9. Paige
The Prophecy - Taylor Swift
W hat am I even doing? I don’t date. I met Kyle on the app and we chatted a little bit before he asked me out. He recommended we go to a cute bistro in little Italy for lunch and it seemed casual, so I agreed. He’s a 24-year-old economics student at York University, so proximity wise, there’s a point in his favor. So why can’t I stop thinking about the beautiful bartender in Kentucky?
I wasn’t expecting to meet Cade’s friends when I called earlier. Lucky for me, they had enough to say to fill my momentary stunned silence. The call was brief and nobody seemed to notice my impeccable deer-in-headlights impression. When we ended the call, I did one last final check in the bathroom mirror and headed downstairs. Kyle should be pulling up any minute. I grab my jacket and purse, taking a seat at the bottom of the stairs to wait, but not before shooting off one last text to Cade.
Paige: Wish me luck.
Cade: You don’t need luck. Just be yourself.
I’m pretty sure I just swooned. Lost in my post-call anxiety spiral over the FaceTime with Cade and his friends, I don’t realize when 10 minutes have passed and my lunch date is officially late.
One thing you should know about me is that I’m always 15-20 minutes early for everything — appointments, meetings, dates — so when someone is late, it triggers my anxiety. Call it a red flag, but my mind will always jump to the worst case scenario. Was there an accident? Did they die? Do they hate me? The last one runs through my head more often than not. I’d rather sit in the parking lot for half an hour than walk in 10 minutes late and have to face an uncomfortable confrontation.
Another 5 minutes pass, so I shoot off a text to Kyle to make sure everything is ok.
Paige: Hey, wanted to make sure we’re still on for lunch today!
When the message remains unread for several more minutes, I stand from the steps and resign myself to the obvious conclusion – I’ve been stood up.
You will not cry, Paige. Keep it together.
I take one last look at myself in the door’s reflection. I was so confident when I picked out this outfit. Now, as the anxiety and self doubt take root, I find myself lacking. My hair is too wild, too mousy, my face too round, my eyes a boring shade of brown.
The problem is, the voice in my head telling me I’m not good enough isn’t always mine; it echoes the criticisms I’ve heard from others. It’s the teenage boy from middle school calling me thunder thighs, or my mom signing 13-year-old Paige up for the local gym, offering every sugar free, low calorie, fad diet she can find. It’s the cool kids from high school who posted a video on social media saying vile things about me for the entire world to see. It’s every whisper behind my back when people thought I wasn’t listening.
And sometimes, it’s past Paige who used to try to starve herself and, when she inevitably failed less than 24 hours later, would binge on whatever snack she could find, and hide the evidence at the bottom of the trash can, leaving only the suffocating weight of shame and regret.
Incoming FaceTime from Mom
Great. Impeccable timing, as always, Cecilia. I swipe to answer, hoping my face doesn’t show my utter dejection, the result of the last 10 minutes of my shame spiral.
“Hi mom.”
“Paige honey, how are you?”
“I’m good, mom. How’s your weekend going?” My tone is short and probably uncalled for, but I’m not in the mood to deal with whatever shit my mom is about to spew.
“Good. Listen, have you heard from your dad? I wanted to know if he could get your brother on at a different job si te.”
“No, mom, but if Luca needs something, why doesn’t he ask dad himself?”
“You know your brother; he won’t do anything I ask him to do. I thought you could help me out.” She pauses for a moment, glancing at the phone with a curious look on her face. Here we go.
“What are you wearing? You know you shouldn’t wear such tight clothes. It draws attention to… well, you know.” She gestures to my breasts and belly. “Have you been watching what you eat? I say this with love, dear, but you should consider going on a diet.” She always insists it’s said with love, but it never, not even once in my 22 years, felt that way.
“Thanks for the advice, mom. I have to go. I'll talk to you later.” I don’t waste any time as I hit the button to end the call. The sting of my mother’s words cut deep, compounding the hurt of being stood up. I wrap my arms around myself, the loneliness and rejection setting in.
Removing my coat and replacing my purse on the hook, I walk myself back to my room and sink into the comfort of my bed. Once I’ve started the self-pity spiral, there’s only one way through it — escape. I pick up my newest romance novel, imagining myself as the main character. Maybe someday I will be.
Sometime later, I hear my phone vibrate on my nightstand. I don’t know how much time has passed — once I start reading it could be minutes or it could be hours before I pull myself back out of the world I’ve painstakingly created in my mind. I pick up my phone, dreading a response from Kyle confirming my suspicions that I simply wasn't worth the effort — but it’s not him.
Cade: Hey Sunshine. I haven’t heard from you, so I wanted to check in and make sure you didn’t meet up with Canada’s version of Ted Bundy or something.
Paige: I’m fine. No serial killers in sight but Canada’s version of Bundy did attend my college.
I keep it short and lighthearted, but I immediately feel guilty. I shouldn’t be thrusting my pity party at Cade, too. He doesn’t deserve to be dragged into the pits of despair with me.
Cade: Are you ok? Did he hurt you?
It’s crazy how quickly Cade has learned to read me. It’s like he’s always been there. Reminding myself not to get too attached, I quickly tap out a response.
Paige: The Serial Killer? No, he’s been in prison for years.
