Where are they now?

Mark

Light Facebook stalking years ago revealed that he is married. She's not as pretty as me. Talk about wasted tears. At least I got a blog out of it.

Conor

Conor sent me a text back in April late one night. He told me he inherited a lot of money and was now independently wealthy but didn't want to tell anyone. He fished around as to whether I had a boyfriend. When I said I did, he stopped responding. He's had the same girlfriend for about 3 years.

Adam

Facebook had the last laugh.

Jack

Jack contacted me once via LinkedIn. Unfortunately I was in a really horrible place, so I sent him a weird response (i.e. "I'm good! I followed your advice, but I got laid off! And now I have cancer!"). Naturally he never responded. Nor did he follow through on any of my LinkedIn connections for a job. I have since deleted him from LinkedIn.

The Musician

Abraham and I went to go see his band last week. On the way there I was like, "Uh, so you should know that five years ago I went on two dates with one of the band mates."

I couldn't tell if Abraham was jealous or not. I thought he may have been since he told our entire party, including people I've never met, that I went out with the Musician. But on the other hand, the band seemed a little sadder this time. Five years ago the band mates were in their twenties. Now they're in their thirties, still working their day jobs as servers and still playing the same songs at the same venues. Five years later and they are no more popular. Nothing has changed for them except for their receding hair lines.

I don't know if The Musician recognized me or not. I've changed a lot since then.

S

Several months ago S' step-mom phoned me. S was back in jail.

"When was he in jail?" I asked.

Apparently he was sentenced to several months in jail for beating up yet another girlfriend. And he was being ordered back in for violating his probation and appearing in front of the judge drunk.

Christopher

Christopher. I don't know if he sold his email address or joined some marketing strategy, but I started getting those horrible, spammy emails from his address. The ones with a single link to Canadian Viagra.

I reported that his email address was hacked. I still got the emails. I sent him three emails kindly telling him to change his password. I still got the emails. So then I blocked him.

Valentine's Day he sent me a friend request on Facebook. I had deleted him after I dumped him years ago. I accepted and now he stalks from afar. LinkedIn reported a few months ago that he is now living in Illinois, so y'all are on notice.

Valdosta

I never heard from him since the night he dumped me. I've never looked him up. I don't want to know anything because I don't want to be sad. He will have to remain a mystery.

The Hungarian 

The Hungarian tried to have sex with me on our last date. I turned him down cold. I never heard from him again. Funny thing, it took me about 2 months to realize it.

Clemson

No one has seen or heard from him in about a year. I've been tempted to send him a text to make sure he is alive, but it's not my place.

Statham

Statham now lives with the ex-girlfriend, who is no longer an ex. They came out to Abraham's tailgate about a month ago and we were all drinking together. She didn't speak to me, but Statham was his usual friendly self to Abraham and me. Everybody acted like nothing ever happened.

Clemson's Credit

Clemson had kept his word to me. Every week, he makes an effort to come talk to me. I am so happy that I don't have a stone in my stomach when I see him across the bar; he's no longer an adversary for me to be afraid of.

The first time I saw him after the closure, he grabbed my hand and began pinching my veins.

"What the hell?!" I hollered as I snapped my hand away.

"You can tell how old a girl is by the elasticity of her veins," he said simply.

I rubbed the topside of my hand. "I will have you know that I have very supple veins. And you know how old I am. Besides that, I'm younger than you!"

I looked at his friend. "Alright, I'm going home. I'll see you two idiots later."

The next week I was waiting at the bar for a pitcher of beer for flip cup. I was leaning across the back of an empty bar stool. I felt a nudge. Clemson mimicked me with his arms folded across the top my bar stool. He stared ahead.

I lunged at his hand and began pinching his veins, "HOW OLD ARE YOU, OLD MAN?! HOW DOES THAT FEEL?"

"Ow!" he hollered.

"Yeah, it hurts!"

He asked whether I was still living across town.

"I sure do."

"Why are you always over here then?"

"Because 100% of my friends live here."

I knew what he was going to say. He was going to tell me to join a different kickball league closer to my apartment to meet people who lived near me.

"You should move here," he said thoughtfully.

"It's only 10 miles," I shrugged.

"Where is your work?" he asked.

I blushed because it was an incriminating answer. "Right down the street from here."

"You should move here," he repeated. "There are nice apartments around here."

I grabbed my pitcher and left to play my game.

A few hours later, I returned to the bar. Clemson and Girl from Irish Pub were seated together, deep in conversation.

She greeted me. "Your ears must have been burning. We were just talking about you."

Oh god. Both of them are nice to my face and I think I'm friends with them, but I'm not 100% sure how genuine these friendships are. I have no idea what they were talking about in relation to me and whether this held a positive or negative connotation.

They both stood up to leave.

I grabbed Clemson by the bicep and held my grip. "You didn't tell her what I said about Statham, did you?"

