Polaroid

“I don’t care, Tyler, I honestly don’t anymore!”

I’m charging up the stairs of the apartment complex, leaving a storm of angry dust trailing behind me. My new heels, the ones I’d bought especially for this night, are being forced to methods of torture as I stomp up, making sure each step resonates into the once-serene nighttime scenery.

“Come on, Kylie, don’t be like that,” he calls out, hopping up the stairs two at a time so that he’s by my side in a dash. I don’t stop, so he grabs my arm. Startled, I let loose a shriek and grab the pinkie of the hand that’s touching me.

“I swear to God, let go of me or I’ll break your pinkie with a flick of my wrist.”

He backs up immediately. Like magic, I think.

My previous routine of stomping continues, and I’m sure to get complaints of noise pollution tomorrow. It doesn’t really matter to me, though. As long as I’m pissing off Tyler, nothing can faze me.

“Kylie, Ky-bear, you know I love you, just tell me what's wrong,” Tyler yells up the stairs. He’s stopped trying to catch up with me, and maintains a steady five feet distance. He’s smart.

I scoff, stopping midway up level four. I start laughing, but only the oh-god-I-can’t-believe-you type. “You really are something, you know that? But you wanna know something, Tyler? Hmm? This time, I’ve had enough.”

We stand there in silence for a few minutes, though it seems like days, until I look up the same time as he does and we catch each other’s eyes. I furrow my brows, squeeze my eyes shut, and demand, “Leave.”

Stomping continues immediately after. I reach my room, 502, and shove the key into the lock. I just want to get inside before Tyler makes it up the stairs.

But I don’t have to worry, because when I turn around, there’s no one there. I glance down the spiral staircase.

Nope.

Desperately, I stumble into the apartment and rush over to the window, not bothering with lights, and there he is—still dressed in that fancy black tux, walking across the grassy field with the moon on his back. He reaches his Lexus and with a chirp it comes alive. I stay there, at the window, watching him drive away in the vehicle I had convinced him to buy, until I can’t even see the lights in the distance anymore.

When I leave the window and turn on the lights, I realize how big of a mess I’ve made in the room. The basket of laundry I’d put near the door, meaning to take it downstairs earlier this morning, has been overturned in my desperate flee to the window. I clean that up, then put my heels in the shoe organizer, and go to the bathroom to wash up.

To my amazement, I see a solitary tear slip down my cheek just as I look in the mirror. My eyes look red and my nose the same shade, if not deeper. I suddenly notice the hiccups and sniffles I’m experiencing, which have probably been occurring for the last half hour.

“I hate him,” I say to myself.

But I know that’s not true.

~*~

At 3 a.m., the phone rings. I jolt awake from my half-sleep on the living room sofa and fumble around in the darkness for the handset. “Goddamnit,” I mumble as the fourth ring sounds.

“Hullo?” I mumble into the receiver.

“Oh, Kylie, come on, we need to talk—”

I hang up on him.

Five seconds pass before it starts ringing again. I check the number.

It’s him.

What’s more pathetic? The fact that he’s calling again even though I literally just hung up on him, or the fact that I’ve memorized his number in a time and age where phones have such contraptions as caller ID?

I’m guessing both.

Of course, I hit Ignore.

This becomes a continuous cycle that lasts until 3:30 a.m.

~*~

There's a clatter at the window. Slowly, I sit up from the sofa and brush my hand through my tangled hair. I'm still wearing the dress.

Clank. I look at the window, just in time to see a small pebble fall back down the ground.

Somewhere outside comes a muffled "Kylie!" and I rush over to the window as another pebble meets the glass.

Opening the paned window as far as it can go, I stick my head out into the cool night air.

"Kylie?" Tyler's outside, still in his tux, with a handful of small pebbles he undoubtedly picked up from the ground around the woodland entrance nearby.

"What?" I snap, rubbing my arms to create heat against the cold breeze.

"I...I, uh..." Tyler never was one for apologies. "Kylie, I'm in love with you."

My face burns, even though it's below 40 outside. Suddenly, I feel heat everywhere in my body--from the tip of my nose to the nails of my toes.

But then I remember what happened--I glance at the clock, which brightly illuminates a 4, 2, and 6--five hours ago, and my voice regains its icy tone. "You can't do all that to me, then expect me to come runnning back with open arms. Forget it."

