I’m in the wrong band.
This crew, making plans for trips to the beach, isn’t where I want to be.
One, fresh from his divorce and desperately lonely.
Two, an eager puppy, eyes bright and his soul grasping for attention.
Three, lost and scared, in between a boy and a man, pretending that he’s got it all together.
And me, the chick who ended up in their crew because of a bet, a need to collect stories, and wanting to feel alive.
I don’t feel alive.
My skin crawls. “No no no” broadcasting from me as the divorced one keeps talking and the puppy keeps nodding.
The boy-man reads my expression, not hidden at all in the dim light of the boathouse.
I know it’s over, the finish line I’ve felt for weeks is here.
I wasn’t supposed to be here, at this concert, with him.
My friend recognized my pattern - it was cut and run time - but convinced me I shouldn’t.
Told me it was something I needed to fix.
Going through the motions tonight while my brain, heart, and gut tell me I’m wasting my time.
The beach plans force my hand, bring the rejection to the surface.
Boy-man doesn’t want it to be over.
But only because our short connection gives him a safe harbor.
It’ll be a few weeks before I uncover the lies he’s told me.
His guilt leaving me blameless in my exit.
No closure for either of us. I cut and run.
