CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR: CONCLUSION
I catch the door from the person in front of me before walking out of the science building. The laces of my black converse flop around as I take the three steps down to the cement pathway before I look up. I look up because I'm determined to not always cast my gaze on the pavement. I might as well attempt to enjoy the scenery while I'm here. All the white oaks and dogwoods. The green grass that always seems to be cut to perfection. The pockets of black woodchips and bushes. A mix of both man and nature.
But today my steps falter not because of the geese poop dotting the cement, but because I catch a bright green gaze opposed to leaves.
I stop in my tracks right there on the pavement, but at least people also move around Trent as he stands on the edge of the grass. His notebook is poised in one hand as he pulls his pen out of his mouth.
My backpack strap almost slips off my shoulder while my arms tighten around the earth science textbook I have hugged to my chest. I slowly lift my right hand. I don't twist my wrist, and my fingertips don't move, but it's still some form of a greeting that Trent even reciprocates before we both continue walking in opposite directions.
More grass, more cement, and dogwood trees.
This pattern repeats for a few days each week. It's the same time every day and only when I step out of that building. I could opt for a different exit. Maybe I even should.
Instead, I take the three steps down and out before my hand lifts. Sometimes I take the three steps, and then four or five steps before we cross paths. Other times I barely get down the steps before Trent lifts his hand.
I always catch him in transit, or just as he swerves onto the pathway and falls into step with everyone else. I always catch him without even trying.
There's no box of cake mix to knock me on the shoulder, or pen taping to steal my attention. My eyes just zoom right in the same way my legs always fall into step.
That tree is dogwood, and today those jeans are Trent's. Those shorts are Trent's. Those socks are Trent's.
I get it right enough times that the hand lift becomes paired with a closed mouth I'm-not-sure-if-I-should-smile-or-not-so-I'll-give-you-something-that-resembles-frog-lips. Thankfully, somehow, Trent mimics the expression. I like to believe he even looks funnier doing it.
Then one day the pattern breaks.
Trent's a few steps and people ahead of me but still decides to hold the door when he sees we are walking into the same building. I speed up my pace to catch the gesture.
"How are you?" the question seems rhetorical, but his smile is gentle.
"Good. You?"
The space between us widens as he heads for the stairs while my sneaker squeaks as I keep walking right.
"Good." He nods.
And then we keep going only this time the smiles have changed. The pleasantries allowed for more real smiles to break out across our lips when we happen to pass each other by, and sometimes even more words leave our mouths if greetings come up.
"Hey." He nods.
"Hey." I nod back.
"Hi." I smile.
"Hi." He smiles back.
Zack has also popped up a few times, but that's nothing new. Zack may have been the one to hit me on the head with a box of cake mix, but on campus I'm always playing Whack-a-Zack.
"Whazz up?" he whispers in my ear as he passes. He never waits for my reply, but just keeps walking. Sometimes he'll throw me a smile over his shoulder. Other times he'll twist his ball cap around and joke about Stephanie's whereabouts. One time he kept talking as he walked backwards.
"Buffalo chicken lasagna, be there or be square."
"Ice cream sandwich lasagna! I can save you a piece!"
"Peas! Chicken pot pie lasagna. You know you want some."
Each time I ended up only liking the pictures Zack posted of his creations, but that brings technology back into the midst.
Funny pictures and videos from Trent that occur at any time of day and in between random meets. Only LOLs and laughing emojis are thrown into the mix of dialogue, but nothing else.
It takes a whole other week before real conversation infiltrates the mix. Sometimes classes and homework come up. Other times he recommends I watch a film on Netflix. If I find the time, I'll watch the trailers before clicking away, but a visit home for a weekend forces me to watch one with my family.
I text him only to say the movie was as good as he said but wasn't planning on the twenty-minute rant that would ensue back and forth between us. There were no pauses in response time and even some caps about how the directors could have made some characters better or changed aspects of the conflict.
It felt like merging onto an interstate. The routine is familiar, but the territory is new. Lane changes and speed limits all unknown and questionable.
It takes Stephanie being present for one of Whack-a-Zack occasions that lunch gets involved. For a couple days Trent and Zack end up pulling chairs up to our table. I may still jokingly be called a pea, but Trent and Zack are the true pod.
When it's nice outside our conversations are carried mainly by banter between Stephanie and Zack under the umbrella, but inside the student center more of Zack and Trent's friends are added to the mix because the rectangular tables are bigger.
The television show and school rants become an eight to twelve-person debate. When Megan sits beside me, we both quietly listen to the conversation together. If Stephanie and I end up next to each other, we end up having our own side conversations. And when I end up next to Savannah, I always end up laughing at all her remarks, whether their snide or not. Sometimes I snort way too loud, but Trent always remains on the opposite side of the table.
"You did not just steal one of my tomatoes," Stephanie demands.
"Oh, but I did." Zack sends her a slow wink, but that only gets him a nice cherry tomato in the eye.
At first, my gut twisted every time Trent and I would make random eye contact. Especially, when that eye contact was paired with leftover laugh smiles. That's all it'd take for my heart to turn to stone and sink down into my stomach.
