Unraveling

"Things get all twisted up in knots, and if you try to untangle them, you've got yourself an even bigger mess…life gets complicated all on its own; you don't have to help it. You can just sit back…because it'll unravel all by itself."

My Physics teacher was a man who said many things. Some were worth writing down, some were completely irrelevant stories, some didn't make sense, and some were not for the faint of heart (which is probably why he was fired). Anyway, that quote was one that didn't stick with me as he said it, but now, as time passes, I realize how true it is.

I was very ready to give up on Floyd. I didn't quite know how, but I was ready.

Hesitantly, I plucked at my guitar strings, unsure if I still remembered the melody. And as I began strumming the chords, I found reassurance. How could I forget this?

I stopped abruptly and decided to try the solo, the solo I remembered playing over and over trying to perfect it. And I did it with ease, like my fingers had a mind of their own. Like they could remember things that my mind wished not to. I began humming along, then started singing.

If I go crazy, then will you still call me Superman?

And I could someone's voice singing it, a voice belonging to a person named Jimmy, as he ambled down the hallway, chunky headphones positioned atop his mussed hair so one headphone lies over his ear and the other does not. And I saw that same someone again, appearing before me in a crowded, sweaty room of loud music and swaying bodies. We moved together, never touching, but holding each other's gazes in a way that made me cringe upon remembering, cringe at the charged atmosphere between us. It seemed almost like some sort of dream, the kind I would wake up from in utter confusion before it faded away from me. But this one didn't fade away. And I couldn't decide whether I liked that or not.

And then he trotted up to the empty space beside me in the hall as we walked to Physics and started talking to me. Not the girl with the swaying hips in the tight black dress and dark red lipstick on prom night. Just me.

And he was not the wildly grinning guy dressed in black and orange. Just Jimmy. Just some guy that part of me likes dancing with (maybe occasionally likes thinking about) and another part looks at him and sees an overgrown third grader.

And every time I catch him watching me, I can almost see those knots forming, those ones my Physics teacher mentioned.

I don't like him. I mean, sure, I like him. But I don't like like him.

He's Floyd's stepbrother.

Which is why I don't like like him. I'm not really sure if I'm capable of like liking Jimmy. Because no matter what, there would be bad intentions. Make Floyd jealous. Make Floyd miserable. Break Floyd's heart. Get revenge on Floyd.

I mean, I've thought about like liking Jimmy. I've considered it. I've played along with his casual, slightly confusing advances and backed away every time, always unsure of whether I was dealing with coincidence, friendliness, or actual flirtation. And I wasn't sure if I wanted to know.

But as Jimmy and I danced at prom, and I met Symphony's gaze with a wicked grin, I knew exactly what I was doing.

Playing the game.

I wasn't thinking about the knots I was tying. I was just thinking about playing the game. You know the one. The one that stops this whole "romance" bullshit from being perfect too easily. And as the sugar rush and excitement wore off, my logical brain collapsed into chaos. What kind of mess had I just made?

All for the sake of the game? Was I willing to lead Jimmy on for the sake of the game? Why does this even have to be a game?

But as Floyd and I's banter seemed to begin where it left off almost a year ago in school the next week, I couldn't help but wonder if I've won that round.

Perhaps watching from the sidelines was never really a good idea. Why did I think that in the first place?

He sits down in the desk beside me, green eyes finding their place once more. On me. Does that feel as right to him as it does to me? I sit atop the desk beside him, swinging my leg unconsciously, kicking his boot gently. And we talk.

I watch him with eyes that feel unreadable, but I know my face is an open book. It always is. Can he see through me? Does he like what he sees? The affectionate, relieved bliss of a girl stubbornly pining away for him?

Well, it doesn't seem to scare him away.

I don't have to worry anymore. Right now, I have him where I want him. I'm not worried about next week. I'm not worried about the summer. Or if we'll be strangers again next year. Why plague myself with those thoughts right now?

Right now, all I'm thinking about is those knots that are unraveling. What more could I want?

I can't help but feel as if the random conversation isn't really that random, that it simply serves as a subtle facade for us to nonchalantly hide our intentions behind. But we both know we're not fooling anyone.

Which one of us will unveil our intentions first?

Floyd already threw up his white flag. Is it my turn now?