Twice Shy

by Sarah Hogle

But unfortunately I’m me, a passive doormat who probably will miss her, so I wave back with a tight smile.

My best friend isn’t my friend at all. The love of my life doesn’t exist. My heart has been humiliated. Pulverized.

I’m making my fresh start at Falling Stars.

Impossibilities are all coming true today. It’s Jack McBride.

His eyes have no equal, truly. They’re like stones in a riverbed. They’re bronze coins. They’re the leather journal of a sad, sensitive empath who writes poetry about lost lovers—

Our being equal inheritors of my aunt’s estate is going to be a circus, I can already tell. But if one of us is going to give up, I know it won’t be me.

I’ve inherited a (dilapidated) manor and two hundred and ninety-four acres of (completely wild) land with a view of the mountains, but I feel nothing.

It’s rough when you have a nature that begs you to avoid heartache at all costs but also makes you wear your heart on your sleeve.

“It was her favorite story to tell. Uncle Victor loved hearing it.” I think he loved hearing it because it made his wife laugh. He was always just so gone for her.

Out of the corner of my eye I glance at Wesley, who’s staring straight ahead. I don’t think my imagination could paint the tension he radiates, though, his awareness of me but refusal to glance my way.

Our stares lock, and it’s unsettling how much his attention weighs when he decides to pin me with it instead of looking right past me like he generally does.

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. The essence of Maybell Parrish is painfully sensitive, and if you touched it, it would retract and try to surrender. For better or worse (and I’ve certainly tried to be anyone but myself), I am a wobbly white flag.

“What the hell was that?” “A wink?” “Winking is weird.” “You’re weird.” “That’s a bizarre thing to do, shutting your eye at someone.”

I don’t want to associate soft feelings with this person who scowls at me all day.

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.

I don’t like loaded silences. When someone is quiet I tend to assume they’re thinking unpleasant things about me, so I have to stem that flow by distracting them with conversation. Conversation proving I am an all-around great person and definite friendship material.

He takes charge in situations even when he doesn’t want to and I do. Let me be the centerpiece! I’d love the opportunity to shine.

“I appreciate it. You must have taken quite a lot of pity on me and my painting abilities to help out somebody you hate.” It’s a joke. It’s mostly a joke. Wesley swivels his head, eyebrows knitting. “I don’t hate you,” he says slowly, like it’s obvious.

He makes his distaste for my company crystal clear by finding any excuse to exit a room right after I’ve entered it and responding to my attempts at conversation with apathetic monosyllables.

“For someone as beautiful as you are, it’s a shame you’re such an insufferable ass,” I blurt out angrily. Stillness rings. “I’m not that bad, you know,” I continue. “You are constantly turning your back on me, ignoring me when I’m around like I’m a punishment to talk to, and it makes me feel like shit. You make me feel even lonelier than I already was.”

It would appear that the man who ignores my existence 99 percent of the time has an eye for my every tiny detail.

I don’t know what Wesley Koehler smells like. Petrichor and the smoke of a candle blown out. Blue Head & Shoulders shampoo that stings your eyes when it runs down your face in the shower. That’s what he smells like.

When I woke up this morning I thought I didn’t know anything about Wesley, but now I know even less than that. Less than nothing. He’s an artist? He sleeps in a closet and draws lovely pictures of flowers? Saves little old ladies from the monsters they built?

I’m avoiding you because of what you saw in the loft. It’s embarrassing.

I don’t know if I’m physically capable of leaving anyone alone when I know I’m responsible for them feeling bad.

“There’s no escaping me,” I tell him. It comes out sounding disturbingly ominous. He sighs. “I know. You’re inevitable.”

I think it’s safe now to admit that I low-key, secretly, sort of care what he thinks. I think maybe he cares what I think about him, too. And isn’t that something?

“Do you make donuts there?” “Yes.” I feel myself smile. “The best anyone’s ever had.” “That’s true in this universe, too.”

It is true that I crave that validation. It is also true that praise makes me squirm.

Wesley is watching me with a glint in his eyes that draws an imaginary parallel line into the misty past, X marking the spot on Victor. I think of how Victor used to look at Violet with a similar expression, like he knew an extraordinary secret and she was the only other person in the world in on the secret with him. I think of the incredible, million-to-one odds that out of all the pictures Gemma could have used to catfish me, she used his.

