Ren

Whish. There it goes again. I'm sitting on my mattress on the floor in my otherwise empty bedroom, feeling this fleeting, unnerving sensation. It feels as if I've lost something precious, or forgot to do something important, or like the bottom is about to drop out from under me again.

This strange, subtle dread has been passing over me the last month—like a ghostly breeze or a cloth trailing lightly through my body that I can't see or put my finger on, but I certainly can sense.

Until today, that is when I realize— it's my looming birthday. It's the first of December, and my dreaded birthday is tomorrow! The big 3-0.

And now I've been thinking I've felt this way before my birthdays ever since I was twenty-six. Twenty-one was the last year I looked forward to birthdays the way little kids do—Yay! I'm finally another year older!

I got engaged at twenty-five, soon after my birthday, on New Year's Eve, and married that fall. It seemed my birthdays in my late twenties went downhill from there.

I had been so happy to be engaged. Alex was everything I thought I wanted: handsome, successful, sweet, funny, and caring. Check, check, check. I loved him. I did.

But there was a moment when I was picking out my wedding band when my mind flashed to Gio, and I suddenly realized that I had always held out some irrational hope I'd wind up with him.

Life after twenty-five seemed to get a lot less... hopeful. But at least my life was checking boxes. But here I am, one day to thirty, still scrubbing off those check marks.

Starting over, older.

Hey, but at least I've semi-moved into my own place! It's a newly renovated second-floor apartment on the north side of town. It's on the top floor, which is the second floor. A low-rise community spread over fourteen acres. Very different from anything you'd find in New York. Beautiful and spacious? Yes. Walkable to anything? No.

Anyway, like I said, I'm sitting on my mattress on the floor in my bedroom, surveying the work I had done to get all my clothes hanging up in the closet. It's actually very satisfying to see them all unpacked again. But other than that, the apartment is still pretty sparse. I have all my Ikea furniture yet to be built, and my sofa isn't coming till Saturday.

But the kitchen is unpacked, and the fridge is full of food. My stomach hears me thinking of the word 'food' and rumbles, so I get up to start making dinner... for one, which will consist of my most basic of meals: Penne pasta, store-bought pesto sauce, baby shrimp meat, sautéed mushrooms, and a glass of wine to celebrate my first night in my very own place.

After my dinner (which I ate in the kitchen on the peninsula since I have no table), I return to my bedroom because it's the only place with something soft to sit on. I begin noticing how quiet my apartment is—a deadening quiet. I sit on my bed, not knowing what to do with myself.

I don't want to unpack anymore or make furniture. It is a little too late to start a movie on my laptop and a little too early to go to bed. So I just get on my phone and check Facebook, pouring myself another generous glass of wine.

An urge flashes through me to look up Alex, even though I unfriended him months ago. But I know this is a horrible idea. The last time I saw his cover photo, he and his new girlfriend smiled back at me like the happiest couple ever, and I was in a funk over it for days.

I have to physically shake my head to clear them from my thoughts. My mind wanders back to... you know who.

Why isn't Gio on Facebook?

My thumb hovers over the Facebook icon. Then I watch it move, seemingly removed from myself, to my contacts icon. I blink and I've already clicked on it and am flicking rapidly through the names till I get to M and slow.

Why M, you ask, and not G? I put his number under Metric, my old secret code name for him, when he was just my secret crush way back in middle school. Gio-Metric.

I click on it.

For a while, I just stare at his number. It is the only tangible thing I have of him on my phone or the internet. Ever since I got his digits from Sydney, I look at the number sometimes—wondering if I will ever use it. The same old battle inside myself commences:

I could... I could just text him.... right now.

No, Ren. Bad idea.

You could, though... it could just be sooo easy to make contact.

But also impossible and stupid!

I turn my phone off, throw it on the bed, and fall backward—my back hitting the mattress with a thwump. I move my hands to cover my face and close my eyes. He made himself clear. What would I even say to him after how we ended things two weeks ago? Stop thinking about it!

