my
guest.” The receptionist (an artsy-type chick with red hair, blunt bangs, a
slim frame, and black plastic-rimmed glasses that look quirky without being
geeky) yawns, takes Summer’s ID ,
hands her a visitor’s card, and points at the elevators on the other end of the
lobby.
“Fifteenth
floor,” she says, sounding bored.
“Okay,
thank you,” Summer and Ashley chorus.
Inside
the elevator, Summer cannot stop fidgeting. “You’ll be fine,” Ashley tells her.
“Relax,” she adds, making Summer wonder if people actually expected other
people to relax on cue—whip out a pair of board shorts and sunglasses in
five seconds flat, conjure a straw hat, a hammock, and a fresh mango shake out
of thin air, and snap their fingers and magically transport themselves to a
deserted white beach where Jason Mraz plays on repeat all day long.
“Relax,”
Ashley says again. “It’s not going to be the creepy kind of awkward. It’s going
to be the cute kind.” Summer didn’t even think it was going to be any kind of
awkward, but now Ashley was telling her that it will be
awkward and expecting her to feel better because at least it won’t be the
creepy kind. Summer doesn’t want it to be awkward—she wants Scott to take
her in his arms right away and ask her why it took her so long to come. The
elevator doors open on the fifteenth floor with a game show ding, and Summer
finds herself face to face with Scott, clad in a black leather jacket, sporting
a disheveled ‘do, and looking like he was having the worst day of his life.
“Hey,
Scott!” she says brightly, casually, as if he has just walked into a fast food
joint for his daily grease fix and she is the girl beaming a fluorescent beam
behind the cash register, about to serve up a Happy Meal and a wind-up toy of
his choice.
He
blinks. “What are you doing here, Summer?”
“Surprise!”
Ashley says, throwing her hands festively in the air. Then, catching herself,
“We haven’t officially met. I’m Ashley.”
“Hi,”
Scott says distractedly, shaking her hand. He finally recovers enough to give
Summer a hug and ask her how she’s been, and Summer notices how he pulls away
from her just as soon as her chin touches his shoulder.
“I’m
good,” Summer says. “And I’m here.”
“I can see that,” he says, the shock still evident in
his face. “I’m sorry I’ve been MIA , I’ve been really…”
“Busy,”
Summer finishes for him. “Of course. I’m sure you are.” She doesn’t mean to
sound sarcastic and bitter, but she knows that’s precisely how she sounds.
“What
are you doing here?” Scott asks again.
“She’s
visiting me,” Ashley says. “We’re old friends. We go, like, way back.”
“Oh,”
Scott says. “Right. Yes. Okay.” He runs out of one-word sentences and starts
inspecting the zipper on his jacket. He looks slightly younger now than the
last time she saw him—the unkempt beard has disappeared, and his hair is
now shorter and a lighter shade of brown.
Ashley
clears her throat and makes some excuse about meeting up with her boyfriend
Colin. “He’s super-duper needy,” she says, rolling her eyes like she was so
tired of being wanted. “Text me and I’ll pick you up from wherever,” she tells
Summer, just before the elevator doors close.
“We
have to talk,” Summer says, and she is aware that this is exactly what she told
him on graduation day when she confronted him about Roxanne, in the exact same
manner. She expects him to protest or to brush her off or to tell her to get on
the next plane back to Manila. Instead, he just nods and says, “We do.
Absolutely.” He takes her hand as they wait for the elevator and Summer can
feel her strength—her determination to keep herself at a manageable
distance—dissolving. She promised herself she’d keep it together, but now
everything is rushing back and she feels light-headed and unstable and all she
really wants to do is grab Scott and kiss him and tell him that
guest.” The receptionist (an artsy-type chick with red hair, blunt bangs, a
slim frame, and black plastic-rimmed glasses that look quirky without being
geeky) yawns, takes Summer’s ID ,
hands her a visitor’s card, and points at the elevators on the other end of the
lobby.
“Fifteenth
floor,” she says, sounding bored.
“Okay,
thank you,” Summer and Ashley chorus.
Inside
the elevator, Summer cannot stop fidgeting. “You’ll be fine,” Ashley tells her.
“Relax,” she adds, making Summer wonder if people actually expected other
people to relax on cue—whip out a pair of board shorts and sunglasses in
five seconds flat, conjure a straw hat, a hammock, and a fresh mango shake out
of thin air, and snap their fingers and magically transport themselves to a
deserted white beach where Jason Mraz plays on repeat all day long.
“Relax,”
Ashley says again. “It’s not going to be the creepy kind of awkward. It’s going
to be the cute kind.” Summer didn’t even think it was going to be any kind of
awkward, but now Ashley was telling her that it will be
awkward and expecting her to feel better because at least it won’t be the
creepy kind. Summer doesn’t want it to be awkward—she wants Scott to take
her in his arms right away and ask her why it took her so long to come. The
elevator doors open on the fifteenth floor with a game show ding, and Summer
finds herself face to face with Scott, clad in a black leather jacket, sporting
a disheveled ‘do, and looking like he was having the worst day of his life.
“Hey,
Scott!” she says brightly, casually, as if he has just walked into a fast food
joint for his daily grease fix and she is the girl beaming a fluorescent beam
behind the cash register, about to serve up a Happy Meal and a wind-up toy of
his choice.
He
blinks. “What are you doing here, Summer?”
“Surprise!”
Ashley says, throwing her hands festively in the air. Then, catching herself,
“We haven’t officially met. I’m Ashley.”
“Hi,”
Scott says distractedly, shaking her hand. He finally recovers enough to give
Summer a hug and ask her how she’s been, and Summer notices how he pulls away
from her just as soon as her chin touches his shoulder.
“I’m
good,” Summer says. “And I’m here.”
“I can see that,” he says, the shock still evident in
his face. “I’m sorry I’ve been MIA , I’ve been really…”
“Busy,”
Summer finishes for him. “Of course. I’m sure you are.” She doesn’t mean to
sound sarcastic and bitter, but she knows that’s precisely how she sounds.
“What
are you doing here?” Scott asks again.
“She’s
visiting me,” Ashley says. “We’re old friends. We go, like, way back.”
“Oh,”
Scott says. “Right. Yes. Okay.” He runs out of one-word sentences and starts
inspecting the zipper on his jacket. He looks slightly younger now than the
last time she saw him—the unkempt beard has disappeared, and his hair is
now shorter and a lighter shade of brown.
Ashley
clears her throat and makes some excuse about meeting up with her boyfriend
Colin. “He’s super-duper needy,” she says, rolling her eyes like she was so
tired of being wanted. “Text me and I’ll pick you up from wherever,” she tells
Summer, just before the elevator doors close.
“We
have to talk,” Summer says, and she is aware that this is exactly what she told
him on graduation day when she confronted him about Roxanne, in the exact same
manner. She expects him to protest or to brush her off or to tell her to get on
the next plane back to Manila. Instead, he just nods and says, “We do.
Absolutely.” He takes her hand as they wait for the elevator and Summer can
feel her strength—her determination to keep herself at a manageable
distance—dissolving. She promised herself she’d keep it together, but now
everything is rushing back and she feels light-headed and unstable and all she
really wants to do is grab Scott and kiss him and tell him that
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