He looked at me. "No, that's between you and me." And he walked away.

A week later and kickball season had ended. The group still makes an effort to meet up once a week for drinks. Instead of our team bar, we travel and visit a different bar each week. I was seated across the table from Girl from Irish Pub in yet another Irish Pub. We had traded our glasses of red wine for beers on tap. It felt good, being out in a capacity other than kickball. We clean up nicely. I smoothed my sundress.

I was acutely aware that Clemson was behind me and talking to Nameless at the bar. I wasn't going to stare. We are friends now. Now if I could just get people to stop assuring me what a great guy he is despite his social cowardice.

A spot had opened up next to me at the end of the table; Clemson jumped inside it, appearing as if it were a magic trick.

"How's your week going?" I asked.

"Busy. I can't stay out late tonight. I got a deadline at noon tomorrow and another one at 2:30. I'm just going to have a couple of drinks here and go home and get started."

"I'm not staying out late either," I replied. "I'm leaving for Mexico tomorrow after work and I haven't even packed yet."

"I've never left the South," he said thoughtfully.

"You should rectify that."

He stood beside me and we held a civil, mundane conversation. That's when I realized I have never spoken to this boy sober in my life. This was the very first time. We were interacting normally.

He remained by my side the rest of the night, which really lasted another hour before I went home to pack. A girl flitted over to our table tipsy from happy hour and made wild proclamations. Clemson's face lit up. I recognized that expression.

It's the one he used to make when he saw me.



(Ed note: when I told this story to South Carolina's boyfriend, he confirmed that he had heard the vein theory. Pinch away.)

Clemson's Closure

I'd been watching Clemson at the other side of the table. A nervous habit, I grabbed the straw in my highball glass and stirred the ice cubes—the vodka soda had long since disappeared. As had the two vodka sodas before that. In what seemed like a good decision at the time, I'd given up beer for the month of August to cut down on my carbs and calories before Mexico. Hence the vodka sodas, which have very few calories. And taste. And it turns out there was a special on vodka, so lucky me.

After whatever that didn't happen between us happened, Clemson had disappeared from the social outings for what seemed like a couple of months.  He'd only returned in the last few weeks. I never asked about his whereabouts, but I heard other people say that he had been strangely absent as well, so I'm not so cocky as to think he was doing it to avoid me.

We've exchanged a few words since his return. It was never a deliberate conversation; we'd just be talking to the same group of people at the same time. The most surreal part about the whole situation is that I could hear him talk about me intimately without actually talking to me. For instance, last night the band began playing Van Morrison. As Clemson is talking to someone else, he points to me. "She loves Van Morrison. Her favorite song is 'Sweet Thing.'"

Phhhhleurg.

So now I'm stirring my empty vodka soda and turning around and looking at him every so often. It's weird, right? That he talks about me, but not to me. I want to know. I want to know what the hell I did for him to stop talking to me. I want closure on this.

This creepy stirring and staring behavior of mine isn't that atypical. I've done it ever since he returned. However previously I've always managed to talk myself off the ledge. I only want to talk to him because I'm tipsy and my inhibitions are lowered. He doesn't want to talk to you, Sarah. End of story.

But that was always when I was drinking beer. Vodka does weird things me to me.

I looked at him again. He was sitting by himself at the bar. It was late and most people had cleared out. If I ever were to approach him, this would be the time.

I set my highball down on the table and walked over to him. I planted myself directly in front of him so he would have to acknowledge me. "Can I talk to you?"

Clemson squirmed, clearly uncomfortable.

"Look, it's a conversation we only have to have once. Then it'll be over and we never have to talk about it again."

For some reason this made sense to him. He relaxed a bit and nodded.

"I want to know what happened. I want to know what I did to make you so angry with me. If it's something I can apologize for, I'd like to do so." And because I'm a girl and I have a vagina, my lip already began to tremble.

"Let's not talk about this here." Clemson stood up and pointed to the other side of the bar. As we crossed the room, he put his hand on my lower back and guided me into the restaurant portion of the establishment. I took a seat at a booth. The restaurant was shut off and closed; the only light we had streamed through the windows from the bar next door.

"I'm not good at holding grudges and I'm not good at ignoring people. I don't want us to be fighting. I want to know what happened," I repeated.

Only Clemson took this to mean that I wanted to address the entire story of us: the sleepovers, the cuddling, why it was heading one way and then so suddenly stopped.

"What were you feeling towards me?" he asked.

"At the end, I liked you. It just took me a long time to get there."

He winced. I didn't mean for that statement to hurt his feelings, but it obviously did.

"You liked me the first night you met me," he countered defiantly.

"Oh! Well, obviously! I flirted with you the first night, but I became very slow to pull the trigger. And when I was ready, you were over it."

