Twice Shy

by Sarah Hogle

You screwed with my head, abused my trust, and had the audacity to be so nice that it will never not confuse me.

He’s the most beautiful human I’ve ever seen, and I don’t think he likes me at all.

“You know, I’ve been preparing for this, and so far it hasn’t gone anything like I’ve practiced,” she tells us with faux cheer.

At this, Wesley’s soul returns to its human vessel. “Come again?”

He yanks the cord for the pull-down ladder and climbs up to his bedroom. Only when I’m directly behind him do I notice the back of his shirt, which reads koehler landscaping, fabric darker from saturation. His nape glistens. It’s cool enough outside that the tip of my nose is numb and my teeth are chattering, but Wesley, not even wearing a jacket, is drenched in sweat.

I’ve only ever wanted to be liked, and I’ve only ever wanted to be liked by absolutely everybody I come in contact with, however temporarily and inconsequentially. It’s my most dominant and simultaneously weakening driving force, which leads to my toning down various wants and needs in order to make myself digestible, easy to get along with.

I make a truly ugly face at him, and it happens again: that almost-smile. He fights it and wins. I think he’s under a curse—if he laughs, he’ll die. This is a sensible explanation to me. It isn’t that I’m not a joy to be around, it’s that he’ll literally die.

You make me feel even lonelier than I already was.”

My legs are too wobbly for the task of carrying me, so I sit down and work on putting my soul back inside my body. Come on, come down from there, get back in here.

Just once, I wish the universe would give me something nice without throwing in unwelcome side effects.

“You’re grouchy to hide panic attacks and nerves?” “Don’t give me too much credit. Sometimes I’m grouchy because I’m part cactus.”

This is the trouble with crushes. You begin to doubt whether they’re reciprocated, even if on paper the signs are all there. If I ever get married, I think I’ll be wondering all the way down the aisle if the wedding’s an elaborate prank and the groom will say Gotcha! at the end. I can’t trust my own judgment here.

I slacken in the fierce hold of his stare, his pupils hungry stains drinking up the iris.

He gives me a once-over. “I don’t understand that thing you’re wearing. Your top is attached to your shorts. How do you go to the bathroom?”

Other than crying over my hair, my day’s actually been rather productive.