THE RUN-IN
My mother used to tell me that during times of great chaos I should seek the little things that bring comfort, for one day I will look back and see that those little things were the big things in disguise.
It is this that comes to mind when my friend Shaya asks if I want to go for coffee and a morning jog on Friday. I hadn’t seen my bestie since my twenty-third birthday, which was back in February, and thanks to the lingering aftermath of my parents’ divorce I probably wasn’t good company at the time (it’s hard to be good company when your family dynamics have been shredded apart finer than a pulled-pork sandwich).
We agree to meet at our local Starbucks in Oregon City, the location of which I would later regret choosing, but there was no way to know this at the time. Shaya pulls up to the coffee house in a newer Prius. She’s dyed her hair silver since the last time I saw her and sports an athletic vampire look consisting of black lipstick, blood-red leggings, and tennis shoes printed with flying foxes. A few minutes in her presence and I start to feel like my normal self again, like a person who has a life beyond work and family drama. After a barista hands me my coffee, I tell her I’m going to head outside and find us a table in the sun.
Side note before I continue: I try to be a considerate human being (usually). I’m the girl who holds the door open for frail old folk, the driver who waves when someone slows traffic to let her in. Hell, instead of killing the spider who made a web on my bathroom ceiling, I named her Betsy and steered house flies into her clutches. Being considerate is important.
So when I step out onto the sidewalk and spot a figure across the parking lot—one I could’ve spent the rest of my life without seeing again—it’s out of character for me to loudly blurt, “Oh, fuck!”
My outburst interrupts two older women discussing the bible at a table nearby. They both turn in their seats, shooting me concerned looks, though whether that’s because of my language or the fact I spasmed backwards like I’d just been electrocuted I’m not sure. A young mother covers her child’s ears while hurrying him to their minivan but I barely notice.
My focus has gone entirely to the tall, wiry figure leaning against the side of a red Camaro that we used to call the Fugly Mobile. The car is still freaking ugly with its duct-taped taillight and discolored, nude model sticker clinging to the back window. Unlike the car, however, Tall and Wiry is as good looking as ever, all lean, long muscles and hair that shines in the sunlight like blackened steel. He turns his head to see why some woman is spewing profanities in a family setting and finds me. He visibly stiffens, blue eyes widening. I read his lips as he says, “Oh, shit.”
My heart is pounding so hard I’m lightheaded. This was not the day for a double-shot latte. I nearly turn around and dive back into Starbucks but the only thing worse than looking panicked is appearing cowardly as well. Toughen up, Elle, some strong, little voice pipes up inside me. He doesn’t deserve to know he’s unsettled you. I straighten my back and lift my chin, trying to appear cool and confident while adrenaline rips through my system.
The door behind me opens and Shaya strolls out. “Jeez, people need to decide what they’re ordering before they cork up the—Elle?” She comes a halt at my side, eyebrows scrunching up with concern. Following my gaze, she gasps and almost spills her macchiato. “Oh my God. That’s not—is that?”
“Yep.” There is no mistaking that figure, that face, that characteristically cold stare. “It’s Scott.” His name sounds dirtier on my tongue than any swear word I could ever use.
Scott quickly drops his sunglasses over his eyes and takes a long swig from the Monster Energy drink he’s holding. Probably swallowing the dozen other cuss words he’d like to shout. He pushes off the car as the door to the pizza parlor across from Starbucks flies open. A redhead in an AC/DC shirt saunters out, twirling his car keys around his fingers. It’s another blast from my past—Jordan Cane, Scott’s best friend and the owner of the Fugly Mobile. He’s laughing and talking but the look on Scott’s face stops him short. Scott says something and Jordan’s head swings in our direction. A big grin spreads across his face.
Oh no. “Shaya, unlock your car. Quick.”
“Elly!” Jordan throws his arms in the air. “Holy cow, how are you, babe? You look amazing!” He laughs, eyes rolling down my figure like a kid whose spotted an ice cream truck.