"I was on the fence with you too," he admitted. "What killed it for me was the drunk dial. I was trying to sleep that night and you called. It was all I could do to not pick up the phone and cuss you out."

Oh.

The timeline on this seemed weird to me, because I didn't do that until things between us were already broken. I let it go.

I covered my face with my hands in shame. "I'm sorry, Clemson. I'm so sorry. I'm sorry I screwed things up"

His face changed. "Actually, I lied. I was never interested in you," he said.

He was lying. He was right about that. However he was lying about never liking me. That's just not true. The first night I spent at his place, he was seated on a futon and I was sitting in his computer chair scrolling through his music collection on his laptop. I found Van Morrison. I clicked on "Sweet Thing" and turned the volume all the way up on the tinny speakers.

"This is my favorite song," I sighed. "It's my song to myself."

Clemson reached forward and grabbed my feet clad in gray leather boots and put them in his lap. It was springtime back then and I wore the calf-skimming slouchy boots over bare legs paired with a very short dress.

He rubbed his hand up and down my bare legs. "I like your boots," he said.

"You do?" I smiled coyly.

"Yes."

In the background, Van Morrison crooned:

I'll be satisfied not to read in between the lines
And I will walk and talk in gardens all wet with rain
And I will never, ever, ever, ever grow so old again.

He tugged off my boots and kept trailing his hands up and down my legs. A computer programmer, they were tender and uncalloused.

The song ended and we left his office and got into his bed. He pulled me to his chest and I laid my head on his shoulder. He inhaled and said he could smell my hair forever. Then he plaintively commented that we hadn't kissed yet. That's when I froze.

And here he is in a bar five months later telling another guy about the song we listened to that night. He had liked me. I suspect I put him on the defensive when I said it took me longer than him to get there.

"Even if you had never liked me, we still had a connection. We were friends at one point. And then you stopped," I said pointedly.

He sighed. I could hear people laughing in the other room. Here, in the restaurant, it was so dark and silent. "We did have a connection. And we still are friends. I just put some distance between us when I realized things weren't going to happen."

"But you ignored me. You pretended I didn't exist," my lip began trembling again and my eyes welled up. "I don't like being treated as if I don't exist. I got knocked unconscious and you just stood there. You didn't care. You didn't care whether I was okay or not." I looked down at the table and choked on a sob. I put my hands to my face again and began crying.

Clemson instinctively grabbed me. He laid his cheek against the top of my hair and wrapped his arm across my shoulder and held me.

"I didn't think you remembered that," he said softly.

"Well I don't remember being hit, but I remember you not saying anything. Even Nameless asked me if I was okay," I cried.

"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. That was terrible of me and I knew it at the time. I should have been there for you; you are absolutely right. I'm so sorry. I shouldn't have done that." He was genuine in his sorrow.

It was the first time I had been touched by another human in months. Crying in a dark, empty restaurant and being held by a boy who claimed to have never liked me.

"I'm on your side now, okay? I'm on your side," he repeated as he rocked me with his head pressed against mine. "I'm on your side. That won't happen again. I'm on your side. Things will be different from now on."

I opened my mouth and I let everything inside me empty. How I felt when Clemson ignored me. Nameless saying what he said to me. Statham pursuing me and sleeping with me and subsequently starting the rumors that it was Clemson I had slept with. "And I've just been sitting here and letting people treat me this way. I'm better than that. I deserve more than that."

Clemson was shocked. He didn't know any of this. "You mean to tell me it was Statham who started those rumors about us? Because he was covering his own ass?!" he growled.

I sniffed and nodded. "I have the e-mails to prove it."

"That lying, little weasel! I'm going to kill him! I'm going to have a talk with him the next time I see him. I'm going to corner him and call him out on it."

"Just promise me that [the ex-girlfriend] will never know. I don't want to hurt her."

"I won't tell her." He calmed down. "I'll keep this between you and me," he reluctantly said. I don't believe him.

"I can't control other people's actions," he said, referencing Nameless. "But people do like you. I am so glad you came up to me tonight to talk."

"It took a lot of courage," I sniffed. "I was afraid you were going to ignore me again."

"No," he said softly. "I'm glad you talked to me," he repeated.

"I want to be friends again," I said.

"We are." Clemson paused. The he told me some devastating news in his life. "You're the first person I've told."

It was like the last three months of silence never happened.

"Are you okay?" I didn't want to look like I was flirting with him or hitting on him—because I wasn't—but I covered his hand in mine. That's what you do when someone is hurting; you reach out and touch him.

"I am now. I haven't talked to my mom yet," he said. He pulled his hand away and used it to drain his pint glass.

The spell was broken. The conversation was over. We left the dark restaurant and headed into the brightly lit bar decorated in grass skirt curtains, multi-colored Christmas lights and leis spinning from the ceiling fans. The bar is decorated in a different theme every week and it was luau week.

