpants.
“Prefer jeans or golf pants,” he said. “Not to brag, but I’m well-endowed, and tighter clothing helps suppress boners.”
“Oh?” I said, voice cracking. Heat bloomed dangerously close to places my upbringing forbade.
“Yeah.” He glanced out the window. A golden retriever dashed by. I stared at his forehead to ignore the newfound sensation. Why was I breathing heavily? He’s just a friend. I put a hand over my mouth to hide a sinfully sloppy smile. Egging him about the lack of interesting apps on his phone took my mind off his physique. Our conversation jumbled in my head, and we lunged for my phone. Adrenaline suffocated budding arousal, and I smiled in relief as we wrestled for his phone. I went to pry his final four fingers away. He tried to yank the phone away.
I smirked.
He licked my hand.
I froze.
The phone landed on the ground. He grabbed it and noted how I really didn’t have any interesting apps.
I plopped in my chair, wincing from desire. He chuckled and excused himself to go to the restroom. I mawkishly moaned with a hand over my mouth. I’m a good person; good people don’t want to make out with their friends. How big is he really he wouldn’t want to make out with me he’d be an amazing kisser I’m supposed to be a good friend why am I achy –
He came back and plunked onto a chair. My heartbeat racing through my ears drowned out most of his apology.
“Dude, why are you apologizing?” I said. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”
He smiled softly and avoided my eyes.
You’re not gross like me.
**
He grabbed his phone and loaded Cookie Run, our chairs a forbidden breath apart. I stared at lips and his phone in vain attempts to focus. Through my racing thoughts, I picked up pieces of “loneliness” and “soothing voice” as he swiped through various characters. I stole glances at his relaxed brows. He loaded a quick round. I tried to regulate shuddery breaths.
I blinked away visions of him undressing.
His fingers smashed buttons, dealing immense damage to his foes.
How big is he we’re both waiting for marriage I’m truly the worst he’d taste good.
A victory banner flew across the screen, and I exhaled slowly and wiped my mouth. He gave me a peculiar look.
“Staring at sentient cookies makes me hungry.”
**
We drove to Maverick. My hands shook. He tapped the steering wheel to the beat of the music. The roof of his car was grey. I wondered if it was too low to crawl to the back seat. We can’t make out in the car; some old person could walk by. I’m supposed to be good –
“Dude, why’d you punch my car?”
I stared at my throbbing hand, then stared at him.
“No idea.”
He bought chocolate milk and I dared him to chug it. He took languid sips with a mischievous smirk. What would his tongue taste like?
I shoved half the cookie in my mouth. We drove to the train station.
“I had fun,” I told him.
“Me too. Again, I’m so sorry,” he said.
“For?”
He looked away, so I took his hand.
“We’re friends, Spencer,” I said. “There’s nothing to feel guilty for. I promise I won’t be mad.”
He glanced at the dashboard, the glove compartment, me.
“I wanted to touch your boobs,” he said.
I laughed and spat out a choked confession. He begged me to leave his car. I dug my nails into backpack straps.
Shocked at how we nearly fulfilled forbidden desires, he suggested refraining from daily texting. “Good idea,” I said, relieved he couldn’t see me crying.
**
He texted me a few weeks later saying he and his girlfriend are official. He said he was her first kiss.
It should’ve been me.
My heart ached. Deep down, I knew the end was near.
One sweltering July day, I off-handedly texted him, saying how depressing it was to always watch movies alone. A week later, he texted back, saying he found a friend who can watch the movie with us “to avoid temptations.” I froze, giddy with panic.
“I don’t know if that’s a good idea,” I texted, and it wasn’t solely because I wanted just him. Despite my fear of third wheeling, I accepted his offer, imagining his easygoing grin, iconic sweater, calm but piercing gaze. I bit my thumb to calm nerves.
An hour before the movie, I bought a hotdog and grabbed $30 to blow at the arcade when my phone chimed.
Hey, I’m at the food court, he texted.
My heart skipped a beat.
Dude, the movie doesn’t start for another hour!
Well, I’m here.
I bought him a hotdog and stared at mine.
Bet this hotdog isn’t as big as him -I swallowed a bite of hotdog and lingering thoughts. Only one stayed down.
I spotted Spencer and his friend, two towering figures exiting the food court. He thanked me and ate his hotdog in five bites. His friend looked great, but he wasn’t Spencer. We wandered through The Quilted Bear and smelled various waxes and candles. His friend and I agreed that the lemon wax smelled like something wearing lemon’s flesh. Spencer grabbed one labeled ocean, which I thought smelled like me resting in his arms in our 60s. I told him it didn’t smell like the ocean. He asked our opinion for a candle labeled green apple.
It smelled like his and Savannah’s future wedding.
I told him it smells almost like a green apple.
His iconic sweater-over-work-shirt outfit served him well in the cool theater as he leaned over to point out incredulous plot holes and the land’s version of vultures. My hands begged to caress his cheeks. He smelled of mustard and placidity.
While getting into his car, he mentioned wanting to call Savannah. I wrung shaking hands. He labeled Savannah’s contact Sweetheart. Something irrational in me shattered. Fatigue and merriment granted Savannah a melodic voice as she inquired about a bottle of Windex she received with her gift. I pointed left. He chuckled and apologized for the mix-up in the order.
“The chocolates and teddy were really sweet though. Thank you,” she said.
“I’m glad you enjoyed them,” he beamed. I stared at passing police lights to avoid seeing a tender grin not for me. I blinked tears away and pointed right.
He asked if I wanted to be dropped off on my street corner.
Wants and needs are two different things.
I swallowed the lump of foolish envy, exited the car, and told him to drive safely. Grief bubbled, knowing we would never spend time together again. I cried myself to sleep.
**
Despondency eroded rationality and coated reality in hypervigilant shades of abandonment. I tried to convey my concerns for their relationship, but envy infused my messages with cynicism and bitterness. He asked why I was attacking his relationship.
I apologized.
“It’s fine,” he said. “Just be better.”
Be better.
I gave him a thumbs up.
The polluting pile of self-hatred and cynicism grew. Despite trying to bury the pessimism, it slipped out in snarky comments. Bountiful texts thinned through scorching summer months he spent talking with Savannah. Jealousy and illogical grief suffocated my former bliss. I stopped texting him, my reliable method of determining the longevity and strength of a friendship. My final text remained forever read on August 1.
I deleted his texts, hid his Teams messages, and bit my lip until it bled. He was a coworker, nothing more and nothing less.
Nothing more.
Nothing.
A weary part of me wondered if anything ever existed.
**
Burning summer gave way to a new semester, suffocating thoughts of him with assignments, exams, and essays. Back to normal. Back to nothingness.
About the Author:
A.J. Miller specializes in writing about isolation, emotion, and imagination. Currently residing in Utah, she tackles words and humans alike.
*Feature image by Martin Martz on Unsplash
Isele Magazine 