Of The Same Coin

It kinda grosses me out that I’ll never know anyone fully. I can spend every waking second with them and still not know who they are. Is that not absurd? Maybe people feel that way about me, too. I do have a tendency to draw people in and then leave them just out of arms reach. I call it “protecting my peace,” but I really do it because I refuse to let anyone that close to my heart. What if they take it and never return it?

Jessica calls me paranoid, but I’ve seen just about every romantic movie to know that even though they have a happy ending, there’s a tremendous amount of heartache to get there. Also, they’re movies and completely fictional. Love is easy, but people make it damn near impossible. I see no point in getting that close to someone and having them break my heart into pieces. They couldn’t get Humpty Dumpty back together again. They damn sure can’t get Audrey Abrams together.

I inhale the lavender and cotton sheets scent burning through the apartment. It burns my nostrils, but Jessica is insistent that we use it all before burning my cinnamon apple candle that I’ve been dying to use. They say opposition in best friends is good because of balance, but sometimes I want to push her off the cliff and enjoy the comforts of just me. I guess that’s a normal feeling after being attached since grade school...right?

She’s gone for the weekend since Gabe surprised her with a Valentine’s Day getaway. Their relationship makes me nauseous, but I may just be anti-love. Dating the same person since high school seems lame to me. How do I know this is the person I want to spend the rest of my life with if I never experience anyone else? Forever seems like such a long time to be tied to one human being. But, hey. Jess & Gabe are as in love now as they were when we were 15. I used to wish this for me, but that wish died once I got to college and realized no guy wanted anything remotely serious. Mother calls me a pessimist and I’ll admit I am. I wasn’t always this way, but things that hurt me only make my heart grow harder. I’d rather be protected than be in love.

Both Jess and mother will be proud of me, though. I took it upon myself to say yes to a date with a guy I met at the coffee shop. If I’m being honest, I mostly said yes because I saw him reading Catcher in the Rye and it’s easily a top five book for me. Plus, I didn’t want to stay in on Valentine’s Day for a fifth year and watch my usual reruns while eating Reese’s cups. The least I could do is try and have a good time with a stranger who seemed mostly okay.

Hopefully he’s more than okay because it’ll make stabbing my eyes out with eyeliner worth it. These girls on YouTube make it look so damn easy. Shoot, even my fourteen-year-old sister can probably do this. This is what I get for thinking I was edgy and going against the grain by looking natural and covering all my skin in high school. Now I’m a junior in college and can’t do basic, girly things for small outings. Truly, it’s pathetic.

My recent hair chopping proves effective. One less thing I need to do by having a buzz cut. Sometimes, I think I look like an egg, but if eggs were as cute as I am…man, just imagine. I blink some mascara onto my lashes, hoping they highlight the grey in my eyes. I trace my lips with a nude lipstick, spray some of Jess’s perfume, and head for the car. We’re going to some coffee night event that lets local and aspiring artists perform. I have half a mind to go up on stage and recite a poem. It may make him run away after I’m done reading. Is that self-sabotage?

I park the car and head for the door. It dawns on me that neither of us asked for the other’s number or any form of contact information. Hopefully he remembers what I look like because the only thing I can recall is that we have similar eyes. If he wears shades inside, then I am absolutely screwed.

I grab a table in the corner with two, oversized fluffy chairs and a small table made from a tree stump. The entire aesthetic of the shop feels like a crossover between Pixie Hollow and an old, retro-vibing café. Massive, purple curtains drape the floor to ceiling windows. The wooden floors are covered with a multitude of different animal-printed carpets. (Whoever decided carpets should be placed over wood floors is a monster and should be in jail.) The stage is against the only exposed brick wall and lined with white, Christmas lights. The only thing that remotely looks up to date is the actual coffee stand in the far corner, and even that has been touched by the Pixie Hollow fairies and graced with a canopy of leaves and glitter. As an art major, I respect creative expression. But as a human being who understands color combinations, I hate this place. I wish I was attracted to boring guys who just punch numbers all day and laugh at math jokes that go way over my head.