I walked past the surfboard to pay my bill: three vodka sodas and my dignity.

Hot n Cold

I am not proud of myself.

I had my weekly night out. I snuck out from work a few minutes early so I could go to the cobbler and pick up my summer shoes that I had re-heeled. I found the last of my date outfits and slipped into skinny jeans and ballet flats. I pulled my hair into low pigtails, smacked on lip gloss and fled out the door.

I've been curious about the whole Clemson scenario. I'd rather not sound like a Katy Perry song, but he was hot and then cold. Something had to happen. I just don't understand. And of course because it's my life and my decision-making skills, I didn't decide to like him until the exact moment he went from yes to no. (He also went from in to out, from up to down, from wrong to right and from black to white.)

I walked out on the patio and met up with the group.

"Hey! How's the face?" they cheered.

I posed: arm akimbo, head angled and flashy smile. "Swelling went down on Tuesday!"

The umpire from the game swallowed his beer. "I was umpping a game last night and told them what happened to you. Still haven't seen anyone take a ball like that."

"Could you please re-enact my fall? I have no remembrance of the incident."

"You crumpled like a sack of potatoes."

"Oh good! That's the exact word I used!" I said excitedly. "I didn't know if I went ass over teakettle or something."

"No, you were dead weight."

And then there were a lot of inappropriate jokes about me being brought to my knees by balls to the face. I believe the guys called it "a typical Saturday."

I looked around the tables. Several people were missing, including Clemson.

"Where's the Leader?" I asked Clemson's friend.

"He's umpping a game. He'll be here in a few hours."

"And Clemson?"

"He had to work."

And then I made the first bad decision of the night. I picked up my phone and I typed, You're not here. Sad face. and sent it to Clemson.

In the rules of my life, my number one rule is Never Be the Drunkest Person in the Room. Rule number two is If You're Going to Be a Man at Night, Be a Man in the Morning. Rule number three is now Never Initiate Contact with a Boy. It's just not something I do, but I did it anyway. It was so out of character for me, but I believed that the Clemson situation was fixable; I just needed to talk to him.

No response.

And then more people showed up and the flip-cup game started and I forgot all about Clemson.

Schmoozer made an appearance, which is unusual for him. He hasn't shown up since January. A mutual girlfriend invited him.

He walked out on the patio. "There you are! I was afraid to come out here. I figured you were working your game," he said, referrencing my flirting.

"I'm always working my game," I winked at him. We clinked beer bottles.

He tugged at my pigtail. "You don't want to know what I call these," he laughed.

"Reins?" We laughed again. "Hey, I'm about to ask you something and it's going to get all uncomfortable up in here," I began.

"Shoot."

"The Great Coffee Fiasco of 2011. Did Katie ever talk to you?"

"Yeah she did."

"She called me too. The more I think about it, the angrier I get with Jenna. I can't believe she would think so little of me."

"Yeah, well I'm not really feeling it with Katie anymore," he admitted.

My mouth dropped open. This is not good. Not good at all.

"I'm trying to do the phase out with her so I can still be in the group. I haven't seen her in a week, but she called and asked to do something on Friday so I agreed."

I flashbacked to New Years Eve. Schmoozer and I were standing in front of Harvey's Christmas tree, pulling off the candy canes and eating them. Harvey walked in the foyer.

"You're eating my Christmas decorations! You know those things are five years old, right?!" she hollered.

"I feel like you're pushing me to date Katie," he said after she left.

"That's because you should," I retorted.

"But when I date people from a group, I have to leave the group in three to four months when relationship is over. That's why I had to join kickball to meet new people. And I like you guys and I want to be friends with you guys."

"I'll still be your friend after the relationship blows up," I said. "It may be in secret, but I'll still be your friend."

Commence relationship blowing up. Schmoozer had called it right down to the timeline: four months.

"I just don't think I'll be with her in the long run," he finished.

"Well I could have told you that. I knew y'all were never getting married."

"Then why did you let me date her?!" he exclaimed.

"It's just she's Stop and you're Go." (She's in and he's out, she's up and he's down, she's wrong and he's right and she's black and he's white. Damn you, Katy Perry.)

He nodded.

The timing of this is impeccably bad for me. I know one way or another, this is somehow going to be my fault according to Government Mule and Jenna. To be honest, I don't know if Schmoozer will be able to stay in the group. He came in officially at Thanksgiving and was dating Katie by the end of January. He's spent more time being a boyfriend than a friend. But I was serious when I told him I'd still be his friend.

"Schmoozer, she's only met your best friend once. I've hung out with him at least three times. What does that say?"

He nodded again.

It was the melding of the two groups. Schmoozer met all the players he's been hearing stories about all these months—minus Clemson.

Clemson. I just know that if I got the chance to speak to him, I know I could clear up whatever is making him act icily towards me. I checked my phone. No response. And I thought it was a good text.

