2. Not a Big Deal
Chapter 2
Not a Big Deal
W hen we arrive at Mom’s house, I stay downstairs just long enough to be polite, then make a run for it to my old bedroom. It’s not that I don’t want to be around Sam, necessarily. But for the sake of my sanity, I shouldn’t be within eyesight of his large hands and his cocky smirk that smooths out into a comforting grin whenever his eyes meet mine. And I don’t want to be within earshot while my family drills him about his life and what he’s been up to since we last saw him eight years ago.
After his dad moved their family of three to Houston for his company, Sam and I promised we’d stay in touch, but we were both kept busy with our new, separate lives. Rather, he was kept busy while I wandered around feeling hollow.
Then, he went to college on a full scholarship to play football, and I had a hard time escaping him. When he became the starting quarterback, he rose to fame as a local celebrity, always making the headlines of small-town papers, and even talked about on major sports talk shows. Despite his graduation the previous semester, his name is still mentioned often, only now they wonder why he threw away what could have been a successful career in the NFL to work in real estate development.
I quietly shut the door behind me and take a look around my old bedroom. Mom had it converted into her crafting room, although it’s really just filled with junk she doesn’t want to deal with. There’s a box labeled ‘Donation’ right inside the door, probably shoved in here last minute while she cleaned up. I sit on the floor beside it and pick up the familiar book that sits on top of the pile titled, Best Poems of Texas, and turn it over in my hands. But when the door opens, I quickly toss it back.
Sam closes the door before setting down a backpack and sits beside me. I scoot over to make room for him, but we’re still too close. My body comes to life with goosebumps at his thigh and shoulder pressed against mine.
“How are you?” he asks, leaning his head back against the dresser we sit in front of.
“Fine.” And it’s the truth, not just the general answer you give to anyone who asks. I’m sad of course, but Grandma was in her eighties and she lived a full, happy life. I guess there’s not much more you can ask for.
He lifts his arm, summoning me to lean into him as if no time has passed and no awkwardness lingers between us. And because I’m not great with rejection—taking it or giving it—I comply. I lay my head on his shoulder, stiff and unsure, but soften at the familiarity of his comforting embrace. Without my permission, my eyes close and my lungs take in a deep breath. His scent, a sweet cedarwood, is very welcome compared to the sharp body spray he used to douse himself in.
“So,” he begins, “how’s life?”
“Pretty much exactly the same.”
“Surely something is different. I see you’ve gone up a cup size or two.”
My head snaps up.
“Sorry. That was inappropriate. But it’s hard not to notice. You’ve grown into a beautiful woman.” Either at the shamelessness of his statement or from feeling awkward and unsure of what else to do, I laugh at the unabashed smile that spreads over his face. He wraps his arm around me once more, and we fall into a comfortable silence.
“Seriously though. Did you go to school? Do you have a job? Did you ever write that novel you wanted to write? Do you still live with your nose inside a book?” My thoughts linger on the fact that I already knew all of his answers to those same questions, but he has no idea about mine.
“I only went to school for an associate’s degree. I work at Grandma’s diner. I didn’t write a novel, and I don’t really write poetry anymore. And yes, I still live and breathe books.”
“Why did you stop writing?”
I reach over and grab the poetry book from the donation box. I hand it over, telling him to flip to page eleven.
“This is yours?” he asks, noticing my name below the poem.
My eyes remain on the door as I explain in a dry tone, “Yep. I won third in a poetry competition. They published the first one hundred in a book.”
“That’s amazing, Cor.”
He reads out loud but stops when I plug my ears. I don’t want to hear it.
“Wow. I’m impressed.”
Except it’s not impressive. If they published my poem, it must not be difficult to win a poetry contest after all. The art of poetry is so subjective that anyone could write it; no real talent is required, only feelings. And I have an abundance of those.
“Wait, why did you pull it out of a donation box?” he asks.
“That’s where I found it earlier. That’s Mom and Dad’s copy, I guess they don’t want it anymore.”
He studies me for a minute trying to understand, but I don’t think the situation is understandable. I gave it to my parents as a Christmas present. I had the page of my poem bookmarked and when they unwrapped it, Mom turned to the page, skimmed it, then said, ‘That’s great, sweetie. But you know, we don’t really read.’
Just then, Mom opens the door and asks if we want more to eat, or if they’re good to put it all away. Sam and I both decline before he holds up the book. “This was in the donation box-”
“Oh yes, take it if you want it. I can’t for the life of me remember where it came from,” Mom says.
Sam looks at me, probably expecting me to say something, but I shake my head. “Thanks, Mrs. Anderson.”
“Of course, sweetheart, but call me Sarah, remember?” Once the door is closed, he meets my gaze.
I shrug. “It’s not a big deal.”
“Well, I’ll put this on my bookshelf and cherish it forever.”
This is exactly what I tried to avoid: the butterflies in my stomach, the desire pulsating throughout my body at his sweet words, and the flame of hope igniting in my cold heart that maybe our time has finally come.
Sam nudges my shoulder with his. “Hey, I have a surprise for you.” He reaches over to grab his backpack and unzips the compartment. “I hid that bag of cookies you and Sage were raving about.”
He pulls out the plastic bag and I reach for it, but he yanks his hand behind him.
“I will deck you, Samuel. I’m not in the mood for games.” I meant it when I told Mom I didn’t have any room for more food, but I’ll make some for these cookies.
He laughs. “Then, say yes to the question I’m about to ask you.” Our eyes remain locked while my mind spirals with the possible questions he’d want to ask. “Go out with me.”
I blink at him.
