Page 44 of Friendshipped
“Meg, as in Meg Abrams? A date? Megalodon? Meh? Megadeath? I thought she moved to Pennsylvania after college.”
I scrunch up my nose and then realize I’m making a face, so I straighten my mouth into what I hope resembles a smile.
“Thanks for the recap of your nicknames for her,” Trevor says. “What did she do to you to deserve her own private list of malicious monikers? And yes, she did move, but she’s back. And mom thought it would be nice for me to take her out, you know, welcome her back to town.”
The cornfields pass by outside in neat rows, the lines between the stalks create a hypnotic pattern like one of those flip books I had as a child where the pages gave the illusion the drawings were moving.
I remember the night Laura and I sat at a table during prom making up as many nicknames as we could for Meg.
“Sorry, those rolled off my tongue just now. It was like a temporary lapse backward into high school immaturity.”
I look over at Trevor. Memories of our last two years in high school flash across my mind like an end-of-the-year slideshow. He’s obviously forgetting Meg’s huge crush on him. Like a heart-eyes, kissy face, swooning crush. I think she had their babies named in her imagination. And now she’s coming back.
I actually had my heart set on going to prom with Trevor our junior year. But when he asked Meg. I ended up going with a group of our friends: Laura, Rob, Shannon, and a few others.
At the prom, I watched Trevor and Meg dance. My eyes cataloged their every movement. Our parents had made Trevor and me attend dance lessons at the YMCA together a few years prior.
No, we didn’t do that famous Y-M-C-A dance with him dressed as a construction worker and me wearing a Native American headdress.
We did the box step, he learned to dip me, and we even mastered some swing moves.
The night of prom, I looked on while Trevor used all those moves on Meg—the ones he and I had learned together. He held her close, put his hand on her lower back and they moved slowly together while she smiled the smile that should have been on my face while he twirled and dipped me.
I had wanted to be the one in his arms. I wanted it to be my ears he whispered into as he held me close during the slow dance and a shiver ran up my spine. I wanted to jump up and down shouting “Backstreet’s back!” with him. And I wanted him to walk me to my door and kiss me goodnight on my porch with our stars overhead and his hands on my hips.
I watched Meg live out all the irreplaceable moments that should have been mine that night, and a sour feeling came over me. I had been upset because Meg broke up our friend group plan to go to the dance together. But she did more than that. She stole Trevor from me and ended any possibility of something developing between us during high school. What started between Trevor and Meg at prom lasted through graduation.
“Sorry,” Trevor says, glancing over at me. “I’d totally rather do a quote war or Marvel marathon with you.”
“I could come along!” I blurt, an artificial smile plastered on my face.
“Come along?”
Trevor’s eyebrows shoot up and his eyes go wide.
“To welcome Meg back,” I explain. “I can come out with you two.”
“Oh. Well …”
Trevor pauses and runs his hands across the steering wheel.
“Lex, I think it’s more like I’m supposed to take her out, just the two of us.”
“So, it is a date.”
I look down at my hands and twirl a piece of my shirt in my fingers.
“I’m not sure what it is. My mom probably thinks it’s a date. I haven’t dated in so long. I’m completely out of practice. Right now, the word gives me hives. So, I’m thinking of it as taking her to dinner and driving her home, walking her to her door, and giving myself a mental high-five for hopefully not making a fool of myself.”
I’m now twisting my shirt like I’m practicing rope making. Trevor looks down at my hands. I release my shirt and look him in the eyes.
“She’d be lucky if you decide this is a date.”
The least I can do is encourage him. Trevor has cheered me on in all my attempts at dating. He’s been there to bail me out or laugh with me through the aftermath. I need to cheer him on.
“And that walk to her door?” I say.
“Yeah?”