We left the bar. I looked at the clock. It was late, but it was still early in terms of how late Clemson and I usually stay out on these nights. If I could just get ahold of him...

My thumb pressed the call button. It was that easy.

No response. Oh my god, that just happened. I just drunk dialed a boy. I can't remember the last time I acted so stalker-y.

It was like ripping off a Band-Aid. Now that I drunk dialed once, it would be easy to do it again. I could text him and he'd know what I had to say! I typed out a text and saved it in drafts. I then revised it and saved it in drafts again.

I flopped down on my bed. Oh god, I'm behaving like a terrorist. Sense got a hold of me and I knew if I had to press the damn call button repeatedly, it better be to my girlfriend. She abandoned me earlier at the bar and went to a guy's house to party more.

I called. No answer. I called her again. No answer. Answer! Argh!

I laid on top of my bed, phone firmly in my hand. I was dying. I was using every ounce of strength I had, willing myself not to call Clemson.

And that's how I woke up in the morning. Lights still on, sprawled on top of the bed, clutching the phone. I looked like an strung-out addict.

I checked to see if I contacted him again. I hadn't. I then deleted him out of my address book. It was the most pathetic I've felt in years.

One of these days, Alice...

I think every girl has played out this imaginary scenario: girl gets dumped by boy, girl gets into car accident or some equally scary-but-not-life-threatening scenario. Boy realizes he loves girl and doesn't want to lose girl.

Every girl wants to be rescued.

***

I had my kickball playoffs. My poor, little team who had lost our first six games had finally gotten its act together, performing fabulously in the tournament. We started the tournament tied for last place, but starting a seed higher because we had more runs during the regular season. Then we just kept winning. And now we were playing the number-one team and we were tied and in extra innings.

Statham, his ex-girlfriend and Clemson all stayed behind to watch my game. Statham had a cooler of beer he was working through. Clemson was drinking water because I overheard him say he was hungover again. I spoke a few words to him before the game, but that was all. Most of what I heard about him, I heard through Girl from Irish Pub.

My team was on the field. I was playing catcher, which is a figurehead position without much play interaction. In kickball, the catcher stands next to home plate, not behind home plate. The number-one team's strongest kicker was up. The Leader rolled the ball, the kicker ran towards it and--

THWACK!

I crumpled on the field like a rag doll. My face was on fire. I didn't know this at the time, but the kicker hit the ball as hard as he could and it spliced to foul-ball territory and hit me at point-blank range in the face. The umpire came up to me after the game and shook my hand and told me he's never seen anyone take a ball that hard.

I was sprawled on the field, clutching my face and not knowing why. My sunglasses were lying on the grass a few feet from me. I sat up. I was surrounded by five men. I had no idea how they got to me so quickly. It's just like the movies where you look up and see a circle of faces peering down on you. I saw the Leader, the umpire, the kicker, the captain of my team and the guy who rubbed my back in this post.

The Leader crouched down in front of me. "Are you okay?" he asked.

I sat there laughing. It's my default emotion. "Am I bleeding?" I asked.

"No, but move your hands so I can see," he urged.

"Are you sure I'm not bleeding?" I asked between giggles.

"No, but take your hands off your mouth."

I could see myself in the reflection of his sunglasses. I wasn't bleeding, but I looked terrified. I slowly took my hands off my mouth. It was swollen; I could already feel that.

"You're fine," he smiled. "You just have 'kickball' stamped across your forehead."

I laughed again. Only this time a tear slid down my cheek. It was involuntary; my face was burning.

"Do you think I could go sit down for a minute?" I asked. I was disoriented. I couldn't think straight.

One of the guys reached his hand down and pulled me up from the ground. The kicker profusely apologized and I said everything was fine. I took that hit like a champ. A girl from the other team brought me a beer, saying it was cold and to put it on my face to help with the swelling.

I worked my way to the fence in the shade. As I passed Clemson and his friend, his friend said he knew I was okay because he could hear me laughing on the ground. Clemson never said a word to me.

I sat down with my legs stretched out in front of me, rolling the beer can across my mouth before drinking from it. I broke my kisser. Clemson didn't look over and ask if I was okay. The one time this shit happens to me and he's actually present for it. Here's my traumatic-but-not-life-threatening scenario. I realized I wanted him to care. I wanted him to be the first person crouching in front of me, looking over me and making sure I was okay, not The Leader.

But he wasn't.

Also, guess who scored the tie-breaking run and won the game? This girl. He didn't have anything to say about that either.

Welcome to your thirties

Another week had passed without much word from Statham. I got dressed and left my apartment for my weekly night out. I look forward to it; it's the only social interaction I get all week. Most nights I leave work late and run along the river. After I get home and walk the Femme Fatale and prepare dinner, it's 9:30 by the time I finally sit down.

