33 Things They Don't Tell You About Being Basic

7: The Talking Stage Is A Scam

A couple hours locked in a car with someone you used to know (however vaguely it was) could either be a long, awkward trip or a refreshing time to catch up on how our separate ways had been treating us. For me and Chris, it was the latter.

Although neither one of us was nearly as successful as some of our other former classmates, in that moment, there wasn't the competition of a reunion where everyone needed to know who didn't have money, who managed to escape our small lakeside town, and who got fat. And it was nice to have an actual conversation with someone after spending all my time trying to fight information out of Mason or being talked over by Blake.

I was from a small town a bridge away from the roller coaster capital of the world, so bridges certainly didn't intimidate me, but Pittsburgh was a city with many of them, and that was enough to be a little scary. Or maybe it was the fact that I had dropped everything on a whim to go somewhere where I had never been before to surprise someone who was practically a stranger that was enough to bring a little nervous energy straight into my heart.

Both Alex and Blake probably would have laughed at me for being ridiculous and falling for a pseudoscience scam, but a little bit of lavender essential oil sounded great right about then. As the conversation dwindled down along with the minutes on the ETA, there was nothing to focus on but my own feelings.

That was never a good thing for anyone.

But before I could work myself up any further, we arrived in a small parking lot outside of an charming, old-looking building, and with that, I had survived the first step of my brilliantly bold plan. That had to be a positive sign from the universe, right?

"Well, I hope everything works out for you, Marigold," Chris said. "This guy, the craft store, everything."

I smiled. "Thank you. I hope it does too." Of course, I wanted some things more than others, but any small victory was welcome with me. "It's been really nice seeing you again."

"You too," Chris said, and it sure seemed that we both meant it. I knew I did. I didn't have life figured out the same way that everyone from high school did (on Instagram at least), and Chris was a lot more like me than them.

It was reassuring, even if it was a little pathetic.

"Well, if you need a ride back to Marblehead, let me know," he said, and after he gave me his number, he drove off into the busy Pittsburgh street.

If. The word brought butterflies to my stomach, but I couldn't stop now. If I had followed my half-felt thoughts out to Pittsburgh, there was no option but to peek inside to see what was going on.

It was a small restaurant—smaller than The Lakeside Daisy, but just big enough to be able to breathe—and although the tables seemed way too classy and expensive for someone like me, there was a bar tucked away in the corner, and that was more my speed.

On the opposite side of the room, there was a piano elevated just inches above the rest of the floor, and there sat Mason at the keys.

With a glass of the cheapest rosé they had in hand, a tiny sigh escaped my mouth as I watched him play for who knew how long. He didn't seem impressed with the music scene back in the Sandusky area of Ohio, but Mason was probably right about it. He was better than that, and the beauty of his playing spoke for itself. It spoke to me.

People came and went throughout the evening, but I wasn't sure where they were going that could possibly be better than the ambiance of this place, decorated with the delicate melody from Mason.

Before the night was over, Mason finally stood up at the end of his set, and when he looked across the room, his eyes settled on me.

"Marigold?" My name left his lips, and by his tone, I couldn't help but think that he was surprised in a different way than I was hoping.