Valentine’s Day

I had tried to text the Traveler countless times, but each time, the SMS wouldn’t go through. I cursed my portable. I begged and pleaded it to work. I spent a week fighting that damned phone before I gave up. “Oh well,” I sighed. “If it’s meant to be, it’s meant to be.”

A few days later, it was Sarah’s birthday. We were still in our orientation phase, so going out to a bar on a Tuesday night didn’t seem like a big deal. I texted the Traveler and invited him. Obviously, he got back to me when I was on my ambush date with Neighbor.

The day after my ambush date was Valentine’s Day.

I have spent twenty years hating Valentine’s Day. The best Valentine’s Day I ever had was the year that the love of my life was in Iraq and I threw a party for all my friends, in an attempt to keep myself from throwing a narcissistic pity party. The idea worked.

As you already know, the Traveler texted and asked if I wanted to go out sometime. I responded with an enthusiastic oui.

I wasn’t sure if her was going to call me on V-Day or not. Oh, what the hell, all the girls were dressing in pink and going out anyway. I was going to have a fabulous evening whether he called me or not.

But I never expected him to call.

I’m a skinny girl who wore braces until her junior year in high school, marched in the band for four seasons, and focused the majority of her energy on auditions for the spring musical. I’m not the kind of girl who goes to Europe, gets phone numbers, and spends Valentine’s Days with beautiful French men.

I really didn’t expect him to call.

He called while I was in class and left a message. His voice was full of laughter. He said that he would call back. I was studying in the library when he called the second time. I stumbled into the hallway, kicking one of my classmates’ backpacks on the way out.

We agreed to meet that evening. He was bringing his friend Nico and I was showing up with a busload of American students. It was guaranteed to be a night to remember. I knew that I would spend more than three hours primping.

By the time I got to the bus stop, accompanied by at least a dozen others, I was nervous. My hot pink tights and orange peacoat made me look as if I’d been picked up in Spain and made a surprise stop in France. I looked nothing like a French girl. If I’d been alone, I would have turned around, but the girls with me pushed me onto the bus.

I’m constantly anxious. I worried that I didn’t look pretty enough. That he wouldn’t be as handsome as I remembered. That he would be exactly as handsome as I remembered. That we wouldn’t have anything to talk about. That I would talk too much.

I ordered a pint, and then another. I was still shaking I heard Anya telling me that he was walking up to our table. I took a deep breath and smiled.

He was exactly as good looking as I remembered him. I stood up to greet him and he kissed me on both cheeks. He sat across the table from me and ordered a round. I was terrified, but the longer I was with him, the calmer I became.

I remember Anya and Sarah’s words snaking through other conversations.

“She’s so cute.”

“He’s so into you.”

“Look at the way she can’t stop smiling.”

My cheeks were sore from smiling so wide

(I’m cutting this off, because I hit a sad point of the night and I feel gross and I’m just going to read and go to sleep. Also, I feel like everything I write lately is crap.)