It was a light crowd that night. Inclement weather in the South kept most people at home. But when the boys discovered I just had my birthday, they took turns buying me birthday shots: blow jobs, red-headed sluts, blonde-headed sluts, something that tasted like orange-flavored cough syrup and then the southern version of an Irish Car Bomb.

Another boy appeared in front of me. I recognized the tattoo sleeve poking our from under his red t-shirt.

I pointed at him, "Is your name [Tattooed Boy]?"

He smiled.

"Hey! I'm Sarah!" I extended my hand to him.

"I know," he said as he took my hand. I've seen him around;I've just never spoken to him.

He sat down next to me and ordered the strongest drink I've ever tasted. He enjoyed watching me try it and then scrunch up my face in disgust. Every so often, he's push his drink toward me.

"I haven't seen you around lately," I said.

"I know. And you won't after this week. I'm moving. Leaving the state."

"Aw, that's a shame. You seem pretty cool."

"I am very cool," he said. "You're missing out."

He invited me out the next night. I accepted and gave him my e-mail address.

Clemson appeared from the corner of the bar. I was splitting food with the Tattooed Boy. He ordered food as well. The Tattooed Boy kept pushing his drink to me and then laughing as I coughed and sputtered.

The Leader grabbed my hand and we danced to a song on the jukebox. I laughed. I laughed a lot. It felt good that the new group of friends were acknowledging my birthday. It felt like acceptance, that I was now one of them.

The Tattooed Boy left and Clemson and I began chatting. He was inquisitive about my family and my origins. I spoke of my father leaving in the middle of the night. He shook his head in sympathy.

"So you hate men?" he asked.

"No! I don't hate men. I'm just wary. Trust has to be earned," I corrected. We spoke for awhile and I grew tired.

Clemson looked at me. "You doing okay?" he asked.

"I'm pretty shit housed," I admitted.

"You can come back to my place again," he offered.

"Okay," I said without protest. I couldn't drive. It wasn't even a question.

He took me back to his place and turned on the TV. It was some ungodly hour and I had to show up to work sometime the next morning. He sat down next to me and I threw a pillow on his lap and laid down. He immediately put his arm around me and caressed my shoulder. I closed my eyes. It felt nice. It felt really nice to experience that kind of physical contact. Despite the selfish, dirty sex, I hadn't received any affection since Valdosta back in January.

Clemson noticed I was dozing and he shut off the TV and told me it was time for bed. He told me to sleep on his side of the bed because it was more comfortable. I climbed in. He pulled up the sheet around me. When I shivered he found a blanket, shook it out and laid in on top of me. I appreciated his sense of detail.

"Ugh," I moaned. The birthday celebration had caught up with me.

"What's wrong?"

"My stomach feels wonky and I have heartburn," I whined.

Clemson fetched a glass of water and a bottle of Tums.

"You have Tums? But you're a boy. Boys don't keep meds," I said.

"Are you kidding me? I'm in my thirties and I'm a computer geek, of course I have Tums. Welcome to your thirties," he said as he toasted me with the water glass.

Clemson climbed in bed and spooned me. I relished it. Not specifically Clemson, but the touch. It felt so good to be held; I miss being held. I sighed and stretched my legs.

"Ow ow ow ow!" I cried as I sat straight up in bed.

"What's wrong?"

"I have a charlie horse in like the arch of my foot!" I wailed. I had increased my running frequency that week, running a 5k every day. I don't know if the increase in male attention was directly related to me dropping a pants size, but I wanted to lose another one just to be sure.

Clemson sat up in bed and grabbed my foot. He rubbed out the cramp. He collapsed into the sheets and I nestled in the crook of his shoulder. When Clemson's alone, he's kind of a gentle guy, I thought. He rubbed my back as I drifted off to sleep.

A few hours later, his alarm went off. I got up and ducked out of his apartment without saying goodbye or thank you.

I have no idea what I'm doing these days.

Wendy

I chose Clemson.

Clemson and I have more history than anyone else. He's the one I was flirting with when I wasn't supposed to be flirting. He asked for my number over a week ago, but he's never had to use it because we keep running into each other every few days.

Before Statham left, he asked for my number. "So I can call you tomorrow about shooting."

Well damn, if I knew skeet shooting and my lovely recoil bruise would have gotten me this much attention, I would have done it a year ago.

Clemson and I sat outside for another hour until we were forced to leave at 3 a.m. He was nervous and he was in bad shape. He was so drunk that he spoke in stilted sentences.

We walked inside his apartment and went to his office where his records were. I chose a Joy Division album and he put it on. We began talking. I don't even remember about what. But what became apparent in this conversation is that Clemson is a wounded soul. He's filled with so much sadness. And I think, more than a girlfriend, what Clemson needed was someone to listen to his story. I filled that capacity.

