The Game

The girl who walks into the bar that night is the type who stops conversations and makes you forget your name. Her hair ripples over her shoulders in glossy caramel waves, framing a glowing, sun-kissed complexion. Her dark, haughty eyes are fringed with raven-feather lashes that sweep over high, bronzed cheeks, and her lips are so full and naturally pink that applying lipstick would be a sin. She glides through the doorway in strappy black wedges that pair seamlessly with her dark-washed skinny jeans and cropped leather jacket, her tanned cleavage peeking from a deep-v neckline made for curves.

Men turn their heads, try to avert their eyes, and fail. Sports games are forgotten. Jokes pause mid-punchline. The expression of every woman in the bar goes sour.

I am this girl–a fact that still seems surreal because this girl, this woman, is so vastly different from who I used to be.

I take a seat in the center of the room, nonplussed by the added attention, and rap my perfectly manicured nails on the table.

What nobody can see is that I am nervous.

I am 31 years old, and dating doesn’t scare me. I know how to talk to a man, how to flirt, and how to lure him in and then ghost him until he goes mad with desire. I know The Game.

What I don’t know is how to fall in love.

I have a problem, and until now, I haven’t been willing to face it. But that means remembering, and remembering is painful. My eyes alight on an abstract painting on the back wall and then go blank as I recede into memory:

I can still smell that nasty bathroom stall where I crouched fifteen years ago, sobbing until the mascara stung my eyes and the snot began to drip down my upper lip. Ugly crying at its best.

Nobody cared that I was missing class. I was no one. My best and only friend had moved away across the U.S, and the one person left in my world who made High School worth it had betrayed me.

I still had the poster crushed in my hand, the paint smeared on my wrist and the glitter speckling every inch of my lavender sweater. I peeled open the sides of the poster to glance down at what I had written: Ty, you’re a stellar guy, be my date to Prom, my ride or die?

Yeah, it was cheesy.

I took one long, last look before ripping it down the middle, then ripping each half in two again. And again, and again. Until it littered the floor like confetti. It felt good–cathartic–but once the sorrow and self-pity had subsided, anger rose to the surface. Raw, feral anger. Fury at all their laughing faces. Resentment at Tyler’s surprised, confused face. As if he’d forgotten all about me. And Loathing. Loathing for that selfish, bubble-brained, slut-faced psycho Kelsey Corbin, with her fake lashes and her fake hair and her fake boobs. Yeah, that’s right–I’d seen her in the locker room after dance class, and there was nothing there but a Victoria’s Secret push-up bra.

Yet despite her obvious lack of intelligence, kindness or natural beauty, she had somehow managed to get Tyler.

My Tyler. The boy who sat with me at lunch everyday and all my quirky friends. Tyler, the boy who collected Pokémon cards and loved to tell Dad jokes. The boy who walked me home from school, taught me piano, sang with me at church, taught me to drive stick, and went camping with my family. He had filled the void in my heart when my best friend Addy left and welcomed me into his world. My confidant. Because of him, I was able to walk into High School my freshman year with frizzy hair, braces, glasses, and a giant backpack and still have friends. Because if Tyler accepted you, you were golden. You were in the circle. He drew people to him like moths to a light at night. Because Tyler didn’t see labels–he saw people. He talked to anyone, as long as they were kind.

Or so I thought.

I looked down at the shredded disaster on the floor. Everything I believed was a lie. All those words he’d said to me about a girl’s natural beauty being the most attractive thing–laughable. All his little acts of kindness, like opening up doors for me, pulling out my chair, writing me notes and leaving them in my mailbox–just acts. All of it, FAKE. Because I simply could not bring myself to believe that the boy I knew would ever say yes to a girl like that.

So right there in that damp, filthy bathroom stall that reeked of urine and cheap body spray, my sixteen-year-old self resolved to never fall for the nice boy ever again.

It was a tragedy, really, to see someone so young and vulnerable crushed like a bug under a boot. I was a collapsing star, all that bright, brilliant light extinguished in an instant and replaced with impenetrable darkness.

That was my heart–a throbbing pit of darkness.

“You were everything to me, Ty,” I whispered, picking up a shred of paper and flicking it to the floor. “But I guess, in the end, I was nothing to you.”

He made his choice, and in that choice he had denounced the very thing he made me believe: that I was wonderful the way I was. That I never had to change.

A girl losing her confidence is a terrible thing, but even worse is the creature she becomes once she’s lost it. The spirit that once drove her to follow her heart contorts itself into a mindless, praise-seeking leech that feeds on attention and sparkly things. Her worth is no longer her anchor, but a thing she chases through a tossing sea. Rejection becomes a reflection of character, and desire fueled by anything that turns heads.

It’s a cruel, empty world to live in, and definitely wrong for a young teenage girl. But there I was, a crippled soul, suddenly bloodthirsty for acceptance from a world I thought I’d hated.