Just as I'm about to close the window on a lost love and screams of "Kylie! Kylie!", I hear the familiar pitter patter of rain settling in. At first I figure it's just a quick shower that'll blow over, but then it starts raining, and raining hard.

I stick my head out the window again, not minding my perm. "Tyler! Get back to your car!"

He stands his ground. "No. I'm not gonna. Besides...I kind of walked here."

"Tyler!" I start laughing. "Really? Then- then get underneath those trees!" My hair is completely ruined now, and even the upper part of my dress.

"You know I'm not leaving until I get you back," he responds calmly, not even bothering to care about the fact that his rented tux is about to be completely ruined.

"You're going to catch pneumonia!" I start laughing as more and more rain begins to soak my face--but wait, is rain supposed to feel hot and taste salty? Then I realize that I've started crying, or maybe I have been this entire time.

But it's not of sadness.

"Ty," I murmur. "Come up. Come on, I'll ring you in."

"What?" he bellows. "Can't - hear - you!"

He's right; the rain's began to fall down really hard and in very large quantities, like a shower head set on HIGH.

"COME UP!" I yell. "I--" My original plan was to say I forgive you but before I can stop myself, something else comes out. "I LOVE YOU!"

Tyler breaks out in a big smile and heads toward the door. I press the button to let him in, the ringing of the buzzer filling and consuming my thoughts...until...

Beepbeep. Beepbeep. Beepbeep.

I sit up from the sofa, and grab my pager from the pocket of my coat that's hanging on the rack. Office emergency, it reads.

"Ugh," I groan, and I take in my surroundings. Same old dining area. Same old TV. Same old sofa.

And no Tyler.

It was a dream. All of it.

Then I groan again and drop back down to the comfortable sofa before remembering that if I don't get to the dog clinic--my beloved office--my boss is going to have an aneurysm.

~*~

My fork pings against the porcelain plate. I don't even know why I bothered getting out the the good dishware today. I only use it when Tyler comes over...

Tyler. Again with the Tyler.  "It's been ten days," I think aloud. "Forget about him. He definitely has forgotten about you."

This statement brings back a flood of memories from Sunday night.

I grimace and shake my head wildly from side to side, hoping that this will somehow make the memories of Tyler Van Deusen fall out of my head.

But I can't stop thinking about him.

Before I can stop myself, I'm walking towards the mahogany bookshelf and sliding one photo album off. It's not anything pretty or fancy, just a small little thing with a black cover. There's a piece of masking tape on it, one word written in a messy, rushed scrawl.

Us.

Slowly, I open the album. The first page has a million photos jammed into the clear protective sheet. I smile as I the first memory comes back...

***

"Kylie Marshall," he says, "I love you."

My mouth curls up up up, some invisible force making it do so, until all my teeth are showing and I'm smiling so wide it hurts.

"Tyler Van Deusen," I reply, "I...like your shirt."

Giggles. Fake punches to his shoulder. A glance around the room.

"Hey," he says. "Is that photo album empty?" He's pointing to a small black album that's resting on my Thinking Desk.

I get up from the couch and walk over to it, picking it up and opening it. "Um, yeah. I think Loraine gave it to me for being Employee of the Month." I turn to him. "Why?"

Tyler gets up from the sofa, too, but instead of heading to where I am, he goes to the coat rack and grabs something from his work bag. He's a landscape photographer, which means he goes to different parts of the city and captures breathtaking photos of random areas.

"Here," he says, holding out something in his hand. It's a yellow package, square and no bigger than a toaster.

I look up at him, one eyebrow raised. "Uh, Christmas isn't for another six months."

"Just open it."

I do, and my face lights up in surprise. "Ty! This is a Polaroid camera!"

"No way, I thought it was a hot dog."

I roll my eyes at his blatant sarcasm and plop back down on the sofa, marveling at my brand-new "old" camera. "Geez...so much for priceless relationship."

"Don't worry." He kisses my neck and breathes out five words I'll remember for the rest of my life. "It's because I love you."

***

My hand brushes against the plastic surface of the protective sheet, feeling the bumps of the Polaroid pictures beneath it. There's goofy pictures of us, of him, of me; then serious ones, where we're kissing or nuzzling or just smiling like our world's full of puppies and rainbows.

I turn the page, and there's less photos but still a lot. This time, it's us at the mall; I'm holding a shirt across my chest in a "Whadaya think?" way, or he's making silly faces while standing next to a guy dressed in a chicken suit at Clucker's in the food court.

