Maggie
I might be imagining Chord Ramirez. It’s the only explanation.
He is charming; he is composed; he is a delight to stare at; he has a life plan.
And he seems to be very into talking to me.
Like seriously: Where did this guy come from?
It’s not that I have zero self-esteem; I’m just not used to being hit on in this way by someone of this caliber. I guess I
haven’t been single for a while, and during that time, I changed and evolved as a person. And also got older. So now guys
like Chord—guys who are in their first year of community college, while also working a part-time job at the front desk of
an urgent care clinic, with an eye on transferring to a state school after their second year, to be followed by medical school
and the ultimate goal of becoming a doctor, ideally a cardiologist but possibly a gastroenterologist—are guys interested in
chatting me up at a party.
It’s blowing my mind a little bit. Or a lot bit.
We’ve been talking in Shana’s backyard, and it’s kind of freezing, but thankfully I wore my cardigan, which I’ve wrapped around
myself so that the patch of belly skin exposed by the stupid rip in my T-shirt doesn’t get frostbite.
“Should we go back inside?” Chord asks, like the gentleman he is.
“Oh, maybe,” I say.
But then I remember that Drunk Carter’s pinballing around in there. Another chant is happening, probably of his name.
“How about in five minutes? I kind of like the fresh air. And the stars and everything.”
“Don’t have to ask me twice,” Chord says. He sips from his beer and looks up at the sky. “If it’s a choice between whatever’s
happening in there and the chill vibes out here, it’s an easy call.”
“You mean chill-y vibes,” I say, which is so bad and dorky, I feel my face instantly turn red. It’s just shadowy enough out
here, though, that he probably can’t tell.
“Ha,” Chord says, the ultimate courtesy laugh. “Right.”
I’m so embarrassed, I can’t speak again for fear that another clunker will unexpectedly emerge.
“Plus,” Chord says, pointing deeper into Shana’s backyard, “I’m really hoping to try out that killer swing set. You interested?”
I forgot that was back here. Shana’s parents haven’t taken the swing set down because her dad is insanely nostalgic. I remember
competing with Shana to see who could climb across the top of the monkey bars fastest.
I also remember sitting with Carter on those swings in October. We held hands. We talked. We made out. We migrated to Shana’s
brother’s empty bedroom. Where we did other stuff.
So Drunk Carter is inside the house, and Ghost Carter is out here.
“No swing set for me right now,” I say. “Worried it might make me barf.”
“Fair enough,” Chord says. “Maybe instead we can find a baseball bat to balance our heads on and spin around as fast as we
can, see who can stay upright longer.”
“Um,” I say.
“That was a joke. Obviously. Didn’t you ever do that as a kid?”
“Put my head on a baseball bat and spin around? Absolutely not.”
“Wow! It’s, like, a known kids’ activity.”
“Sure it is,” I say, happy that the power dynamic has shifted and I can be the one questioning his subpar joke.
“It’s real!” He’s arguing in this very cute way that makes me want to kiss him.
I can’t believe I just had that thought.
MORE PROGRESS.
“All right,” Chord says, putting his cup down on the ground so he can rub his hands together, “now I’m the one feeling those
chilly vibes, so I vote we go inside.”
I kinda feel like he’s pretending to be cold because he can see how much I’m shivering, and I both appreciate that and find
it annoying. Because I’m scared to go back inside.
“Your vote has been tallied,” I say, “and the official results are in: One hundred percent of the constituents of the backyard
have voted YES on the proposal to go into the house.”
“Wooo!” Chord shouts, throwing his hands in the air, with such surprising enthusiasm it makes me flinch. “Democracy in action!”
“Congrats to all of us.”
As we go back through the kitchen, I involuntarily flinch again, worried what I’m going to see, but it’s just Shana and Marigold and a couple of others having a lively conversation by the now demolished snack table.
Shana immediately takes my hand and leads the three of us into the family room, which is now blessedly Carterless and way less rowdy.
A Harry Styles song comes on, and this is when I learn there is something Chord can’t do: dance.
He moves his arms up and down, his hands in fists like he’s slowly milking a cow, as he shifts his body side to side way off
the beat of the music. It’s definitely a surprise, but, on him, it’s endearing.
“He’s great, right?” Marigold says directly into my ear as we all dance. I’m going to assume she’s talking about him as a
human and not as a dancer.
“Yeah!” I say into her ear. “I feel like I made him up.”
“You should feel him up!” she shouts.
Rather than go through the trouble of correcting her, I give her a thumbs-up, and she giggles.
Chord takes my hand, and we awkwardly move back and forth before he lifts his arm to spin me under it. Supremely charming.
And, since he’s a few inches taller than me, it makes me feel kind of short, which never happens, so I don’t care if he’s
a good dancer. Because I love this.
(Carter is an inch shorter than me. In case you’re wondering. Five-foot eight to my five-foot nine.)
And then suddenly I have to pee. Very much.
Or maybe I’ve had to for a while but just wasn’t paying attention.
“Be right back,” I say to everyone but mainly Chord. “I must urinate!” Probably didn’t need that extra sentence.