A girl dressed from head to toe in black takes the stage and begins reading from a crumbled piece of paper. I’ve always admired people with confidence like this. The vulnerability to share something so personal and not know how others will react is terrifying. What if they hate it? What if they think you’re weirder than you already believe you are and then your self-hate just deepens? Maybe the people who are confident like her don’t hate themselves. That’s something I cannot even begin to imag—

“Oh, sorry!” he rubs the back of his neck. “I didn’t mean to scare you. I just wanted to let you know I got here.”

My heart is racing faster than a racehorse, but I don’t want him to think I’m uncool. I clear my throat to stifle the anxiety. “It’s totally fine. I’m happy you made it.” I stand up and wrap one arm around his neck for a hug. He smells like coconuts and cucumbers.

“Yeah, of course,” he says, hugging me back. “I couldn’t ask you to come to this and then not show. How lame would that have been?”

“Totally lame,” I laugh. Why? Why would that be the thing you respond with, Drey?

He takes a seat next to me.

“This is, uh…” I clear my throat. “…a really interesting place. I’ve never been to a coffee shop like it.”

“Right!? That’s why I wanted to bring you here. It’s different, but cool. That’s a combination I’m familiar with.” He smiles and exposes two straight lines of pearly, white teeth. I’m in awe, I’ve never seen teeth so perfect.

“This is awful, but can you tell me your name again?” My cheeks flush. I’m definitely nailing this date right now.

“You know, I don’t know if I even told you. I was so excited to ask you out.” He side smiles and exposes a dimple. “It’s Hartman…and you’re…”

“Audrey, but most people call me Drey.”

“Drey,” he says, “I like that. It’s cute.”

If I still had long hair, this would be the moment I tuck it behind my ear. Instead, I fiddle with my rings in hopes that he doesn’t notice how smiley I am. I love love. I just hate the possibility of me falling into it.

“Thank you. I find Audrey a little too girly. Drey, though, she’s pretty badass. Hartman. That’s such a unique name.”

“Yeah, um,” he clears his throat, “it’s actually my biological dad’s family name. I’m adopted, but my parents wanted me to still feel connected, so they went with Hartman.”

“Wait, no way!” the excitement in my voice is almost nauseating. “I’m adopted, too!”

“Seriously!?”

“Yeah,” I laugh. “I don’t know my biological dad, though. So, that’s pretty cool that you do.”

“I guess so, yeah.” Hartman looks around the café. “Enough about my boring name. Are you thirsty? We should get some coffee or something.”

“Definitely. I’m coming with you, though. I don’t know if you’ll try to poison me or something.” I smile and laugh just enough that he knows I’m joking, but also completely serious. Do you know how many women go on first dates and either don’t make it home or are harmed in the process of trying to get there? Far too many.

“If I poisoned you, I would’ve waited until further into the date. I just got here.” He grabs my hand and heads for the drinks. His hand is soggy, the way bread is when you leave it touching your runny eggs. It grosses me out.

Hartman exchanges a few words with the barista. They giggle in unison and it’s evident they are familiar with each other. She passes him two cups filled nearly to the brim and shoos us away. The way boys act during first dates humors me. They try so hard to impress their partner, I know it must make them uncomfortable. It’s not just human boys who do the most. Male peacocks are the same way—flailing their beautiful feathers to draw the attention of a female. If Hartman had feathers, I know he’d be shaking them side to side right now.

“I got you their house special because it’s different and tonight is all about experience.” He lifts his cup and clinks mine. “So, cheers to that!”

I clink my cup against his and sip. It is absolutely disgusting, but I hear my mother’s voice in my head telling me to not complain about something so trivial. There are kids dying around me…I need to be more grateful.

“Okay, so tell me,” Hartman says and sets his cup on a coaster.

“Tell you what?”

“Any and everything!”

“That is such a broad statement.”

