Looking at You

Looking at Simon Petty gave me the same headache that finding a typo in a billboard gives me. Not looking at him is like having a splinter in my palm that I can’t get out with even the smallest tweezers.

He’s everything I love, everything I hate. He’s just… everything. And the sick bastard knows it.

“You used the wrong ‘their’,” Simon says. “It should be T-H-E-Y-R-E. Because ‘they are’ going to the mall. For someone who reads so much, it’s funny how you don’t know basic grammar, like, at all.”

I jam my finger in the backspace key hard enough for the whole coffee shop to hear. The table I usually sat at was secluded behind a giant monstera plant. Today, the only place to sit was at the counter right next to the register.

“Aren’t you supposed to be working?” I mutter. There’s a damp spot on his shirt from where he wiped up a spill. Unlike his coworker, Simon didn’t like wearing the shop’s branded apron. He said it ruined his ‘cool’ aesthetic.

“Aren’t you supposed to be done with that assignment? It’s due tonight.”

“How do you know that? What, did you hack into my calendar or something?”

Simon taps his finger down on the planner laying open next to my laptop. Today’s date is marked by giant red letters that say ‘PAPER DUE @ MIDNIGHT’. I try to avoid looking up at his confident smirk, but I just can’t help it. My head tilts before I can stop it, my eyes finding his with ease. He’s looking at me. Simon Petty is always looking at me. We’re always looking at each other.

I’m not sure when it started. Maybe when we were both eight years-old and he was the new kid on the block. I remember he had a cast on his arm. Green, like the truck his dad drove. Simon wasn’t the same back then as he is now. He was quiet then, hesitant, like breathing was something that could shatter peace. I remember thinking he was weird. That at least, hasn’t changed.

Simon leaves my table after placing my tea to the opposite side of the table. I grumble, standing for a moment to grab my cup before settling down once more. After about an hour, Paige comes in.

Beautiful Paige, with hair like a Disney Princess and the body of an anime love interest. I would hate her if she wasn’t so nice. Always the first to say hello, the first to smile. Paige was about 96% perfect, and the only reason I dock points is because perfection is technically unachievable. But Paige is probably the only human who could do it. Become perfect. The one flaw she has is that she likes Simon. Really likes him.

I try not to make it obvious that I’m watching them. Simon takes his break, patting his co-worker on the shoulder before meeting Paige at the end of the coffee bar. He makes her a drink, something with whip cream and chocolate syrup. An almost identical drink ends up in his hand, but this time with caramel drizzle. They walk side by side to the door, smiling. I watch through the window as they sit at one of the patio tables.

It’s not that I’m jealous. I have no right to be jealous. Simon isn’t mine and he never was. Once he grew out of his shyness and figured out how to talk to people, it was over for the general population. He discovered ‘charm’, a deadly weapon in the hands of a handsome boy. High school with him was a nightmare. College was even worse. Graduate school was the best educational experience I’ve ever had because Simon didn’t go. I still somehow manage to torture myself by coming to the coffee shop he works at every weekend. I blame him for applying for the place across the street from my apartment.

Paige looks too pretty in the sunlight. All soft lines and gentle smiles, attracting attention was easy for her. All she had to do was exist and people would stare. She’d be distracting if I wasn’t already engrossed by the guy at her table.

Simon Petty. My worst enemy and the most alluring siren. All wrapped up in denim jeans and a coffee stained shirt. I never claimed to have good standards. Or standards at all.

I wish my feelings weren’t at such odds. How I wish it could just be one or the other. Love or hate, not this ridiculous tug-of-war between the two. I don’t even know if what I’m feeling really is love.

Is it love if looking at him is my favorite hobby?

Is it love if in my daydreams, I picture him by my side?

Is it love if at the end of the day, I think about all the things I want to tell him and am eager to listen to all the things he wants to tell me?

Is it love if I know that he knows? About my feelings? Well, about that one. He doesn’t know about the opposite side. About how with each passing moment, I can feel hate bubbling up in my chest, just as strong.

Hate is easier to define for some reason. It’s easier to pick out things that drive me insane.

Like his nonchalance, for example.As we grew, I watched how he’d started to act ‘too cool’ for all the things he used to obsess over. I know he still loves cartoons. I know about his collection of weird shaped paperclips.

I hate that he learned how to play guitar just to impress his crush junior year of high school, only to never play again. He was good, really good. One of the seniors actually asked him to join their band. He said no. That band is touring in Canada right now. Simon sold his guitar two years ago.

Then there was that time he kissed me at a party during our first year at college. It wasn’t my first kiss, but it was our first kiss. When it happened, I was excited. It felt like a shot of adrenaline. Like endlessly free falling amongst the stars. All I could do was hold on. Grab his shirt, his shoulders, his hair. Simon held on to me too, like we were both falling together and desperately clinging to one another. It was… it was too much for words. Even now, I still can’t figure out what to say.

We went back to his apartment where we ate tacos and made out some more on the couch. When I woke up the next morning, Simon's first words to me were to ask if I had the notes from our biology lecture the week before. I told him I didn’t normally bring text books to house parties. He rolled his eyes and poured a bowl of cereal for himself. He left for class before I could even bring up what happened.

That was five years ago, and I still hate him for it. I hate how after that, he began to figure out how much I liked him. The way I looked at him, spoke to him, reached for him first. Simon noticed, he told me he noticed, and never did anything about it besides thank me for boosting his ego. I told him to step on a Lego. It was not my best comeback.

My mug is nearly empty. I can see the few bits of tea leaves that escaped the filter at the bottom. I tip my head back and drink the rest, cringing a little at the bitterness. As I set down my cup, I do what I always do, and look for Simon.

Our eyes meet through the window. I blink, glancing over my shoulder for a moment. Simon smirks.

Paige is still chatting away and hasn’t noticed that her conversation partner isn’t looking at her. I feel bad for a second, before my eyes inevitably go back to Simon. He’s still looking at me. And I, against all the voices screaming in my head, stare right back.

I hate it when he looks at me. I never want him to look at anyone else.