But my brain keeps going, stewing on why I haven't seen him at all in the building since that first time and what floor he works on... hmm. How can I find out?

It's not like I hadn't tried already. I had looked up counseling offices in the building directory, and there were eight in the building spread across different floors. He could work for any one of them. I'm embarrassed to report I even walked some of the floors looking for names on the offices' doors. But I didn't find anything helpful.

It seems so strange. I take another big sip of wine—a little numb to the buzz I've now acquired. No sightings for nearly two weeks, and I've definitely been on the lookout—both at the office and the gym. Where the hell is he?

I grab my phone and find his number again. Before I even mentally grasp what I'm doing, I've already hit send. I look in horror at the grey bubble around the simple three-letter message on my phone under his name.

Me: Hey

Eff! I'm out of my freakin' mind!

I throw the phone down on the bed like it was the evil thing that made me do it, and it bounces off the end of the bed and onto the floor with a clatter. Luckily since my mattress is on the floor, it was a short drop.

I rub my face with my hands, sitting crosslegged on my bed, letting my dark hair fall around my face like a shroud. Gasp! What did you just do? He didn't give you his number! He's going to think you're a psycho!!

Now I'm both terrified he will AND that he won't reply. My heart is beating like a racehorse. I check it again... and again, and then... I get up to go number two because, hey, I'm that nervous. Then, I pace my empty apartment.

After eleven agonizing minutes, my phone buzzes loudly on the vinyl floor by the bed where I left it. Oh my god!! I run and practically leap onto my bed to check it. He responded. My heart rate notches back up to an unhealthy level.

Metric: Who is this?

Crap! Wait! Okay, okay, I could just ignore this. He doesn't have to know it was me.

I see my glass of wine next to my bed on the floor—the wine. The wine made me do it. Bad alcohol! I scold it. I down the rest of my glass, thinking about what to do. Then I hear the vwoup sound of a new message coming in.

Metric: Ren, I know it's you

Crap! How does he know it's me?

Metric: Who else would be texting me from a New York area code?

Shit! Of course. I literally do a facepalm.

Metric: How'd you get my number?

Crap. What do I say now?

Me: A friend gave it to me

He's not going to let that go.

Metric: What friend?

Ren, just tell him the truth.

Me: Sydney got it somehow

Metric:???!

I don't know what to say to that. I feel both exhilarated and sick to my stomach to be texting with him. I think I might drop the phone because of how much my palms are sweating. After a minute, another message from him pops up.

Metric: I saw you downtown last night

Oh, so he wants to talk about it, huh?

Me: I know

Metric: Pretty good-looking guy.

Almost as good-looking as you. I don't write that, though—of course. I don't respond immediately, so another message from him comes in.

Metric: Looks like you two had fun

I can hear how he says that in my head. He's jealous. Good.

Me: We did. He took me dancing

Metric: I bet he did

I write several responses to that. None of which get very far before I erase them and start again.

Me: ...

Metric: Ren, why are you texting me?

Ack! What am I going to say to that? The one question I was afraid he'd ask me.

I sit there staring at the words for a few minutes before responding. My brain can't come up with a good answer to this. So finally, I reply with a very safe, noncommittal, and semi-true answer:

Me: Idk

Metric: You don't know?

Metric: How can you covertly get my number and then text me out of the blue and not know why?

My heart is thrumming, and my mind feels fuzzy. I scratch my forehead and furrow my brow as if that will help. My brain seems unable to provide its standard filtering duty of all the crazy romantic things that keep popping up in my head, so my heart answers this time. 

Me: BC, I can't stop thinking about you.

My eyes go wide, staring at what I just wrote him. I hold my breath, waiting for what he'll say to that.

I wait and wait and wait, but he never texts me back. I go to bed on the eve of my birthday feeling even more pathetic than before.

Fuck.

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