Funny Feelings (59)

I love her with something fierce and frightening, almost angry over any hypothetical thing in the world that might get in her way. And I miss her every time we aren’t with her. Yet my mind constantly wanders to being alone with Meyer. Regular daydreaming that is swiftly followed by guilt. Guilt that can’t be dissuaded with logic. It’s fucking exhausting.



It’s six pm on New Year’s Eve, and the only cocktail I’m feeling the effects of is comprised of boredom, anxiety, and a splash of bravery.

I have the message typed out. The one I’ve deleted and rewritten at least a hundred times lately.

Me: Do you ever think about Vegas?

There’s two ways his response could go.

First, he could say “what about Vegas?” He might be completely oblivious as to how close I was to kissing him. How much I wanted to. He drank a lot that night, maybe he forgot how he slid my finger into his hot mouth and stripped off my ring with his teeth. Lust clenches it’s way through me and I shiver at the memory even still.

Maybe he forgot what he said to me, maybe he only said it because of alcohol and the high emotions of the whole evening. Maybe he didn’t even mean it how I interpreted it.

Or, what if he says “yes, I think about Vegas.” What if he says “yes, I think about how I said one thing while under the influence of many overpriced drinks and you immediately wanted to go back to the room together. I think about how you got so worked up that you panicked and I had to be the better, more sensible person as always and walk away. I think about how you told me you wanted to be smart with me, even though you were so ready— just moments before— to be stupid. I knew that was your way of apologizing and I forgave you for it and went on in our friendship to spare you that embarrassment.”

Obviously, I know he’d put it in a much kinder way. Maybe he’d act like it was no big deal at all to him. But that night was the first time I thought, I love him. I love him so much that I’d be stupid with him the moment he asked me. I’d run to a chapel now and marry him, consequences be damned. And then he said, “You’re the only one I’ve ever been stupid with.” He echoed my thoughts, in simpler terms.

And then I suggested going back to the room… Where everything proceeded to fall apart.

I’ve never been embarrassed, exactly. Because he’s never made me feel like I should be, never changed how he treated me. But part of me just wants to tell him, to lay myself at his feet so that he knows what this is for me. “Dating” has already exposed a lot of us both, but I think he deserves to know how long this has been going on, really.

If someone’s carrying your heart, shouldn’t you do them the courtesy of warning them? Like catching someone driving with a mug on top of their car. Hey, there! You probably need to stop, pull over and take care of that! At least slow down.



I’m deleting the message again when I see the little dots pop up on the screen.

Meyer: Time change didn’t matter, Hazel fell asleep before 9pm.

A laugh honks out of me, abrupt and overloud.

Me: I love that girls lack of FOMO. She’s my hero.

The dots pop up and disappear. Appear and go away once more.

Meyer: We miss you.

I do a yoga worthy inhale-exhale.

Me: I miss you too. Wish we were together.

I hit send and feel my heart beating through the top of my head. And then something occurs to me…

Me: Why don’t we ever spend New Year’s together? We never have, I realize.

The dots appear enough times that I lose track, then. I set my phone face down and tell myself to go to the bathroom, force myself to get a glass of water. When I get back, there’s finally a reply.

Meyer: Hard to go out and do much for New Years with a kid who loves her beauty sleep.

And then another comes across the top.

Meyer: And because all I ever needed was an excuse to kiss you, I think. So, maybe I thought I had to avoid it.

Is this what fainting feels like? A chorus of something rushes through me.

Me: Would me wanting you to have been enough of an excuse? If that’s the case, you’ve executed amazing restraint.

Meyer: Have I, though?

I think about the way his hand slid against me, the pads of his fingers and their steady, relentless rhythm.

Me: You have.

Meyer: Guess I’ll stop holding back, then.

I’m still trying to retrieve my eyes and put them back in my skull when he follows it up.

Meyer: Can I call you or FaceTime you at midnight, here?

Something has me feeling shy over seeing his face, but I would kill to hear his voice.

Me: Call me. I’m doing the Darth mask tonight.

I slap my palm to my forehead after I hit send. He sends you something that manages to come off hot and your response is to remind him about your red light mask. Fucking hopeless, Farley.

I’m surprised when, not fifteen minutes later, he ends up texting me again. Meyer isn’t exactly… chatty. Perhaps this is easier for him this way, too. A buffer.

Meyer: How’s the force healing going, then?

I send him a photo in the terrifying mask because who are we kidding at this point, anyway.

Me: Strong, with this one.

Meyer: How are you feeling about the set? Did you end up meeting with Clay?

Me: Better every day. Some parts I love, and I know they’re going to kill. Other parts feel a little lackluster.