“And time to go.” Shaya jams her thumb into the unlock button for her Prius.
Scott tosses a hand at Jordan, clearly wondering what the hell he thinks he’s doing, but as usual Jordan doesn’t notice. “Thank you. Nice to see you.” I don’t want to be rude to him—he’s not the lying sack who betrayed me—so I wiggle my fingers while trying to control my pace as I head to Shaya’s car. I don’t want it to look like I’m running away, even though that’s exactly what I’m doing.
Scott sneers at the sky. He whips the Fugly Mobile’s passenger side open and gets in, slamming the door so hard the mirror shakes.
“I’m having a party at the Blitz tomorrow night,” Jordan calls. “You guys should come!”
“Thanks, but no thanks.” I force a smile while circling the Prius. At least I hope it’s a smile and not a toothy grimace since my face has a habit of betraying my true emotions. “See ya!”
“Wow, that was just… wow.” Shaya stares at her windshield once we’re in the safety of her vehicle.
I slump in my seat with a loud exhale then shove my sunglasses on, which I had inconveniently left in the cup holder. “What the hell just happened?” This is one of those scenarios that you imagine happening, but you imagine being prepared for it with the right body language and perfect things to say. I had neither.
“Are you asking if you just shouted fuck in front of two holy women and a new mother, or if you just ran into your ex? The answer is yes to both. By the way, I could hear your potty mouth from inside the coffee house.” Shaya backs the car out of its parking spot, cheeks flushed. “Oh, God, don’t look out my window.”
Of course, the first thing I do is look out her window. Jordan backed the Fugly Mobile out of its parking spot at the same time she backed out. I watch as both cars pass and we get one last view of each other while leaving the shopping center. Jordan grins and makes some sort of hand signal that looks like call me to Shaya, who narrows her eyes in response.
Scott’s blue eyes come right for me.
We pull out of the parking lot and circle around to a four-way intersection. Across the street lies the rolling hills of the community college grounds where we had planned to go for our morning jog. Shaya examines my face while sitting at a stop light. “You okay? You look like you’re going to be ill.”
“I’m fine.” I hate that it’s a lie. It’s been five years since he and I were together—I should be fine. He’s supposed to be a closed case in my life, someone who no longer affects me. I shouldn’t feel like my insides are rotting just because we crossed paths.
“Isn’t he supposed to be in California?” Shaya asks.
“Living with his dad? Yeah, last I’d heard. His mom still lives here in Oregon City though. He’s probably visiting.” It had better be just a visit and not a permanent thing, but I know his dad’s lifestyle clashes with his own (big cities and political jabber have caused many fights between them). He only went to live there because it was far away from me, but I knew my existence alone wouldn’t keep him away forever. He loved rain and mountain mist and the smell of deep, coniferous forests too much to not return to Oregon… I can only hope that after today he’ll think twice about what part he lives in.
“Let’s hope it’s just a visit.” Shaya speaks my mind. She gives me a once over as we park in the shared lot for the athletics center and college theater. “At least you look awesome today. No wonder Scott had to hide in the car after Jordan’s nice comment.”
I look down at my clothes. When I’d envisioned running into my ex again, my outfit involved leather leggings and a push-up bra—not an old tank top and sweatpants coated with visible remnants of dog hair. “Thanks, Shaya.”
“Heck yeah, look at you! You’ve come a long way in the last few years—all twenty pounds smaller with those dark, luxurious extensions! You look stellar!”
Her effort to pump up my destroyed ego is appreciated, but it doesn’t help. I pick at my clip-in extensions, knowing that hidden within them is my real hair, thin and damaged from years of bleaching. It was one of those life circumstances where I had to wave a white flag when I really didn’t want to and return to my natural hair color, which was a dark turd brown. I hate waving white flags. I hate giving up on things I really want but seem destined to never have.
Why is it that just when we get our feet back under us, life waves its great hand of fate and floors us again? Is this some sort of test, a procedure to make us stronger?