I snap back into the present by the flicker of movement outside the window.

I look around now, unsure of myself for the first time in years.

The guy who walks into the bar now looks as if he stumbled inside by accident. He stops at the second row of doors and mutters to himself, attempting to push a door labeled Pull. He is scruffy and unkempt in a workman sort of way, dressed in a too-large gray t-shirt and jeans. He’s wearing a sunbleached baseball cap–facing the correct way–to hide his partially balding head. In place of a scalding white smile and mysterious eyes, this guy has an RBF face that could slice through steel. He steps inside, glances around, then stops when he sees me. I meet his gaze. To the amazement of everyone, he winds slowly through the tables and sits down across from me.

“So…,” He says in a low voice, folding his large calloused hands over the table. “Is this where you come to prey on innocent men?”

I start to laugh, but he’s not wrong, and that’s the most unsettling thing about him. He sees straight through the rules of my game and finds them silly. One comment from him, and I’m suddenly disarmed and speechless.

“Uh…ha, well, not exactly. Sometimes I’m the victim.”

He gives me a quick once-over and a sly grin. “I highly doubt that.”

I stifle another laugh. “So, do you want something to drink?” I wave over at the bar.

“Nah, I don’t drink anymore. But I would kill for some nachos or a burger or something.” He grabs the little fold-up menu on the table and leans back in the metal chair. He looks like a cowboy at a saloon.

I take the moment to gather my thoughts, waiting for him to put down the menu. “Look…I just wanted to say that I’m sorry for how I acted at the party. You see, I’m just not good with families and, well, real people. That’s my fault, really. I usually adapt depending on the crowd I’m with but when it comes to just relaxing and being yourself, well…I guess I just don’t really know who that is anymore.” I confess, frightening myself with my own naked honesty.

His rugged face remains impassive, his eyes steady and patient. He brings his chair in closer and leans forward on his elbows. “I know.” He says with a nod of his head. “I’m sorry too. I shouldn’t have sprung that on you. Inviting a girl to your niece’s eighth birthday party for a first date? Well, clearly I’m out of touch.”

I have forgotten what it feels like to be understood. To be forgiven. The sensation melts the rigid cage around my heart. “No, it was lovely. It was a… much-needed change of pace. I just wish I hadn’t been such a…,” I sigh, frustrated with myself.

He shakes his head. “Look, it’s no big deal. I caught you off guard. We can have a do-over. We all deserve second chances.”

I look up at him, and this time, I let all my fear and worry empty out. “Do you really believe that? Do you think it's possible to change who you are?” I thread my fingers together and press them to my forehead. “Gosh, it’s just–you’re so wonderful and so grounded, and when I’m around you I’m reminded of how much of a mess I am. You’re looking for something real and I don’t want you to waste your time with someone like me. You deserve more than that. So, if this was a mistake, I won’t blame you for walking away.”

He is watching me with ever-narrowing eyes and furrowing brows, so much so that I begin to feel like a science experiment. He is massaging the stubble on his dimpled chin, thinking. When he finally does speak, it is with more assertion than I expect. “You’re right about one thing. I don’t want to waste my time. I’m looking for a good, healthy, committed relationship. But I’m also not stupid. When a gorgeous woman like you runs into me on the sidewalk and says we should get together sometime, I mentally drop everything I’m doing and focus on you. Hell you’ve passed me a hundred times on that same sidewalk, and every time I’d think ‘Dang, what I’d give for a chance with her,’ and now I have that chance. I’m willing to work for what I want. I don’t expect it to come easy. Nothing good in life comes that way. But if you think this is a mistake, or you aren’t looking for something real–which I know is a lie–then that’s another thing. Clearly I’m flyin’ way out of my league here, so I won’t be offended if you want something else, but here’s what I can offer you. I don’t play games. I don’t believe in putting up walls or people-pleasing. My idea of a date is getting comfortable, not getting fancy. I believe love isn’t perfect but it makes life worth living and I believe that a man should treat his wife like the sun that shines on his world.” He pauses, looking sheepish. “That…all sounded better in my head.”

I genuinely laugh, and am startled to feel the prick of wetness in the corners of my eyes. “Wow…that was beautiful.”

He grins. “So…what do you think?”

I think about Tyler. I can’t help but think of him. The last I checked, he was a camp counselor in some wilderness camp in Wyoming, living his best life. Kelsey Corbin was a fleeting mistake in his life, and I had let it define mine. I think of all the time I’ve wasted chasing an invented version of happiness, only to find it right here, waiting for me to let go. I feel like one of those seabirds with the giant wings that fly across the globe for miles without landing. And then, without warning, there it is.

A safe place to land.

“I think I want to try.” I say, easing into a comfortable smile.