I’m obviously deflecting at this point. It’s my default setting to use humor and sarcasm when I’m faced with an uncomfortable situation. And Cade potentially finding out that some dude named Kyle couldn’t even be bothered to show up to the date he asked me on, feels very uncomfortable.
Cade: Seriously, Paige. Are you okay?
He never calls me Paige, always opting for Sunshine, or Canada when we’re flirting with each other. ‘Paige’ from Cade is like when you’re in trouble and your parents say our first, middle, and last name. My real name is reserved for serious moments.
Paige: Yeah, I’m ok. My date didn’t show so I spent the afternoon reading.
Cade: You deserve better.
Cade: Who needs a douche canoe named Kyle, anyway?
I chuckle at the insult because who actually says “douche canoe”.
Paige: Thanks. How was your day?
Cade: Boring as fuck.
Cade: Kind of jealous I didn’t get to spend it with you building a habitat for humanity igloo. I might never get over it.
The callback to our earlier conversation has me smil ing and wistfully imagining what life would be life if we ever could be something. It’s futile, but sometimes I can’t help but wish things were different, uncomplicated. Turns out this easy friendship isn’t so easy after all. In fact, I’m finding it incredibly difficult not to give a little piece of my heart to this man.
Paige: Can I ask you something?
Cade: Of course
Paige: If I had said yes, I live in Tennessee... what would have happened next?
Cade: Happily Ever After, obviously. Isn’t that how those books you love so much end?
If only. I can’t think of a good response to that, so I let it linger and imagine how things could be different right now if I had a date with Cade instead of Kyle. I shouldn’t go there, my heart can’t get invested. Too late, Paige.
By Monday, Cade had reached out a few more times, but I hadn’t been able to find it in me to respond. I hate myself for pulling away from him, but the fear of losing this friendship to the mere thought of something more is killing me.
I have class today, but I don’t think I can bring myself to get ready, much less crawl out of bed. I quickly sent off a text to one of my classmates to ask if I can borrow the notes later this week. Despite her confirmation that she’ll send them over tonight and wishing me a quick recovery, I feel a sense of guilt for lying to her. I’m not sick, at least not physically.
I’m not unfamiliar with depressive episodes, and there is little doubt that I’m experiencing one now. Ever since my non-date, I've felt a bone deep emptiness that I can’t quite shake. There’s also a longing there that I’m not ready to face.
In high school, my doctor prescribed me antidepressants, but they only made my mind foggy and I had trouble sleeping. Not wanting to take additional drugs for insomnia, I decided against medication. I don’t judge anyone for how they choose to manage their own mental health; I did what I thought was best for me at the time. Things have improved over the years, maybe as a symptom of growing up, and these days the episodes are few and far between, but when they are triggered, they hit me like a freight train.
I’ve learned, for me, the best way out is through. The call from mom wasn’t anything I hadn’t heard a million times before, but for some reason it’s been playing on repeat in my head alongside a torrent of other cruel words that have been hurled at me in the past.
For me, the worst part of depression is the deep-seated need to claw my way out of the darkness but not being able to even muster the energy to try. It feels like being thrown into the deep end with no life jacket and you never learned how to swim. It takes every bit of strength just to keep breathing.
I pick up my phone and google “Oak Ridge, Kentucky”. Cade told me how much he loves to go to the lake on his days off and I can see why — it’s beautiful. I start to daydream, imagining the stunning photos I could capture at the peak of autumn when the trees are all shades of auburn and bronze; when the last light of the evening sun is peeking through the branches. When I picture my future, I see a place like this: a small hallmark town with beautiful scenic views — and maybe a handsome brown-eyed bartender at my side. I’ve been wrapped up in Cade’s h oodie since Saturday. He never confirmed that it was his, but every cell in my body knows it is.
I shouldn’t be having these thoughts about someone I can’t have but I sometimes wonder if I’ll ever get to experience those things — marriage, kids… home. I’ve always wanted to be a mom — I had no distinctive dreams about what my future career would be, but I wanted love and a family of my own. I’m sure I could unpack all of it with a therapist and hear about how my difficult childhood affected my desire to create a family, but I’m self-aware enough to figure it out on my own.
I didn’t fully understand until much later just how much photography had served as an outlet for me throughout my life. It started at the ice rink, when I would carry around a disposable camera at competitions and practices.
Then it graduated to a small polaroid camera when I would take summer training trips and stay with a host family. In high school, I saved top to buy a small digital camera to carry with me around school and on the weekends.
Eventually I joined the yearbook committee and got my hands on a real DSLR — it was heaven. Photography has always been a part of my life, peace among chaos. I never considered pursuing it as a career because it was always drilled into me that there wasn’t really money or a future to be had in art, so I’m studying history and English, hoping a career in teaching will somehow be fulfilling, despite feeling like a fundamental part of me is being stifled.
Lost in thoughts of the future, I drift off into a peaceful sleep with visions of a scenic Kentucky sunset; a small house on the lake with kids running around the yard, a dog hot on their heels and a cat peeking out through the curtains. There are 2 rocking chairs on the porch, side by side, my hand engulfed by a calloused palm, fingers intertwined, a look of utter contentment on my face. The man should be faceless, nameless, but he’s not.