// forever is the sweetest con //
cowboy like me -Taylor Swift
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It's been a full week since the blueberry incident at Dino's and, unsurprisingly, the guy hasn't made a second appearance. I couldn't help but find myself a little disappointed at that fact each night as I closed up the gas station. Probably because his request was just so off the wall that I'm curious about what his deal was.
...Right?
There's no other plausible explanation.
Sure, he was cute, but I'm not like Luna. It's not like I'm ever going to see him again, anyway. I'm not some hopeless romantic, just daydreaming about the day some cute guy comes in and sweeps me off my feet.
I'm realistic. The love of my life is not going to just waltz past me suddenly. We're not going to fall in love on the spot, the moment our eyes meet. We're not going to go on seemingly spontaneous dates that, in reality, they planned for days. We're not going to grow old and sit out on rocking chairs on our front porch with coffee and old, dog-eared books. They're not going to understand me.
Because that's not realistic.
The realistic version is that I'll meet someone that doesn't make me want to completely close off. We'd fall in a monotonous routine of going on dates only on Wednesday nights to the same three restaurants. I'd pretend their jokes are funny when they really make me roll my eyes. They'd propose and we'd have a silly little wedding where I'd be forced to invite all of my estranged family members and Luna. And then, we'd grow old, and I'd secretly despise them for all of their little habits that I once thought were cute.
Besides, love isn't meant for me. Love is meant for people who can express that love right back. It's meant for people like Luna, who don't even have to look to see the good in the world; they just know it's there. Or for people that have been given none their entire lives, but still manage to give it out freely. For people who make up the sunshine and the moon and the pretty green grass in early spring. The people that are a product of all the good things in the world.
It's not meant for people who can barely fathom crying in general, let alone crying in front of someone else. Love isn't meant for dramatic people who always overexaggerate things. It's not meant for rainstorm brains and black hole emotions. For people that vacuum the energy right out of a room. Love is not meant for me.
It means you have to let someone see the deepest, most intimate pieces of yourself. I am genuinely incapable of doing that – like, anxiety attack spirals over that shit. I'd rather scoop my eyes out with a soup spoon than let someone in like that.
So, love just isn't for me. I'm not upset by that or anything, it's just a reality of my life. I've accepted it a long time ago. And it's fine.
If I were a hopeless romantic, maybe I'd be willing to come up with some conclusion as to why I'm so frustrated that he hasn't come back. One that has nothing to do with blueberries at all.
One that has everything to do with how his two front teeth peek out and pull his bottom lip in. With how the little cross tattoo on his hand disappears into warm, chocolate brown when he ruffles it through his hair. How the slope of his nose tapers off like Washington mountains. With the bubblegum pink of his lips and the way his tongue barely pokes through his teeth in an almost imperceptible lisp. With the way his legs cross at the ankles when he stands, focused on a thought, with his eyebrows furrowed together and two little wrinkles diving into the space between.
But that's not me; I don't do that.
So, instead, the only reason I'm so caught up in him is because of the fact that I'll never understand his urgency over those blueberries.
Ironically enough, on Friday night, some lady came into Dino's asking for the damn fruit, and I swear, all of the breath was squeezed out of my lungs in an instant.
I was sitting behind the cash register, letting some early 2000s playlist echo around the gas station.
It was a boring day at the studio, as I rehearsed the same solo for what felt like the millionth time. I noticed that my calves were tighter than usual because of how much I had been on my toes lately, so a majority of the day was spent rolling out my sore muscles and digging my thumbs into the skin of my legs to loosen the knots there.
Through the speakers, I had been playing this song I found that would be a great performance piece. So, as I stretched out and took care of my legs, I brainstormed what kind of choreography would compliment the track until the freedom bell rang at 4 o'clock.
Dino's wasn't any more exciting, albeit a little busy. There seemed to be a constant flow of customers coming in to buy anything from gasoline to beer to potato chips to cigarettes, but the hours rolled along like the waves at low tide. When I had sworn I'd been at work my entire shift, I glanced up to see 9:03 pm staring back at me on the clock.
Around 10 pm, when the front doorbell rang, I didn't even bother to lift my line of vision above the countertop. I was already ready to be done for the day and I still had four hours to go.
"Hello and welcome to Dino's. Let me know if I can help you with anything."
I heard footsteps approaching the register and a woman cleared her throat. Glancing upwards, I saw a lady with deep auburn hair staring me dead in the eye. She seemed nice enough, with a calm demeanor and brown eyes so dark they looked black. She was probably the same age as my mother.
"Hi, dear, I was wondering if you guys carry blueberries?"
I nearly choked on my breath at her question, and, for some reason, it felt like a handful of butterflies were let loose in my stomach, "Do you mean like yogurt-covered blueberries? No, we don't have any, I'm not sure where else you could find them, but we don't have any-"
A look of pure confusion crossed her face as she raised a hand gently to cut off my rambling, "No, honey, I'm just looking for plain old, regular blueberries to make pie with. Well, not old ones, of course. I'd like them to be fresh."