***

"Smile!" I order as I press the button and hear the familiar "clack" sound of the photo being taken. Tyler says thanks to the chicken suit guy and heads over to where I am as I take the photo from the camera.

"You look like such a goof," I say as the picture starts to appear. He's cross-eyed and sticking his tongue out, just like a little five-year-old.

"Maybe that's why I'm so loveable," he suggests, kissing my hair. I roll my eyes and pretend his kisses don't make my knees weak and my heart pound.

We head over to LolaMolola and I try on some weird glasses while he puts on a huge fur coat, taking pictures of every crazy thing we can find, before being kicked out by an employee for "fooling around."

"Geesh, it wasn't as if we were being publicly indecent," Tyler complains. "We should tell them it's not our fault their store is full of crazy kooks."

I laugh and loop my arm with his. "Who cares? At least we had fun." And then I snap a spontaneous picture of his angry face, putting the picture and the camera in my slingover bag.

"I can't believe we spent five hours in some boring old mall," I say as we pull out of the parking lot. "Either I'm the most interesting person in the world--likely--or you have a strange fetish with shopping at malls--more likely."

Tyler laughs and says, "It's because I love you."

It's just five words, and he's only said it twice in our relationship, but when he does my mouth curls up up up, some invisible force pulling it, and my smile is so wide it hurts.

Every time.

***

I flip through more and more pages, relive more and more memories--some good, some bad. One of the pages contains pictures where the only things I can see are disco balls and strobe lights, plus the faint outline of Tyler dancing. I remember that as our first fight.

***

"What the hell was that?" I scream. We're outside of Club LeFreak at 2 AM, and the tears erupting from my eyes are smudging my mascara, making me look like, well, a LeFreak.

"What the hell was what?" As if he doesn't know.

"That girl was all over you, and you didn't"--I push him away--"do"--push--"ANYTHING!"

My once controllable tears have now become hot and angry, rolling down my cheek in packs. I wipe my nose with the back of my hand and say, "Well, what do you have to say for yourself, Tyler Van Deusen?"

"I think you're overreacting."

The anger bubbles up even more. He has the audacity to say I'm overreacting? "You are one stupid son of a --"

The club door swings open and a group of giggling girls, obviously having fake ID'd their way into their first ever club experience, passes by, all saying things like "Omigod, that was so fun" or "Jenna, we have to do that again."

I'm too mad and frustrated to continue this. I start to walk away, flailing my hands out to hail a cab.

"Get in my car, I'll take you home," he says.

"NO!" I scream at him. One yellow taxi slows down, and I feel like kissing it.

"Come on, you're drunk and mad, which is making you overreact--" He makes the mistake of grabbing my arm.

"GET OFF OF ME!" I scream louder, and I kick. And I mean kick him--right up there.

As Tyler doubles over in pain, I jump into the cab and practically yell my address to the startled driver. He hits the gas pedal, probably scared that if he doesn't act fast I'll kick him in the crotch also.

Suddenly, as we're at a red light, Tyler's appears next to the cab, pounding on the window. I stifle a scream and roll it down.

"What the hell are you doing?" I ask. "We're gonna get on the highway, don't hurt yourself."

"But I will," he sputters, obviously short on breath from his speed run to catch up.

"Wh-why are you so persistent?"

Tyler pants for a while, then looks into my eyes and melts my heart as he states: "It's because I love you."

Then the red morphs into green and the cab speeds off into the night, the image of Tyler Van Deusen grows smaller and smaller until I can't even see him anymore.

But--and I don't want to admit it--though he's gone from my sight, he's completely taken over my mind.

***

The next page is proof that I forgave Tyler, admitting that Yes, I was a little drunk, Yes, I'd like to meet you at the park, and No, I don't hate you at all, Ty-bear. All across the next two pages are pictures of the park. It was like in order to get over the bad that had happened, I needed to document excessive amounts of good. And the park was definite good.

I glance at the telephone on the table next to me, biting my lip. Before I can change my mind, I hop up and grab it from the dock.

0 New Messages.

Groaning, I start to put it back on the dock, but then decide to put it down on the ground next to me. In case Mom calls...I mean, it is a Wednesday, I tell myself, but really it's because I'm hoping he'll call.

The first step to disappointment is hope, I remind myself, but it doesn't work. I'm still hoping, hoping, hoping.