He was drunk, spilling drinks, knocking things over. Spilling the sadness in his life. We eventually headed to his bed. Clemson was the perfect gentleman and even kept his jeans on. He pulled me to his chest and I laid there. He smelled my hair and said he could smell it forever.

"I have to go to a birthday party tomorrow," he said. "Do you want to go with me?"

"I can't. I have got to go running," I said. And shooting.

"Okay. Well this weekend we'll sleep at my place and next weekend I'll sleep at yours," he said.

I didn't say anything.

"We haven't even kissed yet," he said sleepily.

This was a hint for me to lift my head off his chest and kiss him. Clemson was being so polite and so sweet. But I didn't. I didn't want to do it in that moment. Despite choosing Clemson for the night, I knew any physical activity would be choosing among all of the boys. And even though Clemson was harmless as a pussycat, he was also damaged. He was drunk. Very drunk. I couldn't forget all of that sadness he talked about earlier.

I thought about S and Christopher. I didn't want to do that again. I didn't want to be Wendy, Savior of the Lost Boys.

Girl's Night

When First Baseman arrived on the patio of the Mexican restaurant, he stopped short. Seated before him were 8 ladies in summer dresses sipping on margaritas and not a single dude to be found. He grabbed a chair from a nearby empty table and sat himself at the head of the table, adjacent to me.

Within 5 minutes, Statham arrived. He walked coolly past the table and took a seat at the other end. Then the rest of the boys began staggering in. Clemson joined Statham at the far end of the table and a couple of other guys grabbed another table altogether and added it the lineup of ours. I was surprised with how quickly everyone cleaned up. It was only an hour earlier that we left the team bar in our sweaty kickball clothes and muddy shoes. And now everyone, myself included, was showered and dressed up.

After a few minutes of chatting, I leaned my chair back. "Hey, Statham!" I called over the backs of the three girls separating us. "Any word?" It was bad code for Any word from your now ex-girlfriend?

"Yeah," he shouted back. "We talked and break up is still on. By the way, she's sitting across from you."

Oh god, I wanted to die in that moment. So did the ex-girlfriend as she got up from the table and went home. I had seen her before; I just didn't recognize her and know that's who she was.

After that, I focused my attention to First Baseman and two other couples in front of us. We split a pitcher of margaritas and had great conversation. I barely even touched my food. The night was good; I felt like I belonged.

"Hey, let's keep the group together tonight. Let's just head over to the regular bar instead of the drag show," I offered.

The girl across from me whispered, "Do you think that would be okay? I don't want to go anymore either."

Four of the eight girls headed to the show; the rest of us caravaned over to the bar. It was a typical night, nothing special: we sat outside on the patio and talked as pitchers of beer appeared in front of us. The band inside began playing a song that I always dance to, and I coaxed another girl's date to dance with me; it seemed more harmless than to pick any of the boys. When the song was over, we turned around and saw the girl and Statham watching us.

First Baseman was the first to leave with promises to call me on Sunday for shooting lessons. Then other people began to leave at the same pace that they had trickled in at the Mexican restaurant. Then it was 2 a.m. Everyone was gone except for Clemson and Statham, who were sitting on either side of me.

"It's a long drive for you. You shouldn't go home tonight," said Clemson.

"I have an extra bedroom, you can stay with me tonight," offered Statham.

"You take my bed and I'll sleep on my couch," offered Clemson.

That was the moment the light went off in my head. Both of these boys, these friends, these teammates are trying to take me home with them.

Beginnings

The story should start with the fact that I went skeet shooting Saturday morning with Harvey and Katie. Shooting a gun was on my list of things to do before I turn 30 and time is rapidly running out. I was happy the girls offered to go with me; I had already pre-purchased two sessions back when Valdosta and I were together and he wanted to take me.

We piled in a car and headed down to the South side of the city by the airport. We walked into the gun shop. I put down my two certificates and I am handed two shotguns and two boxes of shells. Just like that. We received zero instruction on how to handle, load or shoot the guns. Just peace be with you, and go with God.

This explains the size of the bruise I currently have on my right shoulder. The recoil bruise is larger than the palm of my hand; I literally look like I took a punch. Both of my arms feel like they are broken because I didn't know how to load the shotgun and I exerted way more effort than was necessary.

Ruining your shoulder is probably the worst thing to do before your weekly kickball game. This season I decided not to play softball with my friends, but instead play kickball with the people I met over the fall kickball and winter dodgeball seasons. The team I joined was the team that we always looked forward to playing because they were so friendly and fun. Besides, with Schmoozer and Katie, Government Mule and Jenna, Harvey and her husband, and Vince and his girlfriend, my group is all coupled up. Great for them and blah, blah, blah, I don't want to be dependent on them anymore for my social life. They've all been hibernating doing couple-y stuff and I feel like an asshole when I hear about their dinners, etc. that I wasn't invited to. So maybe the story should start here: I branched out on my own in an effort to make new friends.