I let out a half-hearted laugh at the joke, a little flustered as I tucked a few stray hairs behind my ear. The butterflies evaporated and emptiness was left in their wake. I was confused at my body's reaction, but I decided to just shake it off.
"Oh, yes. Of course, ma'am, they're right in aisle 2."
The lady thanked me with a small smile, paid for her fruit, and left. As I watched her van leave the parking lot, I sighed, slumping over the countertop, with my chin resting on my palm.
What the hell, Phoebe?
Why did I care so much? Why was I disappointed when she just wanted to make pie? Why was I hoping that that guy would come back?
She probably thinks I'm batshit insane after jumping on her like that. Oh well.
The rest of the shift was no better than the beginning and, even worse, now I had those damn green eyes lingering in my mind.
I stood in my studio room, having completed my warmup routine and one run-through of my solo, staring into the mirrors asking myself 20 Questions yet again. My eyes drift across my baby pink leotard, littered haphazardly with tiny white flowers. I have my hair tucked into a bun high on the top of my head with two matching pink clips pulling back the wispy pieces.
I just can't shake my curiosity, no matter how hard I try, which does nothing but frustrate me. Not only will I never finish the story about what this guy wanted, I can't figure out why it even mattered. Any other weird gas station scenario floated out of my memory as if it were one of those dreams that you wake up from in the middle of the night and swear you'll remember in the morning but never do.
I sound like a broken record, but it just doesn't make sense. I shouldn't be so caught up on him. I mean, I met him once. For less than 20 minutes.
But it's like I ran headfirst into an endless cycle. A racetrack course. An infinity loop.
1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8.
My desperate method of taking my mind off of the Dino's blueberry fiasco is to put on my solo music, loud. In the center of the studio, I stare at my reflection, as I start practicing a series of grand jeté jumps. The classical music shakes the mirrors and invades every open space in the room, as I lose myself and, thankfully, my thoughts, to the dance.
Claudette comes into my studio space around lunchtime, earlier than her usual Tuesday visit. I'm in the process of eating some frozen grapes, relishing in the cold shockwave they send through my body. I didn't expect to see her so early in the day.
"Phoebe!" her voice precedes her body into the room.
The door flings open and in she walks, her chin permanently stuck into the air as if she were on stage. Her hair is curled into its signature secretary bun, completely unmoving as she walks. She's wearing a tight black pencil skirt as usual, with a checkered red blouse tucked into the front. The red kitten heels on her feet click obnoxiously against the dancefloor as she walks. I greet her as she crosses in front of the mirrors to stand against the far wall. An intern follows along, clipboard in one hand, green water bottle in the other.
I close up my container of grapes, silently cursing Claudette for interrupting my lunch, and rise up to my feet. Reaching down, I dust off my ass in case any dirt or dust attached itself to my leotard while I was eating.
"Phoebe, we have three weeks until the fall opener, I trust that your solo is performance ready?" if I wasn't so startled by her words, I'd make some sarcastic comment about how she glances down her nose at me as if she's the apex of a mountain.
Fall opener? What fall opener?
"Uhh – I never heard about a fall opener." I hate how meek and squeaky my voice comes out whenever Claudette is involved. I clear my throat, fiddling with the neckline of my leotard.
Claudette clicks her fingers at her intern – a different girl than the one who was here last week. This girl looks more hard-headed than the last.
She has long blonde hair that falls in waves down her back, nearly reaching her ass, and her eyes are a hard steely blue. She seems unfazed by Claudette's crappy treatment, and I tell myself, in that moment, that I want to see what she's all about.
All of the other interns have trailed after Claudette with their tails between their legs, doting on her every need. I can't blame them for that, considering she's a fucking witch, but it's refreshing to see somebody who doesn't look terrified to be around her.
"Lacey, inform Phoebe about the fall opener for me, would you?" Lacey. Her name is Lacey.
I swear I watch as Lacey rolls her eyes ever so slightly as she turns to face me, eyes boring into my own. Her voice shoots off like a canon, reciting a very clearly memorized blurb about the show, "The fall opening show, Autumn Arabesque with Battu, is in three weeks. On October 12th, starting at 6 pm. Each dancer will perform the solos that they've been working on during the summer. I think, if I'm not mistaken, you're the third to the final performance, Phoebe."
I give Lacey a small smile, nodding my head in thanks. She returns the smile, wordlessly turning back to Claudette.
"I can definitely have my solo ready for the show-" I start, before Claudette raises her hand to signal me to stop talking.
"Anything else would be unacceptable. An announcement was made about the fall opener last Wednesday at 3:30 – why were you unaware of its arrival?"
I wince a little at her question. Last Wednesday I had been so consumed with questions about the blueberry boy that I had left the studio early in the hopes that maybe if I went to Dino's early, I would run into him again.
I didn't.
I probably left moments before the announcement was made. A pit in my stomach opens up. I could beat myself up right now.