Wesley smiles, which sends the warning sirens blaring. I’m reading into coincidences. The universe is chaos and coincidence. If it were operating with any intention, it would be cruelty.

I don’t tear my gaze from him. My heart is thumping fast, fast, racing right toward a cliff. A little bit of friendliness doesn’t mean anything more than that. I’m a danger to myself, my imagination running away.

Why did I think friendship with Wesley would be a good idea? It’s a terrible idea. I’m going to catch a crush on him. He’s dreamy, but until now his grumpiness has saved me from making an idiot of myself. If he shows me the barest hint of warmth, my weak knees will buckle like clockwork. It’s my worst habit.

I’ve picked so many insensitive, cold hearts to give mine to, but his is a new record.

“He doesn’t like me,” I growl at myself. “I’m just the pesky equal inheritor. The necessary evil he can’t get rid of, so he’s sucking it up and making the best of a bad situation.” I smack my face lightly. “Even if he does like me, it doesn’t matter. Doesn’t change the fact that muddying those waters is a bad, bad, bad idea.”

I stare into his eyes, which are sparkling like fire agate. Do ordinary eyes sparkle like these? These are chocolate and hazelnut. Smoky earth. They would make angels weep and they’re boring into mine, calmly oblivious to the truth that I’m spiraling, demanding no answers as to why I was lying on the floor with my glasses off.

I imagine plunging my fingers into the wavy strands. I look at his eyes and hunger. Forget his mouth. His mouth. It’s too late, I’m looking.

This is bad. It’s so, so bad. All it took for me to flush my sense down the toilet was an attractive man cutting a star out of aluminum foil. Surely I am not this weak.

My face hidden by porcelain, I glance at the wall in time to watch the profile of his shadow turn, throwing another look back at me. He’s got a fist pressed to his mouth.

Nothing like a sex dream between friends to speed up the unavoidable: I’ve got a full-blown crush.

NOT TO BE DRAMATIC, but I would rather drink battery acid than be in the throes of a crush. Crushes are fun in theory (ask me about my many dreamland husbands), but in reality, they’re energy vampires that are more trouble than they’re worth.

“I like that you wear it,” he tells me in a tone so soft and genuine that my chest cavity feels hollowed out. “For months, I wasn’t able to find it. Then one day, there’s that missing piece of my key chain around your neck.”

“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.” His eyes are warm.

“I liked the idea of a spontaneous, world-traveling, loud, social-butterfly boyfriend,” I admit, blushing, “but in reality I think I’m better suited to . . .” “Yeah?” Wesley prompts. His voice is strange, like he’s borrowed somebody else’s. “I think someone a little more serious, a little more grounded,” I make myself finish, “to balance me out. Someone understanding. Dependable.”

“Aren’t you weirded out?” I can’t help asking. “I mean, I thought I dated your picture.” “Weirded out?” He releases a long-suffering sigh. “How do I say this?” He tips his head back, searching the dark sky for answers. “How do I say this.” I slide him a questioning look. A hand hovering at the small of my back makes direct contact, urging me forward. “You have nothing to be embarrassed about. Absolutely nothing. I’m deeply, terribly flattered that you would have swiped right on me.” Turbulent eyes cut to mine, then into the grass. “Makes me wish I’d had a real Tinder profile that day.”

I’ve been told before that I blend in, difficult to notice, easy to talk over. But ever since I realized Wesley notices me, it’s like I’ve gone to the surface of myself and stayed there. I’m not used to feeling the world at such close range, having an effect on my environment, present in my own life.

My hand tilts, fingers curling back. His fingers claim the spaces between mine, just resting like that. I wonder if he’s looking at our hands, too. Listening to the telltale thud of my pulse.

“But it’s hard to meet people when you have social anxiety as bad as I do. I panic. Or I want to say one thing, be a certain way, but it gets all tangled up on its way out of my mouth. A pumpkin trying to be flowers and coming off like a cactus. It’s frustrating.”

The only Wesley who will let me thread my fingers through his hair and crush my mouth to his is the imaginary one.

“The only reason I was able to admit it is because you’re so easy to talk to. It feels like you . . .” He inhales sharply. “Like you pay attention.” My body is rigid with tension, collecting in my temples. I could be imagining it but I think his muscles have tightened, as well. I am burning alive. “I don’t know what I’m saying,” he mumbles. Before he’s finished with his sentence, I jump in: “You’re right. I see you.” “Oh.” His voice is light as a feather. Winded. “Good.”