I walked out onto the kickball field. Everyone has been accepting of me, but I've been struggling with feeling like an outsider. Like my own group of friends, their group has a lot of history and they do a lot of activities together. For instance, no one showed up to the game on Saturday because they took a booze bus to the stadium to watch the season opener of baseball. I wasn't invited, therefore I wasn't hung over, so I was present at the game with a handful of other people. We didn't have enough female players according to coed rules. We should have forfeited the game. Instead we got to play, but got an automatic out whenever we reached the end of our lineup and a fourth female player wasn't present to kick.

Whereas I usually play catcher, a useless position for a kickball game, I had to play second base instead. It was this fact—I had to play second base because everyone else was hungover from the booze bus—that I became a full-fledged member of the group. When the runner headed to second base (coincidentally enough, it was Clemson, the guy who asked for my number a couple of days ago), the first baseman shouted my name and threw me the ball. I saw the ball heading towards me and I screamed, "Noooo!" I didn't want the ball; I can't catch the ball. But unlucky in guns, lucky in kickball. I caught the ball, tapped my foot on the base and got out the guy who had been trying to score on me in more ways than one. I earned my spot on the team. Maybe this is where the story should start.

We lost the game. Of course we did: we were outnumbered and getting outs every inning just because we didn't have enough people. But the score was 6 to 4 and I was proud. We headed to the team bar. Two boys sandwiched me at the bar while the rest of the team sat at a booth. The three of us ordered pitchers of beer and swapped stories .

"So what are you doing tonight?" asked First Baseman.

"I was supposed to be painting, but my shoulder is killing me." I lifted up the sleeve of my t-shirt and exposed my bruise from the shotgun. He recoiled and I explained about the lack of direction.

"You should have told me! I would have taken you shooting!" he exclaimed.

"Well, where were you?" I shot back.

"Here, let me get your number. I'll take you tomorrow and show you how it is properly done."

The guy on the other side of me spoke up. "Wait! I want to go shooting too!" It was Statham. Statham was the first guy I met playing dodgeball in December. It was his team we played against and won that day. While the rest of his team was celebrating their win, he was telling me about his awful night on the booze bus and how it ended with him breaking up with his girlfriend.

As First Baseman was trying to get me to go to a club with him that night, some girls appeared behind me. They were going to a drag show and meeting up for dinner beforehand. They invited me out to girl's night with them.

First Baseman looked at me, "We'll do the club in a couple of weeks," he said. "Go with the girls."

The girl turned towards him, "Come with us! Meet us for dinner!"

First Baseman accepted. So did Statham. And so did Clemson when I invited him as I was leaving.

I was showing up to girl's night with three guys. This is where the story starts.

Flirting with Disaster

The hardest part about not dating is not looking. Not walking into a room and scanning it for the guy who's single and entertaining himself. Not stealing glimpses of him while a friend regales a story to you over a pitcher of beer and a plate of nachos. Not noticing that even though he's sitting catty corner two chairs down from you, he's listening to your conversation and laughs at your funny parts.

Dating You instinctively takes over. You lean back in your chair both casually and confidently. You smile a little brighter, laugh a little harder. Most days you feel like a 6, but tonight, girl, you are a solid 7. You turn on your charm and incorporate him into the conversation using your standard bag of tricks: you request the "male perspective" to settle a debate. Of course it works; it always does. You've drawn in the single guy. He's a smart one because he sided with you to settle the argument.

He's noticed you. He remembers seeing you before. Life as a 7 feels grand. You can feel his eyes on you from the other end of the bar as other boys take a turn enjoying time spent talking with you. The leader grabs you to dance. You smile the bright smile and tilt your head back and let loose your trademark laugh. Yes, he's still watching although he's pretending not to.

Another guy you'd been previously working on before you gave up dating sidles up next to you. You're surprised with the ease in which he touches you. His hand is on your side. During your flip cup game, he rubs his hand up and down your back which totally blows your concentration, but feels exhilarating nonetheless. The initial guy works his way back from the bar to the periphery of the crowd surrounding you. He's like a lion, trying to stake a claim in the territory.

And he does it. He asks for your number. You give him your real number before you realize that you are not supposed to be doing this. You, girl, are not supposed to be flirting. You told the world you weren't going to date in the meantime. But you still leave the bar heady. You put yourself to bed, slipping in between the crisp clean sheets and scissor your legs in delight.

And then you find yourself out with the same crowd five nights later. You find yourself enjoying another pitcher of beer and another plate of nachos while you regale another story. This time there's a guy standing with your company, but his eyes are clearly on you. And he laughs at your funny parts, so you know that this one is smart too. Dating You instinctively takes over as you lean back in your chair both casually and confidently and you smile a little brighter and laugh a little harder...