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A Short Story by Miranda Campbell
There is a novel that starts, “I like hurting girls. Not physically, but mentally” and even though I find this admission very problematic I also admire how jarring it is, how bold and brazen. Perhaps I’m jealous of an honest admission, the way people can own who they are and what they want, even when it’s ugly. Or perhaps an unsettling statement such as “I like hurting girls” makes me feel better about cheating on my boyfriend with a guy who is cheating on his girlfriend, how that statement makes me feel as though, in comparison, I could be worse.
Or maybe we tell ourselves anything to feel better about our choices.
I feel better about my unsavory choices when I recall the other night with him, the night he and I meet at the diviest of bars in my beach town, the crowd both old and young (which only makes sense if you’ve lived here), sitting side by side, and he keeps turning his head to the right, the bill of his hat seeming to obstruct those in front of us—our own quiet corner—moving in for a kiss that I’m already asking for. One kiss is never enough with us; we need more.
We walk to the beach a block away and take off our shoes, dip our feet into the January ocean because even though it’s Florida, the cold comes creeping in eventually and, like a sick joke, it finds us in the spot we love the most. I guess that’s fitting given this night, this predicament. Love doesn’t just find you when you least expect it; sometimes love finds you when you least need it.
He grabs my hand, and even though the air is cold, his touch is warm. I think, what a small, delicate, but extraordinary thing: to truly like someone and in return they like you back.
But not love. I am not talking about love here, not yet, maybe not ever, but that pitter patter, will they, won’t they, total crush kind of like. That, we-never-want-this-to-end-because-we-love-every-time-we-share-the-same-room kind of feeling. Fleeting, temporary but deep all at once. We walk back toward his car and he suggests playing a song from it, opening every door so that anyone nearby can hear. He says we should dance. I laugh so loud and hard I’m sure it draws attention.
“Dance?” I ask, my eyebrows raised and mouth open. I almost can’t believe a guy wants to dance without needing the excuse of a wedding or perhaps an anniversary.
He asks me to pick a song. I choose “This Charming Man” by The Smiths, which he’s never heard, but is on board with as soon as the ’54 Tele starts, leans in—no—sways, bounces, jumps, moves like I’ve never seen anyone move before, stretches out his lean arm for me to grab. Then we make circles, me teetering on my tip toes, him sliding along the gravel-like-sand of the parking spot for as long as the song lasts. When it ends, he pokes his head back through the open window of his car and presses repeat, five, six times; honestly, I lose count. For a second, I worry we will repeat this same tango, but no. I should know better, should know that he will keep me on my toes literally. He romps ten feet to the right of his car. I skip in front of his headlights, hopping the pavement onto the boardwalk so that he can see me on display in my blue jean shorts and white crop top. In this moment, part of me wishes we would blow the whole thing up, see where our relationships land, but I know we’re both faltering, hesitant because we don’t want to leave a good, comfortable thing. Comfort is secure and safe and sure in its familiarity, and who wants to give that up?
In this moment, I don’t know yet that a few weeks later we will pretend as though none of this happened. We will, in fact, proceed with comfort. But I guess it makes sense then, what I feel next.
As we dance, I look at him and see both all that could be and all that will never be, then wonder how it’s possible to recognize both at the same time. I see its breadth and its length, but I also see its transience. This, I think, is what they must mean by “bittersweet.”
We finally stop dancing and write messages to each other on the community chalkboard even though we’re side by side, mere feet apart, sneaking looks and charged smiles–as if this were middle school math class, our arms hovering over our test sheets–and saying, “keep your eyes off my paper.” His message says that I’m only in his dreams and mine wonders if he has a crush on me even though I know it to be true. Sometimes it’s just grand to have a thing you already know confirmed.
“One more time” he says, pressing play on what has now become our song, and we can’t help but dance again.
Eventually my brain can’t keep up with my feet and I trip and fall quickly on my ass. I should be embarrassed but I’m not. It makes me realize how unlike myself I am in this moment, not because we’re dancing wildly and literally as if no one is watching, but because I’m so used to playing my cards close to my chest, to maintaining a poise and never letting anyone know my next move. And yet. Here I am, having just fell and scraped my elbow, laughing on the ground and meeting his sure, steady eyes—my cards face up. As he helps me up, I smile, knowing that at the very least we’ll always have this song on this night.
Author: Miranda Campbell studied film at the University of Central Florida where she learned that film and television have much to teach us about the world and ourselves. While freelance editing at Triplicity Publishing for four years, she helped authors develop their novels. She recently completed the CPC at Oxford.