I flip more pages, and photos illuminate page after page. I finally set my sights on one that has a ton of photographs. This time, it's another Bad. Figures, I think, there's been too many Goods in a row.

The picture on the page that really captures my eye is the one in the middle. It's a shot of Tyler, and he's dancing with Paige. Closely. I shut my eyes and pray that this memory doesn't come back, that I've miraculously forgotten it, but indeed it does. I still remember, because it's probably the deepest cut.

***

A Sheryl Crow tune is playing. That's the one thing I clearly remember from that night.

"The first cut is the deepest," she claims. I might have thought so, too, up until this moment. Because, no, it's not the first.

It's the second.

I watch as Tyler--my Tyler--dances with Paige Marie Sparkes. My heart is in my throat, but I try not to overreact.

They're just dancing. Really. It's nothing bad. Nothing bad at all.

But then I remember--it's PAIGE MARIE SPARKES, girl voted Most Likely to Win 100 Guys' Hearts in high school (I know because I was a junior that year, when Tyler and Paige were not only seniors together, but close friends, too), Prom Queen of junior and senior year (she didn't even attend senior prom; she was in Ethiopia building a school for impoverished children), and the epitome of girl-next-door-that-boy-unknowingly-falls-in-love-with-even-though-she-was-completely-gorgeous-the-whole-time.

Which, I remind myself, is partly the truth anyway. I mean, they were best friends in high school and she was gorgeous, but Tyler didn't like her.

Right?

I block the thought out of my head as I sit down on a metal folding chair, sipping cranberry juice in a miniature size Dixie cup. There's a couple next to me full-on making out, a brunette sex bomb sitting open-legged on some guy's lap, attacking his lips like the world's gonna end. I groan in disgust as they both make moans of appreciation.

When I look back at Tyler and Paige on the dance floor, slow dancing to the same Sheryl Crow song, I groan again and tilt my head backwards in exasperation. Bad mistake. I hit my head against the wall and suffer the consequences.

I look around the room. For an "all important" five-year reunion (although it's not like anything's changed from high school in five years--boys are still immature and girls are still naively ambitious) the place looks real crappy. There isn't even real concessions, just a punch bowl of the aforementioned cranberry juice and a cheap box of biscuits. Even the DJ is second-rate, throwing around old songs nobody cares to listen to and saying "hip" things like "Hey hey hey, DJ Maxx is in the house, bro, so listen up, dawgs" while everyone grimaces and wishes this guy will just shut up and play the next song.

My eyes inadvertently glance at Ty and Paige again. Still dancing.

"When is this stupid"--I rip my name tag that says TYLER VAN DEUSEN'S PLUS ONE in half--"song"--I rip it in half again--"going to freaking"--another half--"end?" If the Sex With Clothes On couple next to me heard what I said, they don't make any notice of it.

Finally, Sheryl Crow sings the last line, and the song slowly ends. I'm waiting for Tyler and Paige to let go, but they don't.

Come on. There's, like, three seconds left. You're not gonna miss much.

Even after the last note plays and melts away, and the DJ has made another embarrassingly awkward speech, Mr. and Mrs. Happy Neighbors still haven't let go of each other. Finally, they release their hands from the shoulders/waist, but then give each other a big hug, almost like an extremely long afterthought.

After what seems like an eternity of watching them embrace, Tyler says a Bye and Don't Forget to Call Me and walks to where I'm sitting. He takes a chair next to me--but the one on my left, far away from the still-making-out couple.

"Hey Ky," he says with a huge smile. "Wow, that was a really great dance. Don't you love Sheryl Crow?"

NO! I want to scream at him. Not really, if my boyfriend's going to dancing to her song while completely feeling up a girl who's gotten an obvious boob job.

But I don't say that. Instead, I return the smile and say, "Duh! She's amazing. Hey, who was that? The one you were dancing with." I don't even bother saying "girl."

"Oh, Paige Sparkes. She used to be my neighbor in high school. Isn't she beautiful? Yeah, I just danced with her for old times' sake. We dated for a month in senior year. She's so smart, and a great leader. You know she skipped prom to go to Ethiopia..." And the compliments drag on. As he continues to relay information that I've long since memorized, only one thought goes through my mind.

Isn't she beautiful?

Isn't she beautiful?

Isn't she beautiful?

