The worst part was, I actually cried.
If the afternoon would have gone the same in every other way minus my crying jag, then maybe, just maybe, it wouldn't have been a horror show.
Thinking like that was pointless, though. Because not only did I cry, I cried. Not all crying is created equal. Sometimes it's just a tear in the corner of your eye. Or a single droplet on your cheek. And there's the Mercedes of crying fests, when you feel the tears spring to your eyes, your face flame, and your throat constrict.
And guess which one I did two hours ago?
I was a hiccupping, sloppy mess. In public.
Well, is the workroom in a research lab at the University of Winnipeg considered public?
My guess is that if it's not your bedroom, its public.
Goody.
The kicker is that the day started off perfectly normal. I had gotten to the lab at midafternoon, just after my Social Cognition class ended. I was in the midst of getting my senior thesis off the ground and running. My goal was to start calling interested participants in our database and set up a time when they could come to the lab to run my study. It was a relatively quiet day in the lab, with just myself, Shelly the lab manager, and Julie, a junior research assistant.
Julie was acting perfectly normal; a little quiet but perfectly polite. Shelly, on the other hand, seemed distracted. That should have been a warning sign, looking back, but I didn't pick up on it as much as I usually would have, because I was also distracted.
Clearly.
My mind felt like it was two months into the future. Everything needed to be planned out meticulously.
I enjoyed preparing a lot, which was why I had my phone script and research assistant schedule on the workstation in front of me, with the iMac opened to the database.
I was officially ready to call some people on the database's list, which is composed of all the people who sign up to be notified of the university's research studies. Participating is a good way to earn some cash and pass the time in between classes.
We really needed to get the participants in. That fact was what was giving me the motivation to call these people. If talking on the phone could be a phobia, I'd definitely have it. I needed the visual cues that you get face-to-face, otherwise I become an awkward mess. Case in point: my conversation with Taylor the day before. Actually, I was glad he wasn't in front of me during it, because my face was red hot the entire time. I tended to walk around when I spoke on the phone and when I got a glimpse of my face in my bedroom mirror, I recoiled like it bitch slapped me. I couldn't bear to look at myself when I was acting like such a disaster.
My first call of the afternoon was a real doozy. (Actually, it was my third. There was no answer on the first two. Thank god.) Little Miss Busy here had the most obscure schedule and it was like pulling teeth trying to find a time that worked for both parties. I couldn't help but think that if you're that busy, why bother adding something completely unnecessary to your plate?
Anyways, we did manage to find the sweet spot and I ended the call promising to email all the relevant information, like directions to the lab.
Our lab training drilled into us that the first thing we should do after booking a participant is add it to the Google Calendar.
So I went to do that.
But no, that couldn't be right. Because the time that I wanted to book was already reserved.
And that was when I realized mistake numero uno (yeah, there was more than one). I was so focused on the assistant schedule that I completely disregarded the booking calendar.
"Oh, shoot," I muttered.
"What's up?" Shelly asked.
There was a certain absentness in her voice that suggested she was still focused on whatever was on her computer screen. She was notorious for browsing the Sephora website during the slow periods of her day. I knew that because I did it with her sometimes.
"I accidentally just double-booked next Friday at 3 pm, with the participant I just booked now."
Any type of mistake, I'd rather not make, but even I could admit that as far as fuck-ups go, this wasn't a huge one.
Thinking that was the second mistake.
Shelly turned her office chair around and faced me directly.
"Weren't you looking at the calendar when you were doing the booking?"
With just that one sentence I felt like a few feet were cut off my height.
"I wasn't, I forgot." Keep it steady, kill that quiver.
"Okay, well that's not something that you can just forget. Now you have to call that person back and reschedule."
Subconsciously or deliberately I wasn't sure, but I straightened my back and tucked a lock of hair behind my ear.
"Is that the best thing we should do? I know we only have one testing room but we do have two working computers in there. I know Amy and I discussed running only one at a time to reduce interpersonal effects, but because we're just piloting the study, maybe we could do that just this once?"
Shelly shook her head and I felt anger—just the teensiest bit—simmer in my belly.
"Nope. Because if you do want to use that data in the actual study, it'll be ruined because there was someone else in the room. Then that'll just be a waste of everyone's time. The two participants, the research assistant, everyone."
Did it make me easily offended if I thought that she was being offensive at that moment? Being accused of wasting people's time surprisingly hurt.
"To be honest, I think you're overreacting right now. Why don't I just message Amy and see what she says?"
"Fine, go ahead."
One of the best things about the lab director, Amy, was how fast she was at responding to text messages. I explained the situation as best as I could. Within seconds she replied.
Amy: Yeah, I agree. Keep them both booked. It's only pilot data.
I wish I could say that I kept my smugness in check when I told Shelly, but I didn't.
For some reason, the thought that came into my mind at that time was that poor Julie was just sitting there listening to this.
"Okay, I guess you're right," Shelly admitted.
I tried to smile at her, hoping that it looked at least a little normal, and turned back to my desk.