Of course, I want to scream my acceptance, but I don’t fit in his life anymore. I’m a waitress, while he probably makes more money per month than I make in a year, based on the fancy car he drives. How would this work exactly? Even now, he wears an expensive-looking, most likely, custom-tailored suit, while I wear pants I found at Ross for six dollars five years ago. We don’t match. No longer are we the snotty-nosed kids that played hard and dreamed big. Gone are the days of blissful ignorance of the realities of adulthood.
“Cori,” he says after I stare at him in shock for two whole minutes.
“You heard me when I said I was a server, right?”
His eyebrows furrow in confusion. “Yes?”
“So you know we’re in completely different social classes?”
He blows air through his nose. “Cori, I don’t give a shit about any of that.” He tilts his head. “Do you?”
“No.” But it comes out more like a question.
He lifts a shoulder. “Then that’s all that matters.”
I consider his words. In the grand scheme of things, no, our pay differences don’t matter. But pay differences barely skim the surface of my insecurities.
I’d seen the photographs of the beautiful, thin women with smooth, shiny hair that he dated in college all over social media. Women I can’t begin to compare to.
“Come on, we’ll take it slow, get to know each other again.”
“But… why now? Why all of a sudden? I’m just now seeing you for the first time in eight years. I didn’t think I’d ever see you again.”
“I don’t know. When I heard that your grandma had passed, it just got me thinking of all the fun times we had when we were kids. Things have settled down now for me since I graduated and started working for Dad. It just feels right.” He takes my hand in his, rubbing his thumb along the back of my fingers. “You know we were headed in this direction right before I moved, anyway. Let's just think of our time apart as a pause. It’s better that we waited, though, because now we’re adults instead of barely teenagers.”
I’m having difficulty breathing. Either I tripped on this junk and hit my head, or I’m grieving harder than I realized and entered a state of psychosis.
“Well, think about it and let me know.” He kisses me on the forehead and stands. “I should get going, but let me see your phone, so I can put my number in it.” I hand it over, and once he’s done, he wraps me in a hug that lasts too long to be considered friendly.
I follow him downstairs and watch as he hugs my mom and shakes my dad’s hand, then he leaves with the parting words, “Please, say yes.”
My mom, Sage, and my older sister, Stephanie, watch me with hungry expressions.
“What?” I ask.
“Well? What happened up there?” Mom asks impatiently.
“Nothing. We just talked.”
“About?” Stephanie urges, moving her hand in a circle for me to go on.
“What I’ve been up to since we last saw each other.”
Sage shakes her head. “Nuh uh, there was more than that, I know it.”
“Okay, fine.” I take a breath to prepare myself. “He asked me out.” I jump at their deafening squeals, but after a moment, Mom’s face sobers.
“You said yes, right?”
“I told him I’d think about it.”
Too many protests and groans at once, I can’t follow who shouts what. Someone calls me “Crazy.” Someone else draws out the word, “Why?” There’s even a “Cori, you make the worst decisions,” in there, and all three of them roll their eyes.
They’re right. All the decisions I’ve made up to this point have been crap. And I know that because people my age are graduating with bachelor’s degrees, traveling, and changing the world, while I stand still. When I was a kid, I had big dreams of success and being someone who mattered. But they were childish fantasies that shattered into dust when I smacked into the wall of reality.
“I’m scared he won’t like me, okay? Dad’s right, I work at a diner. Sage, you’re always telling me to stop being so quiet and boring. Mom, you criticize me for being shy and make comments about my weight. And Stephanie, you say I’m going to be the spinster of the family because I’m not flirtatious or cheerful or funny, and I can’t cook to save my life. What the hell am I supposed to think?”
“You’re supposed to ignore us and have some self-esteem,” Sage says.
Stephanie puts her hands on my shoulders and lowers a couple of inches so that her face is level with mine. “You’re being ridiculous. Are you really going to let insecurities keep you from happiness? Your confidence is your responsibility. Know your worth, girl.” She pushes me playfully, but how does one just know their worth? When you're constantly told you’re not good enough, when you’re constantly compared to other people, eventually it’s going to affect me. After all, if everyone has the same opinion, clearly they see something I’m blind to.
For me, confidence feels like arrogance. When the whole concept of outgoing is foreign, how does one say what’s on their mind without overthinking, or be loud and expressive without annoying people? How do you learn not to care?
“Honey, you’ve been depressed for a long time. Probably since Sam left eight years ago. Don’t you see how his presence could be a good thing in your life?”
Have I been depressed? I wouldn’t say I have, but what do I know?
Sure, when he left, I got more attention from bullies at school, I was lonely at home, and I was jealous of the happiness he easily found without me. And since I’ve grown up, I’ve been a little moody with how hard adulthood turned out to be. But I wouldn’t say his presence now would fix all that.
Mom continues, “Maybe he’ll help you come out of your shell. You could meet new friends and maybe find some job connections.” I resist the urge to roll my eyes.
Sage adds, “Look, it’s just one date. You’re not planning a wedding. Take it from there. You don’t turn down someone just because they might not like you, or it might not work out.”
And suddenly, with it broken down into one small step, it doesn’t seem like the big deal I’ve made it out to be. I feel like an idiot. But that’s what I do—blow things out of proportion and overthink things until they don’t make sense anymore.
If he doesn’t think I’m right for him, we’ll stay friends or go back to being strangers. Simple. I’ll do my best not to dwell on the possibility of that happening, but no promises.
So I ignore all the voices in my head that have claimed dominance over my own over the years. The voices that tell me that I’m too weird and awkward for a guy like Sam, that I’m not pretty enough for him, that I’m not smart or successful enough.
That I’ll never be enough.
Then, I wait two days to avoid looking desperate, and send him a one-word text: “Yes.”