Year of the Chick (book 1 in the "Year of the Chick" series)

Chapter Twenty

A minute before the meeting she accepted, and that’s how my apology to Eleanor began...

***

“So...I’m a dick.” I took a big sip of my toffee-nut latte and looked at her for acknowledgement. Yes, I was having a latte, and I didn’t care if it was two hundred calories. Not today.

“Oh yeah?” Eleanor sniffed at the soy-vanilla latte I’d bought her. To take the first sip was just like accepting the olive branch. So a sniff meant she wasn’t quite there yet. Plus she looked kind of scary in her bright red v-neck sweater.

“I won’t trouble you with the ‘excuses’ version, so...you did nothing wrong by setting me up with Arjun. Sorry by the way, if he thinks I’m a cold bitch.” I crossed then uncrossed my legs, not really liking how the corduroy rubbed between my thighs.

Eleanor raised the latte to her lips, then lowered it back to the table. Dammit, so close to an accepting sip! “That’s right, you don’t have to give me the excuses version, but I’m still kind of curious. WHAT was going on in your head that night? Were you drunk? Were you having a mental breakdown? I’ve never seen you like that before.”

I really had to think about this one. Why did I fall off the sane-train?

I pulled at the collar of my big black turtleneck sweater. It was the sweater I wore when I wanted to hide from the world. But even this sweater couldn’t hide me from the truth.

“Well...maybe ten percent drunk and ten percent mentally unstable.”

Eleanor raised an eyebrow. “And what about the other eighty percent?”

I considered the truth and let out a sigh. “Let’s just say I was still pretty consumed with what I’d witnessed at my house. You know, that awful showcase of a supposedly perfect Indian guy who’s a stranger, but perfect nonetheless because of stats on a page.” I rolled up my sleeves as I could feel myself getting fired up. “Meanwhile spending five months communicating with a virtual stranger? Well he sure didn’t feel like a stranger to me. I actually became attached to him. To James.” I couldn’t help but cringe when I said his name.

Note to self: replace his name with “Internet freak-boy.” It will ease the pain.

It looked like Eleanor was waiting for more so I continued. “What was I saying? Oh right, I was totally attached, and there were future expectations in this ‘attachment.’ But apparently I imagined it all. Because I’m just a crazy freak from the Internet.”

Eleanor simply stared.

“So yeah,” I concluded, “that was the other eighty percent.”

I looked up at Eleanor again, and all she could say was “Huh?”

We both started laughing at once. It was my first big laugh since the very real break-up of my fake-ass relationship.

And the cherry on top? Eleanor took a nice long sip of her latte.

I was relieved, but also pretty sick of “just getting by” on my friendships. I could do a little better than this rambling barrage.

“IN OTHER WORDS,” I added, “my stupid brain lumped you in with my parents, also known as the ‘arrangers.’ It’s just that in our world, no one takes the time to accurately analyze behaviour. The personality profiles are so dry. Like if you’re a parent, you have three jobs: make sure your kids don’t become slutty druggies, make sure they study all day and get good jobs, and make sure you get them married off.” I frowned at this trifecta which defined my existence. “And if you happen to be this ‘project work’ offspring, you don’t need to have a personality either. You simply have to meet the criteria mentioned above. It doesn’t matter how you get there, what your feelings are, what makes you laugh, what sort of things make your soul dance, you just have to be: pure, free of drugs, free of booze, smart, and eager for marriage.”