“Well, okay!” Chord says with a grin. “Have fun with that.”
I nod and walk away fast to outrun the embarrassment.
“Does the music sound a little staticky?” I hear Marigold ask behind me. “Like it’s fuzzy or something?”
“Oh Jesus no,” Shana says, “really?”
“Yeah, I might be hearing that too,” Chord says.
“GODDAMMIT.”
As desperately as I have to pee, I can’t help but do a quick scan of the party on my way to the bathroom. I pretend I’m doing
it to make sure everybody’s staying in line and not messing up the house too much.
But of course I’m looking for him.
I peek into the dining room, where there’s a surprisingly restrained game of beer pong happening, Eric Rogers and Kelly Hsu
against Lizzy King and Bodhi the Twerp, with a handful of fans cheering on the sidelines. No Carter. Bodhi sees me, and it’s
clear he’s terrified. I like that.
When I get to the bathroom, the door is closed, and I hear someone in there. Damn. I stand there trying not to think about
my bladder. I notice the light’s on in the office down the hall, which Shana and I specifically marked with “STAY OUT” Post-its—her
parents would lose it if anything in there got messed up. I walk down to look inside, hearing annoying giggles.
I’m ready to shoo the laughers out of there like an irate chef broom-prodding mice out of the kitchen, but instead I find
myself frozen, watching as Carter sloppily exchanges spit with Tatiana Robinson.
Oh god.
Down the hall, someone exits the bathroom, and it snaps me out of my stupor. I scurry away before Carter or Tatiana sees me
(now I’m the mouse), trying desperately to erase the part of my brain that holds on to images as I slip into the bathroom and lock
the door behind me.
He was kissing someone who wasn’t me.
I hated that.
I have to pee so bad.
Once I sit and finally let my bladder flow free, I’m able to think more clearly. Well, slightly more clearly.
Here’s what I think:
FUCK YOU, CARTER.
But then, a new thought:
Carter can kiss whoever he wants.
Because Carter doesn’t know who I am.
And he certainly doesn’t know we were in love.
We were in love, right?
I keep waiting for all this to feel less fucked-up.
Maybe I was supposed to see Carter kissing Tatiana, though.
Maybe it’s a little nudge from the universe, encouraging me to move on.
I mean, wasn’t I just thirty minutes ago thinking I wanted to kiss Chord?
And wasn’t there a tiny part of me that felt bad about that?
So, yeah, this is a good thing. I don’t have to feel bad at all. I can go find Chord and exchange some spit of my own, can’t I?
I flush the toilet, wash my hands, and look into the mirror.
I look pretty. And powerful.
“Maggie Spear. Version two point oh. GO.”
I open the door. Chord is standing right there, like I’ve summoned him.
“I realized I had to go too,” he says almost sheepishly.
“Oh cool!” I say, which is a very weird response.
But it’s only because I’m thinking Kiss him.
Kiss him now. “Actually . . .” I lean toward him, and I have to angle my head up a bit, which is new in a good way, but then I see this surprised look in his eyes.
“Oh shoot. I should ask if—I mean, can I kiss you? Is that okay?”
“Yeah,” Chord says, a smile breaking across his face like a sunrise. “It’s definitely okay. But let’s move so we’re not right
next to the bathroom?”
“I support this proposal, and it has passed.”
“We’re two for two,” Chord says with a laugh.
He takes my hand, and we walk a few steps, or maybe more, like fifteen, until we’re next to a wall near the threshold of the
kitchen, where there’s a picture hanging of Shana and her family on a beach somewhere. After an awkward pause, two long seconds,
he leans down toward me, and our mouths are touching.
It’s good, I think.
It’s odd.
But it’s nice.
I don’t really know what it is.
I’m glad it’s happening, though. His kisses are gentle but hungry, and I try to match mine to them. He tastes like beer. So
do I, I guess. Maybe I’m tasting myself. I put my hand on his face. Man, that stubble feels even better than I hoped it would.
I am kissing someone who is not Carter.
Hell yes. Amen. Hallelujah.
This is how it feels to move on.
And I—
There’s a birdlike yelp from behind us, cutting through the chaos of the party to pierce my eardrums. I want to ignore it—there’s
no reason not to—but it had a subtle, wounded quality that leaves me unsettled.
“What was that?” I say, pulling my head away to look behind us.
I find myself staring at the back of that green, ratty hoodie I know so well as a figure staggers away from us.
Carter.
Was that sound his response to me making out with someone else?
Why would he care? Does he care?
And why is he walking out the front door, leaving it wide open behind him, obviously still wasted?
Does he think he’s going to drive home like that?
Oh shit.
That’s probably exactly what he thinks.
Dammit, Carter.
“You okay?” Chord asks.
“I am,” I say. “But just lemme . . . I, um—I know that guy who— That guy who is very drunk, and I’m worried he’s gonna . . .”
“Yeah, of course, you should go after him. Might be saving his life. Want me to come?”
“No!” I say it so forcefully Chord takes a step backward. “Sorry. That’s really sweet. But I got this. I’ll be right back.”
“All good. I still really have to pee anyway, so this works out well.”
I nod and smile and run.