"I really. Don't. Care." I don't mean for my voice to be so edgy, but he takes it that way.

"Whoa," he says, "calm down. Do I notice some jealousy?"

"Damn right you notice some jealousy!" I shriek at him. I imagine myself erupting in flames, suddenly growing horns on the top of my head and holding a red pitchfork.

Tyler looks taken aback. "Chill out, it's not like I made out with her. It's just a dance, a three minute dance"--I scoff because it seemed so much longer--"and I spend days on end with you. Why do I do that?"

I wait for him to say "It's because I love you", his trademark line, but he doesn't. Instead, he says, "Because you're my girlfriend", which is a million times worse.

'Cause you can call anybody your girlfriend and still cheat on her.

I get up from the folding chair and shove the remnants of the completely demolished name tag onto his suit, walking away.

Later, I realize that what hurt the most wasn't that he didn't call, or apologize, or even send me flowers like all our other fights.

No, what hurt the most was that when I left, he didn't chase after me.

***

After this flashback, it's like a memory reunion. All the bad times with Tyler--always somehow involving Paige, either him meeting her for coffee, or them playing tennis when I wasn't even told, much less invited--just come flooding back before I can stop it. The time I slammed the door in his face keeps echoing in my mind, the same BAM! over and and over and over again.

BAM!

BAM!

BAM!

And I can't stop it.

Finally, I collapse on the couch, not bothering to clean the dishes, and just lie there, drowning in the flashbacks, praying for sleep to take over.

But even when it does, it's Tyler in there again. It's the same dream as every single night, the one where Tyler throws pebbles at my window, screaming "I'm in love with you!", waiting there in the pouring rain...

I wake up, glancing at the clock that reads 2:28, and feel the dread wash over me as I realize: It wasn't real. It was a dream.

Tyler's not actually like that.

I'm drifting back to sleep when I hear it.

Clank.

At first I'm positive I'm dreaming, but then I hear it again and it's just too real. I open my eyes and look around the room. I pinch myself.

"Ow!" I yell in surprise.

It is real.

Clank.

I can't believe it. It's the pebbles.

I bounce off the sofa at the speed of light, tripping over a book on the ground and falling flat on my face. I don't mind the pain coming from my nose, just desperate to get to the window.

It's Tyler.

I almost scream, "FINALLY, YOU BIG DOOFUS! COME UP, BECAUSE I LOVE YOU!"

But I don't.

Because standing next to him is a very blonde, very gorgeous Paige Marie Sparkes.

So I shut the window. So hard, in fact, it actually vibrates and makes the whole room shake a little.

There's a muffled "Kylie!" and another pebble. Then some giggles from down blelow.

My strategy of ignoring the pebbles, the giggling, the "Kylie!"s fails miserably after ten minutes, because I simply cannot take it. I open the window as wide as I can and scream at him.

Like, scream.

He tolerates up to three seconds of it before saying, "Oh, Kylie baaaaby, don't yell so loud 'cause then I can't think."

His words are slurred. He's swaying in his place.

"Are you drunk?" I bellow.

He laughs goofily and nods. "Yuuuup." He puts an arm around Paige, who's also swaying and giggling like crazy.

"So let me get this straight," I begin, "you're not only drunk, but you also have the audacity to come to my apartment with her."

Tyler sticks up his middle finger with his left hand, since the other one is holding a beer bottle and wrapped around Paige's waist. "Hell YES, biaaatch!"

Don't overreact.

Don't overreact.

Don't overre--aw, screw this.

"I can't even look at you!" I scream out the window. "You know what, you just take your stupid little groupie and get out of my sight and--and--" I'm out of breath from yelling so much. "I DON'T NEED YOU!"

But I do, I do, I do.

Tyler's face grows serious, or serious enough for a drunk guy. "Come on, baby. You know, everything's 'cause--everything...it's because I love you."

Great. He's using his trademark. The one that makes my heart pound, my knees weak, my throat burn...

But this time, I can conquer it.

"There's nothing you can say to make this right again," I tell him. My voice is starting to hurt from all that yelling, so I'm down to a reasonable level. "I mean it."

"No, baby--"

"I mean it."

"Please, Kylie--"

The window shuts down on him again, and when it does I expect to feel a burden lift from my shoulders, or strings to be cut from our bond.

But nothing does. Nothing happens.

I still love Tyler.