"I, uh, I got sick and left the studio early?" I mentally punch myself over the lie, and especially over the way my voice lifts at the end like I was asking a question.
I am a shit liar. I can't stop my voice from wavering, and I get nervous and shaky and sweaty and my eyes land anywhere except for the other person's. I couldn't lie to save my own life. I know I suck at it, and yet here I am, trying to lie to my boss.
Stupid, stupid, stupid.
Thankfully, if she has any suspicion of my lie, she doesn't mention it. "Dancers are expected to stay occupied in their studio spaces until the end of the day, at 4 pm, unless otherwise dismissed from me, personally. If you are to get sick and cannot stay at the studio, you must contact me before leaving. Must I remind you that Battu has a strict attendance policy?"
I shake my head, shrinking into myself a little, "I'm sorry, Claudette. It won't happen again."
I remember getting lectured about attendance the very first day I was here. If you are absent from work without Claudette's "permission" three times, you're let go. Even if I don't agree with it, I can't pretend I didn't know.
Supposedly, she's fairly understanding about missing work, as long as you let her know, and as long as there's a valid reason. I wouldn't know. The only time I've missed any work was the other day. And we see how well that went for me.
She sighs dramatically, pressing her tongue into the side of her cheek, "Apologies, Phoebe. Don't tell; show."
I nod, unsure of how to respond. Claudette has this weird fascination with showing that you are sorry for your mistakes. As if the words never mean anything. And, maybe they don't, in some cases. Like stupid teenage boys who break up with their 'girlfriends' over text. Or sick people who hit dogs. Or me apologizing to Luna when I 'forget' that we planned to go out to a bar, not to stay in and watch movies.
But right now? Right now, there is a rock – scratch that, a boulder – lodged in the bottom of my throat. If it would make any difference, I'd try to assure her of that. Instead, I stare back into her beady eyes, with my heart pounding a little too hard.
With my silence, Claudette starts to walk towards the door, "Due to your apparent lack of time in the studio lately, I will leave you to prepare your solo on your own. I imagine you need to make up for lost time."
Bitch.
My head drops backwards, eyes staring up at the ceiling when I hear the door click closed. Two weeks in a row of disappointing her.
Great way to ensure that I don't get fired from this damn studio. Way to go, Phoebe.
It's not even like I had been skipping out of practice. All I did was leave half an hour early one day. Regardless of my reasons, it was only half an hour. I didn't think anyone would ever find out. And, if it weren't for the show, nobody would have.
A light cough catches my attention, breaking my thoughts, and I find Lacey still standing in her spot on the far wall. She gives me a sideways smile, a look of pity across her features, "I'm sorry she was such a bitch to you."
I can't help the airy laugh that wisps through my lips. If only you knew the half of it. "Thanks. It's nice to meet you, Lacey. You seem...more confident than the other interns?"
She gives me a smile, defiance written across her face.
I like her.
"Absolutely. I can't be scared away by some old woman with a pointe shoe up her ass." Lacey starts to mimic Claudette's uneven gait, walking like she really did have a shoe shoved up there.
I let a little laugh out into the room, which makes Lacey break down laughing as well. She has a loud, bright laugh that takes over her entire body. I find myself feeling a little envious at how easily she lets it rip out of her throat.
As she regains her breath, the two of us exchange phone numbers and that warm, sticky, hot glue feeling of belonging starts to bloom in my chest again.
A loud rap causes Lacey and I to whip our heads in the direction of the door and we watch as it opens just enough for Claudette to snake her hand through. With a single snap to summon her intern, the hand slithers back out of the studio room. We roll our eyes in unison, another quiet fit of giggles overtaking us.
"I guess that's my cue. I'll see you around?" Lacey flips a chunk of hair over her shoulder before reaching her hand out to rub the side of my shoulder.
"Absolutely. I'll be here every Monday to Saturday, 8 am to 4 pm."
"What a coincidence, I'm here at the same time!" Lacey gives me a wink before walking out of the room.
Once I'm back in my peaceful silence, a giddy smile slowly spreads across my lips. It may have taken six months, but I'm finally on the path to making a friend.
I can't wait to tell Luna.
Even better, it's one of Claudette's interns, which means she'll be in the studio every day, too. And it's not like she's one of the other dancers, trying to gauge my dancing to compare to themselves and weigh out the competition. She's a teaching intern. If anything, she can probably help look at my technique and make sure that I'm dancing as flawlessly as possible.
I can't even be fazed by the fall opening show or Claudette's snarky comments right now, because I'm just so happy at the thought of finally having a friend in San Francisco.
I spin out three tight pirouettes out of sheer excitement before plopping onto the wooden floor underfoot to stretch out my feet before the rest of the work day.
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A little filler-y, but we had to add Lacey to the crew. Posting 4 first thing tomorrow morning to make up for this one.
Phoebs is in denial over mystery man, huh? Silly, silly girl. A certain someone will be rejoining us next chapter, and I can't wait to see him!
Thank you for reading/commenting/voting/existing. Stay Gold ♡
1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8.