But then Shelly, who had been uncharacteristically tough, softened.
"You okay?" she asked quietly.
And that's when the floodgates opened. I began to cry, just like that. It wasn't that I was particularly sad or angry or upset; it was just the fact that there were a lot of emotions flowing through me.
I'm not sure what I said, literally, as my words were probably impossible to decipher.
"It's just a stressful time," I tried to say, lamely.
Shelly grabbed a tissue from the box on her desk and handed it to me. "I'm sorry, Camille, I just wanted to be right over you. Just this once."
What the hell did that mean? I didn't think much of that statement at that point, because I was too embarrassed about my outburst.
But now that I had left the lab and was getting some fresh air walking around the neighbourhood the campus was in, clarity formed.
Shelly and I were actually becoming friends. At least to me we were. When we were done our lab shifts we'd watch funny YouTube videos or go to McDonald's together. So I knew that part of my tears was because I felt like someone who was becoming my friend was turning on me. And then she admits that she had intentions to trump me? I don't want to be seen as her competition.
The darkening sky covering the city indicates that it's twilight but even the reference to my favourite book series can't cheer me up. I lost a friend today. It's not dramatic, it's the truth. I know how I am.
The reality of my life is that I have lost every single friend that I've ever made, save for one brave soul. Because when the going gets tough, I dip. Maybe I hate being vulnerable in front of others or letting others know I'm human but as soon as I sense tension in my friendships, I can't do it anymore. I stop initiating contact, eat lunch somewhere else, disappear until that person stops reaching out. It's happened with every friend except Angela. There's something about her that just won't let me go.
I pull my phone out of my pocket and check the time. She's in class at the moment. If she wasn't, I would've texted her.
Instead, I make my way to my favourite restaurant alone. I usually reserve treats for times when I felt like I deserved them, like if I earned a solid grade, but I needed the relief right now.
As soon as I stepped into the warm, cozy yet trendy lobby, I made a beeline for the bar. I ordered my usual (iced passonfruit herbal tea mixed with lemonade and sweetened with stevia), paid and then went to stand at the side.
And that was when I heard my name being called.
Is it bad to wish that the fire alarm would go off at any moment now?
I didn't want there to be a legit fire or for anyone to get hurt, just a false alarm would do.
Anything that would cause an evacuation of this place would suffice, really.
I just really needed a damn reason to leave this place. But because I didn't want to offend my teammates—former teammates, at this point—I didn't want to just pick up and leave.
Some of the guys on the AHL team wanted to go out and do one last thing together to celebrate my first NHL game. I'll give them credit, it wasn't anything wild or disruptive, just nachos at a local restaurant but it felt anything but relaxed to me.
My day had been long. Like, Lord of the Rings long. I had woken up at the crack of dawn for my practice. It was completely unnecessary to get up that early considering I was due on the ice at ten am, but I was just too riled up to sleep. Practice went as well as I could have hoped. Everyone was nice, but some of the guys were intimidating no matter how much they may have tried not to be. More than once I was told that the team was happy to have me. The coach seemed satisfied with my performance during the practice drills and scrimmage, but he was stingy with the compliments. Fine by me. I don't play for those.
Then when I got home, I was surprised by my parents and Uncle Mark, who were waiting in the lobby of my apartment complex.
I swear I didn't recognize them at first. Funny how when your brain thinks it's impossible for something to be true, your eyes follow suit.
"Taylor!" my mom yelled.
"Oh my god, what are you guys doing here?"
Turns out they came to be there in person for my first game the following night.
I'm sure they were fine fending for themselves in my apartment, but I wanted to get back to them—and my couch—soon. It didn't feel right being out when they came all this way. That didn't fly with them, as they insisted I go out.
I wasn't even sure if I knew what the guys were talking about. Tom Brady? That was a few minutes ago at this point, so maybe they moved on to something else. I was more invested in watching the front door than I was in their conversation.
That was why I saw the second Camille stepped inside. She didn't get further than the bar, which was located at the front. The line was empty so she went immediately to the open barista. When she moved to stand at the pick-up counter and was looking obviously non-busy, I called out for her.
I watched her fair face morph into one of skepticism.
No, you're not hearing things.
Her eyes tentatively scanned the patrons and they widened when they saw me.
As she took a few steps toward my table, I stood up.
"Where're you going?" David asked.
Now someone at the table noticed me. They had all seemed pretty content leaving me out of the loop. Not a complaint, by the way.
"I know that girl," I told him. "Camille, hey!"
Even though I've only seen this girl in person a handful of times, it was still obvious to me that something was off. Maybe it was the heaviness in her eyes, or the pulled-down corners of her mouth.
When we were about a foot away from each other and next to my table, we stopped walking.
"Hey, I didn't know you knew this place." She was bundled in a thick black coat and a marbled blue and white toque. She took her hat off and shoved it into her pocket.
"I actually didn't. One of my teammates suggested it."
It was when I went to look at Justin, the teammate in question, that I realized that everyone at the table was focusing on me.