~*~

Ten minutes later, I find myself in a coffee shop. It has bad lighting and horrible, disgusting coffee, but it's the only one in town that's still open at 3 a.m., so it works for me.

I take another sip of the black coffee and keep reading the magazine. It's got something to do with global warming, but I'm barely even reading it, because there's a flood of flashbacks drowning out everything else.

Kylie, I'm in love with you.

Hey, is this photo album empty?

It's because I love you.

Kylie, you know I'm not leaving until I get you back.

Beepbeep. Beepbeep. Beepbeep.

Maybe that's why I'm so loveable.

It's because I love you.

What the hell was what?

Kylie, get in my car, I'll take you home.

It's because I love you.

Oh, Paige Sparkes.

Isn't she beautiful?

We dated for a month in senior year...

Isn't she beautiful?

Isn't she beautiful?

BAM!

Isn't she beautiful?

Hell YES, biaatch!

BAM!

Beepbeep.

Oh, Paige Sparkes.

BAM!

We dated for a month...

Beepbeep.

BAM!

Isn't she beautiful?

BAM!

Beepbeep.

Isn't she beautiful?

BAM!

BAM!

BAM!

BAM!

It's because I love you.

"Excuse me, miss?"

I jump in my seat and knock over the coffee cup, its scalding hot contents falling all over my shirt and pants.

"Oh sh--" I scream.

The barista guy who startled me grabs a towel from his pouch and starts rubbing at my pants, saying, "Oh my gosh, ma'am, I'm so sorry, I can't believe--look, I'll get you a complimentary SacLouis Coffee t-shirt to make up for it--"

"It's fine," I assure him, holding up a hand. "I was going to burn this outfit anyway."

Barista Guy looks confused, obviously seeing what every normal person would have noticed--that this was a gorgeous silk shirt plus pants combo meant for extremely formal occasions.

But when I looked at it, all I saw was Tyler and his money.

A moment passes before I realize that Barista Guy still has his hand on the top of my thigh, a little close for comfort. He seems to notice this too, because he removes his hand as if my leg is suddenly on fire and coughs uncomfortably for a while.

"Listen, lemme--uh, lemme get you a new shirt." He excuses himself and disappears into the backroom.

I look down at my soaked shirt and realize why.

"Great day to wear a black bra," I groan to myself.

Barista Guy comes back later with a gigantic XXXL t-shirt that reads "SacLouis Coffee" on the front and "BEAN THERE, DONE THAT!" on the back.

I laugh. "Are you serious? You could fit five of me in there."

"Er..." Barista Guy looks down sheepishly. "It's kind of the only size we have left. We had this big poetry reading the other night, and these were freebies for the crowd...anyways, I could find you something else...actually, I think I have an extra jacket in my work bag..."

The words "work bag" makes me experience a whole new wave of nausea as an image of Tyler's omnipresent camera bag flashes in my mind, so I just say, "No no no, I'm fine, this'll only be temporary. Sorry I spaced out on you, I just..." I sigh. "I think I kind of broke up with my boyfriend."

If Barista Guy isn't interested in my personal life, he doesn't show it. Instead, he has a sympathetic frown on, and he tells me, "Ouch. You have to let it out."

So I do.

I tell him everything.

~*~

When I open my eyes, it's not the coffee shop I see or my apartment.

It's the true blue eyes of Tyler Van Deusen.

"Your eyes," I mumble. "They're beautiful."

Tyler laughs. "You're still drunk, I see."

"Drunk?" I question. "Wait, wha--"

And then all of it comes back to me. Yes, I was drunk. Very drunk. Made-out-with-Barista-Guy drunk. Drunk dialed Tyler drunk. Suddenly, I realize that I'm in a car--Tyler's car, in fact--and dread the worst. I give a quick glance down, and when I see that I'm fully clothed, I breathe a huge sigh of relief.

Thankfully, I wasn't get-rid-of-virginity drunk.

"I'm not drunk," I say. "Or at least, not now."

Tyler gives me a questioning look, as if he's not entirely sure that I'm safe, but then he rubs his hands together and gets out of the backseat and hops into the driver's.

"Good," he says, starting the engine. "I'm taking you home."

I almost sit up from the backseat, but when the nausea hits me, I immediately lie back down, taking up the entire seat. "Good God, what happened to me?"

"Well," Tyler begins, taking a deep breath as if reading a long fairytale, "you called me about an hour ago, saying something about a barista guy and sex."

