Page 90 of Clichés & Curses

‘Hey, Mom,’ I answered.

While Eliza and I had a scheduled phone call for each week, my catchups with my mom come at the most spontaneous times: whether it be when she was driving home from work, or when I was getting ready to leave the apartment for class.

My parents made sure that the divorce would be an easy transition for us, and they did—never failing to remind us they would always be there for us, no matter what.

The hardest part of the divorce, personally, was not having the whole family under the same roof any more, and understanding that I would have to live with one parent at a time. It also meant I had to choose which parent I would rather stay with for the most part.

But I hadn’t wanted to choose. I loved both my parents equally.

So I didn’t. I let Eliza decide for me.

Wherever she would go, I would follow, especially since our time together was on the clock with her going off to college soon.

Eliza ended up picking our Mom to stay with during the weekdays and my Dad for the weekends. Even so, our father made an effort to see us during the weekdays too, by having dinner with us a couple of times a week. During the early years of the divorce, I focused on spending time with Eliza as much as possible before she left and started a new chapter of her life.

It wasn’t until she left that I truly started bettering my relationship with my parents individually. With me staying at Mom’s most of the time, she got to hear everything about my high school experience—which included all the friendshipdrama, way too much homework and, of course, me reaching the age where I had started to go on dates.

Eliza might have gotten details through our phone calls as I recounted my dates, but it was my mom who had the first-hand experience of seeing me go there, and hearing how it went right away once I got home.

It was nerve-wracking the first time in high school, but it eventually got less awkward over time. Though I couldn’t help but feel nervous to tell her about Colton and my reservations about him.

‘How have you been, sweetheart?’ I heard my mom ask.

‘Good,’ I answered her. I started playing with the rings on my finger that I hadn’t taken off, just so I could have something to do with my hands to get rid of my nervousness.

‘Is everything okay?’

I let out a quiet exhale. ‘Yeah, everything’s fine.’ After a beat, I added, ‘A guy asked me out.’

‘That’s great!’ Mom replied with a note of enthusiasm in her tone. ‘So, when is the date? Are you excited?’

‘Actually,’ I started. ‘I haven’t said yes yet.’

‘Oh. Why not, honey? Do you not like him?’

‘It’s the opposite actually,’ I said. ‘I really, really, really like him.’

‘Then, what’s the matter?’

I stayed quiet for a while, trying to muster up enough courage in myself to finally voice it out. I wanted to let it all out, all that had been hanging over my head all that time, but never wanted to admit it out loud.

‘Clara?’ My mom’s concerned voice filled the living room.

‘I’m scared, Mom.’ And there it was. The real reason. The very thing that Colton accused me of.

Because what Colton said was true.

I was scared. I always have been.

I was scared of opening up my heart to someone else. I was scared of giving someone a chance—a real chance, not the one that I convinced myself into thinking is one. Even though I had been on dates since I was a high school senior, they never went past the first one, because every single time, a strike count was ready at the back of my mind. It would go off each time I found something—any random excuse that assured me we won’t match well—which could fill up all three counts, to justify my decision of not going on a second date with the same guy.

But then Colton came along, and everything changed.

Maybe it was because we never went on an actual date before. But I don’t think that was it. I think, deep down, I knew that if we did go on one, I would just want more dates with him, and the strike counts wouldn’t matter any more.

Heck, all semester long, as I fell deeper into my crush for him, I had been waiting for him to slip up, for any kind of reason that will slowly diminish my feelings towards him over time. But every time I tried to find one—why he decided to take the ASL class, his late reply to my text the day before—it backfired. Instead, my crush on him grew bigger and bigger.

The curse wasn’t real, I was aware of that. Of course. I knew that this curse was just a fabrication and a coping mechanism for me to keep my guard up—specifically against those whom I could see myself easily falling for, someone like Colton.

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