The smiles are what I miss most. Every time I blink after we lock eyes a little camera flash goes off and provides me with a snapshot from before. Every little moment, every conversation, seemed so effortless. I used to replay them over and over in my head just to bask in the warmth, which over time turned into an ache.
Yet there's something about these new smiles. They are starting to feel more real.
They make the one's from a year ago seem dull and blurry. Distant and scripted. I can no longer color the memories like a paint by number. I can't trace my finger along every detail or outline every before and after.
These smiles are less tentative, less quiet. They don't end up hidden behind hands or ducked down to face the pavement. These smiles are less forgiving and more unapologetic. These smiles lead us to a little more than halfway through the semester.
The air is brisk. I can feel it in the tips of my fingers and in the tip of my nose, but the sky is way too blue to sit inside. The clouds are way too white and puffy, and the weather is way warmer than usual for this time of year.
I still can't tell the difference between low level and medium level clouds, but I do know that the cumulus clouds are the cotton balls and cirrus clouds are the wisps. Both are stark against the bright blue sky and continue to cover the sun. Every time the sun pokes out and saturates us in yellows and oranges, another cloud covers it and brings back the blues and the greys.
Trent's on one end of the black metal table while I'm on the other. The umbrellas were put away a couple of days ago, so our notebooks and lunch leftovers are the only things lying between us.
I fling my hands around. "Every dystopia is the same. Like, everyone's either already fighting each other or preparing for a fight, and there's no in between."
"Exactly!" Trent throws his hand out between us. "It's very pessimistic, you know, and violent."
"Right? I hate to think that humanity would cave in so fast, but I think it's because of natural resources. Once they're all used up . . ." I nudge my pencil with my finger. "It's every man for themselves."
"I hate that though." Trent scrubs a hand down his face as he leans forward in his seat. "I hate how that's the default for everything."
"Me too." I nod. "But what gets me is that it can all be prevented nowâlike we all can try to prevent it now and yet we don't."
"True, very true." Trent rubs his jaw as he nods. "Take Oreos for exampleâI'm serious." He smiles when I sputter out a breath. "They keep creating new flavors. Birthday cake, mintâ"
"Red velvet," I interrupt with a smile of my own.
Trent's eyes sparkle back at me as the sun pokes back out. "That's an exception."
"I should have known."
"As I was saying . . ." Trent's smile doesn't disappear even though the sun does. The right collar of his black peacoat is flipped up, but he tugs at the collar of the red sweatshirt he has underneath. "They keep creating new flavors when everyone knows the original is the bestâ"
"But!" I hold my finger up.
"Fine. The vanilla ones come in a close second."
"What? No, heads or tails," I counter.
"Tails never fails," he sing-songs, but I narrow my eyes, making him sigh and halfheartedly throws up his hands. "Fine, truce."
I jokingly nod like a business man and straighten back up in my seat, but Trent seems to do the same.
"All I'm trying to say is that you would think that an Oreo wouldn't need to be competing because in most cases it already won the raceâ"
"Chocolate chipâ"
"Most." He holds his finger up, but the puppeteer tugs at his lips. "Most cases. But instead, like you said, its every man for themselves, and that's especially true in the business world. My politics professor always said that if you don't adapt you die, and now an Oreo is not only competing against other cookies, but it's also even competing against other Oreos!"
I'm smiling at both his enthusiasm, but also at the idea of someone other than the wind overhearing us right now.
"Sorry." Trent's words are soft, and his smile is sheepish. "I'm distracting you." He gestures to the reading material we both have spread over the table.
"No, it's fine." I wave my hand as I try to remember where I left off, but all I see are the tiny black words. "Did you," I pause to finish my own internal debateâto ask or not to askâbefore I decide to just go for it because we've done this before. There's no need for qualmsâunapologetic. "Did you ever end up switching your major?"
"I did." He smiles a little. "Special education with a minor in physical education." He leans forward, his shoulders shadowing the lined pages of his notebook. "It's a lot of reading, and I'm doubling up on classes to catch up to maintain my scholarship, so it's a lot, but I'm happy cause I finally feel like I'm not only doing something for me, but also . . . for kids."
"Good." I nod as I push my hair out of my face and readjust my grip on my pencil before glancing back up. A smile tugs at my lips because the puppeteer continues to tug at Trent's. But I lean my head on my hand as we both look back down.
The wind rustles our papers and trash, but we both steady our own things before focusing back on our schoolwork. I don't know about Trent, but I go back to my high pressure and low-pressure systems.
Trent could be dealing with a high-pressure system with the way he starts biting his thumbnail. Then again, low-pressure systems can be just as heavy, if not more so, because the air rises, expands, cools, and condenses into clouds which leads to rain.
Trent's chair scrapes against the cement as he scoots up further in his seat. The inside of his right sneaker aligns with the inside of my right boot.
"Ay! Look who it is!"
Zack and I trade smiles as he pulls back the chair on my right.
"Would you believe that I, Zachary James Schmidt the third, got the last chocolate milk." He starts shaking the bottle up as the chair on my left gets scraped back.
"I want to punch my professor in the face." Stephanie huffs as she plops down with her light blue backpack on her lap.