I blush crimson red. "Look, I--"

"But it's okay, I called you out on it," he continues, taking a left at West Avenue, "because you kept saying you had a penis and you were going to use it."

Oh boy. The crimson starts to get deeper. "Tyler, I--"

"And then you said you missed me." Tyler seems to be very determined to get this story told, so I don't bother talking anymore. "You said...you said that you can't get me out of your mind, especially my trademark line." He glances at me from the rearview mirror. "It's because I love you, isn't it? That I do all this?"

We sit there in silence, and I hope that my apartment has magically appeared next to the red light we're waiting at.

"You were with Paige," I say. It's not even a question.

"I wasn't with Paige," he replies, "tonight."

It's the "tonight" that gets me.

I look out the window as the green makes us go, and I watch my city pass by in flickers of light. Everything's so beautiful at night. Especially Tyler, I think.

"That Sunday--" I begin, but Tyler cuts me off before I even have a chance to talk.

"That Sunday was stupid," he says, "and I'm sorry, okay? I didn't mean to yell at you, it's just...you can't exactly punch a girl if she's talking to me."

"It wasn't a girl," I mumble. "It was Paige."

Tyler looks at me again from the mirror. "What's wrong with Paige?"

"Nothing," I answer, "and that's the problem."

Finally, finally, for once in the past couple months, Tyler gets a clue. "Oh."

I scoff. "And you guys weren't exactly 'talking.' It was a little more physical than that."

"It's not a crime for her to touch my arm" is all he says before we drift into silence.

I feel the car slowing down, but now I'm not so glad we've arrived at our destination. The car door opens with a pop, and I hear Tyler's voice say, "Come on, baby, I'll carry you upstairs."

"No, I'm fine, I just--" But Tyler ends up winning, because my legs feel like Jello and I collapse into his arms as soon as I step out of the car. As if I weigh less than a toothpick, he picks me up and carries me up...past the door...up the stairs...opens my apartment door...sets me on the couch...

I sit up on the couch and motion for him to join me. I'm still wearing the SacLouis Coffee t-shirt, except it's on backwards so that it says "BEAN THERE, DONE THAT" across my chest.

"Was it really true?" I ask him.

"What?"

"Did you really do everything...because you love me?" My eyes start to glaze with tears as I breathe out the next few words. "Or did you repeat your trademark so many times it became a lie?"

He stares into my eyes, as if hoping he can get out of this one. I keep waiting for an answer, but don't get one. Just a nervous gulp.

Finally, Tyler gets up from the couch and starts to leave. He's as far as the door before he remembers something, and reaches into his jacket to grab it.

It's a Polaroid picture.

"Here," he says. "I found it on you when I went to pick you up. You said it was 'a picture of a beautiful night.'" He starts to walk out, but then backs up again. "Oh, and I might have punched that barista guy. Just saying."

And he's gone.

I look down at the picture, which is crinkled and torn a bit, probably from my drunken state, but you can clearly see what it is.

It's me.

I'm sitting in the coffee shop, glass windows and door behind as the scenery, and I'm smiling like never before. It's not a Tyler smile, where my cheeks hurt afterward and there's a whole lot of teeth, but it's not a polite smile either, where it hardly suffices as a grin.

No. No, it's a Me smile.

It's a Kylie smile.

I flip the picture over, and in neat handwriting it says:

Hey Kylie,

You're one crazy chick. But I had fun. So if you had fun and aren't mad at me for letting you into the liquor cabinet (though you'll probably curse me after you experience that hangover next morning) then give me a call.

There, it listed his number, then

Your shoulder to cry on,

Stephen

I smile. Because Stephen--now that's a name.

My hands grab the phone before I can even think about the action, and I stare at the dim screen. I'm almost completely done with punching in Stephen's number before I click "END" and start punching in Tyler's.

END.

Punch.

END.

I can't. 

It's because I love you.

Your shoulder to cry on.

I think about both options, the number that's on a faded picture of a beautiful night, and the number that's etched in my mind forever.

And then my Kylie smile lights up my face, and I know who I'm going to call.

The dial tone starts up, and each ring stops my heart.

Babumpbabumpbabumpbabump--

Ring.

Babumpbabumpbabumpbabump--

Ring.

Babumpbabumpbabumpbabump--

"Hello?"

"Hi," I breathe. "It's me. It's Kylie. And I need you."