Page 22 of Heartstrings & Horizons
“Obviously. Miles never fumbles.”
“So, are we going to talk about Paige?”
“Hard pass.”
“Look, man. She seems like a sweet girl, but you should be careful. Getting tangled up in a long distance situationship is complicated and messy.”
“There’s nothing to worry about. We both know this can never go anywhere. Besides, she’s about to go on a date with someone else, and if helets a girl like Paige slip through his fingers, he’s an idiot.”
“If you say so. I’m only trying to look out for you.”
“I appreciate it, brother.”
Miles returns to the table, letting us know he paid the tab and he did, in fact, get the brunette’s phone number. I clap him on the back and shake my head. Miles is like a puppy — sometimes he needs a little “good boy” pat to get his tail wagging.
“Alright ya’ll, I have a shift at the bar, so I’m heading out.” I give them a wave as I head out to my truck. Driving to work is like muscle memory now, and I find my thoughts straying back to Paige and her date. It shouldn’t bother me, but it does.It really does.
Chapter9
Paige
? The Prophecy - Taylor Swift
What 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 pickedout 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.