"I told you not to take his class again," I say.
"I know, but I couldn't help it. I'm a sucker for familiarity." She pulls out her laptop.
I catch Trent's gaze, only for a split second, not even, before quickly looking away.
"Way to ditch us, hoebag." Savannah whacks the back of Stephanie's head.
"Hey!" she whines and rubs her curls in response.
Megan sends me a wave as her and Savannah lift some black metal chairs from a nearby table and bring them over.
Zack smirks at Stephanie over his chocolate milk. He takes a second to wiggle his eyebrows at me when he sees I noticed. Stephanie only rolls her eyes.
"Stop looking at me like that, Zack Attack."
"Don't be jealous, Steph-a-knees," he breathes when he finally brings the milk back down.
"I'm not," she sing-songs as she starts typing away on her laptop.
I pass a glance back down at the papers in front of me, while Zack leans down in my periphery.
"She's just jealous because I got the last chocolate milk."
"Nobody cares." She deadpans.
Zack just smiles at me before his head gets whacked, making his backwards baseball cap fly forward off his head.
"We were supposed to run lines." Bellamy glares at him as she yanks on a chair from another table. I also see red hair behind her as Sam seems to be bringing over a chair.
The circular metal table is small to begin with, but now it looks even smaller with all the different people and chairs and jackets and backpacks squished and squeezed and tilted around it.
"Sorry." He shrugs. "I needed my chocolate milk."
Megan seems to be digging around in her bag. "Do any of y'all have a pen? I let some ding-dong borrow mine last class."
Stephanie and Savannah share a look before their eyes dart to Megan.
"Y'all!" they shout, making her flinch. She looks even smaller sitting beside Trent. He's all hunched over with his forearms hovering over the table, while she's slinked back in her seat with her legs crossed.
Megan stops rustling and looks back up as if she's going to say something, but her glare does all the talking.
"Y'all?" Bellamy drawls. "Why don't y'all just wait until I round up all the church mamas and get the town to shun you into the next century witch hunt."
Everyone blinks back at her for a beat before Savannah laughs and flicks a thumb in Megan's direction. "I think you just turned Meg bi."
Bellamy and Sam share a look and a laugh. "Well, I'm as straight as my hair if it helps." Bellamy points at the short dirty blonde curls poking out of her high ponytail.
"Ha, I'm not." Stephanie grunts. "I'm as straight as a toothpick."
"We know," Savannah groans just as Zack's smirk resurfaces as he says, "good to know."
"No, you stole the last chocolate milk." Stephanie sticks her tongue out at him. He just throws his head back on a laugh.
The sun stretches back out from the clouds, warming the tops of my cheeks and the top of my head. I look down at my reading before glancing back up. Trent's eyes dart up in response.
His hair is shorter on the sides and on top, shorter than it was when we met, shorter than last week. I don't like it.
"Your hair," I blurt when the people around us seem to be sucked back into their own worlds.
"I know." He subconsciously reaches up and rubs his head.
I'm reminded of the fact that his foot is still pressed up next to mine. We're back in our own world. Just him and me across the table.
I blink and blink as everything that has happened rolls through my mind like a movie trailer. Trent stares back at me as if he can see it too. Every smile, every laugh, every touch, every kiss, has all dwindled down to this very moment.
His laugh lines. His lopsided smiles. His quiet chuckles. His cotton sweatshirts wrapped around me from behind, or his t-shirt fisted in my hand. His fingers slowly threading through mine. His hands wrapped around mine, palm to palm, to brace the cold. His lips nudging against mine turned to smiles nudging smiles. His legs taking the first step back on the pavement, patiently waiting for me to do the same. His eyes staring back at me, communicating with me, every single thing. Clear, charge to three-hundred, boom splat, shock delivered.
Boom splat.
Everything.
We stare back at each other, almost like a challenge at first. I break eye contact first, and Trent follows, but I glance back up before I can help it.
He flashes in and out. His jacket morphs into a maroon polo. His hair grows up into a spike and back down. His eyes burn the same no matter what.
"I'm Trent." A huff of air and crinkled, smiling eyes. "And I guess it's right there."
It's him, but it's not him.
It's familiar, but it's not.
It still hurts, maybe it always will, but it's also healing.
He slowly, tentatively starts to smile. I slowly, tentatively do the same. We're back in our own little world. Just him and me, but not him and me, rather it's him. It's me. Oil and water. Oxygen and Carbon dioxide. Vanilla and red velvet. Completely separate entities that can stand on their own, and yet there we were across from each other in an aisle. Here we are across from each other at the same table. His eyes burning into mine, so different, yet still so the same.
There will be no restart or rewinds.
It's not a promise of a second chance.
But I don't move my foot away and for now that's enough.
Blu - by Jon Bellion
Remind Me to Forget - Kygo (Ft Miguel)
Good Things Fall Apart - Illenium
Come Thru - Jeremy Zucker
What a Time - Julia Michaels
Red Velvet - R5
Red - Taylor Swift
Treacherous - Taylor Swift
Story of Us - Taylor Swift
Wildfire - Seafret