And Camille.
"Camille, these are some of my teammates from the Wind," I said innocently.
I didn't expect her nor my teammates to introduce themselves or say anything. Going back to their own business would have been ideal.
Nah.
Some of these guys just can't keep their mouths shut.
"Go, Taylor, scoring on and off the ice!" someone whooped.
What the fuck?
My eyes darted over to Camille, who was standing there, lips parted, looking uncomfortable as hell.
An ugly feeling formed over me, coating my clothes and seeping into my skin.
"Has it paid off finally? Now that you're officially fucking an NHL player?" another asshole laughed.
"Guys, what the fuck?" I seethed. "What the hell is wrong with you? Apologize!"
I went to look at Camille... and shit. She was gone.
I scanned the restaurant quickly. After finding her almost immediately, I got to her location in three long strides.
"My drink is ready," she said, eyes not meeting mine.
"Is that paid for?" I asked the barista loudly.
He nodded quickly, probably disturbed by my urgency.
What the hell was I thinking? Make this all better by paying for her—what looked like—some fruity concoction?
Camille moved quickly toward the front door and I matched my pace to hers. I didn't order anything with the guys so there was no bill I needed to cover. But even if there was, they could cover it. Fuck them.
"I'm going home, Taylor. Go back inside."
"Yeah, I figured that. And I also figure that you're taking the bus. It's cold. Let me drive you home to make up for... that." I swallowed and focused on her facial features. Full lips, straight eyebrows, wide eyes.
Cute.
Her head cocked to the side just a fraction of an inch. She was weighing my offer, which was a good sign.
"Where are you parked?" she sighed.
I couldn't help but smile. "Not too far. Follow me."
As soon as I climbed into my Jeep I cranked the heat. The walk to the car was too short for any meaningful conversation, but that was going to change now.
"Camille, I'm really sorry for what happen—"
"Honestly, Taylor, I've had a bad day and if you can believe it, those guys aren't the worst part of it. I don't want to talk about them right now."
When it was safe to do so, I looked over at her in the passenger side. She was sipping her red-coloured drink. It was filled with ice and she was holding it with gloves. Huh.
"I'm sorry you had a bad day. Want to tell me what happened?"
I figured it was a 50-50 shot. Some liked to tell people what bothered them; others didn't.
Still, I can't say that I was surprised when Camille nodded and opened her mouth. She was talking about some stupid lab manager and a confrontation they had that afternoon. When Camille was explaining how she cried, she began to choke up.
Whoa there.
No longer solely concerned with getting to Camille's house, I pulled the car over at the first chance I got.
"Wait, what are you doing?"
"Well, I figure this is as good a place as any to kill you and dump your body."
She sputtered out a laugh, and I wouldn't be surprised if I saw little spit droplets fall through the air.
"What the hell is that for?" she giggled.
"It made you laugh, so don't criticize my jokes," I teased.
I swallowed the small lump in my throat and then got serious.
"Why are you crying, Camille?" I asked as gently as I could.
Her slender shoulders rose and fell. "I'm just a really sensitive, emotional person. I hate how often, how easily I cry. And it's so fucking stupid, because I get emotional about getting emotional, and then I never stop crying."
Hoping that my sleeve was soft and warm, I reached out and wiped the skin under her eyes. She didn't tell me to stop, so I did it until her face was mostly dry.
"And what's so wrong with being emotional?"
Camille gave me a look. "Please, do you cry a lot?"
I shook my head. "But that's just because that's the way I am. It's not like I don't cry because I think it's a bad thing, if that makes sense."
"I guess," she sniffled. "I just worry that is discredits me. Like it makes people think I'm insane. I hate it when people see me cry."
It was funny she said that, because she oddly seemed at ease crying in front of me. Like she was proudly presenting herself, emotions and all. I admired that. I admired her.
"If someone makes you feel bad for crying in front of them, then you're around the wrong people," I told her honestly. "Have I?"
She smiled. "No, you're good."
As the next thought entered my mind, ferociously like a freight train, I felt my heartbeat erupt in response.
"Because you had such a bad day, I don't think the ride home is enough to make it up to you."
"You didn't cause it," she interrupted.
"Maybe not. But still, I want to cheer you up. Friday afternoon, you want to go skating with me? I have a game tomorrow night but the next day the Modar Centre will be available."
As I watched her insecurity manifest itself in her frown and uneasiness in her eyes, I tried my best to become a steady presence for her.
"Camille," I said evenly. "I don't care that I've seen you cry. You shouldn't either."
Her full lips parted in surprise.
"If you don't want to go skating, we can do something else. And if you don't want to see me, I'll hit the road. But if you don't want to see me anymore because I know you're a human, then that's a little stupid."
Shit, I hope that wasn't offensive. I'm not really good at this pep talk crap.
Or maybe I am. Because the slowest, smallest smile takes over Camille's face.
"Yes," is all she says.
"Yes?" I lean forward.
"Skating sounds great."