“You’re right, okay.” he taps a finger under his chin. “I don’t like the basic questions most people ask because they don’t matter on a larger scale, right? So, how about you tell me what it is that you do.”

“What I do?” I sit my drink down next to his.

“Yes, what you do!”

“That’s still such a broad question. What do I do for a living? What do I do for the world? What do you mean by that?” I cross my legs and rest my arms on top. It is awful, but I enjoy watching men squirm. Like birds before they swallow their worms whole, the adrenaline makes my mouth water.

“Well,” he clears his throat, “I guess I mean what is it that you do in your day-to-day life?”

“I’m an art major in college. Most of my days are homework, studying, crafting, and reading. It’s nothing too serious.”

“Nothing too serious?! That is definitely serious! There aren’t enough artists in this drab world. You all make life so much more colorful.”

“You wouldn’t say that if you saw my work.” I laugh and his eyes widen. “Well, art is subjective, right? We appreciate art from varying artists because it’s so unique and specific to its creator. You believe I add to making life more colorful because you’ve decided that I’m a bubbly and colorful person.” I smirk. “But I am not. I make dark art that makes most cringe. It makes me happy.”

“Creating art that makes people uncomfortable makes you happy?”

“Yes.”

He shakes the hair from his eyes. “Elaborate, please.”

“We should never be comfortable. Comfortable makes us complicit and what good are we to ourselves, and better yet, the world if we are? We grow when we’re uncomfortable. Life is real when we’re forced to step outside the perimeters we once knew. It bothers me that humans are so stagnant. And it bothers me that most feel the world has to be seen in bright colors to be beautiful. Why can’t we see the beauty in the shadows?”

Hartman keeps his eyes locked with mine while he grabs his coffee. He sips, pauses, sips again, and sets it down.

“You think I’m crazy, don’t you?”

“Not at all. I think you may be the sanest person I now know.”

I want to swallow the big ass smile that’s forming on my lips right now. The audacity of this boy to fill my mind, and worse! To fill my heart with such kind words. I shrug. “I don’t know about sane, but I enjoy seeing life from these eyes.”

“Are your parents artists?”

“They’re both math people. But my biological mom is.”

“Yeah, my parents teach and do construction. Both things I have no interest in.”

“What do you have interest in?”

“I love music.” The lights from the coffee bar create little sparkles in his eyes. “My birth mom is an artist, too, so I’m pretty sure I get that love from her. I assume so, anyway, because my parents don’t really understand music.”

I snort. Oh my god, I snorted in front of a stranger. “Sorry,” I say and cover my mouth so the snorting stops.

“No,” Hartman starts laughing. “It’s funny! Music is a universal language, and my parents don’t understand it. That’s hilarious.”

“I guess I just don’t understand how anyone could be confused about things that make them feel.”

“Well, isn’t that just it? Most people don’t want to feel. Being numb is so much easier than having to feel the intensities of life.”

We let the silence dance between us. Could it be possible that the universe is giving me someone who can see life through a similar lens? And better yet, is doing so on the weekend dedicated to love?

“Okay, so tell me.” I shift my weight into my right hip and recross my ankles. “This is gonna get personal, so if it makes you uncomfortable to answer, don’t.”

“Are you about to ask if I’m circumcised or something?” Hartman smiles from the side of his mouth.

“It humors me that men try so hard to exude their heterosexual masculinity but say some of the most perverse things and then get upset when their sexuality is questioned.” I roll my eyes. “I am curious now. So, since you brought it to the table…are you?”

He laughs.

“I’m serious! If I brought the topic up, it’d be solely to brag and inform my potential, future partner about my friend living in my pants.”

He laughs again. “A friend living in your pants?! Drey, are you five?”

I shake my head and attempt to stifle my laugh. “Sometimes, yes. But tonight, I’ve brought my most adult self. You raised the question, so obviously you want to talk about your dick…which absolutely does not make me question how often you think about it.” I smile.

“I’m not circumcised, and I may think about my dick often.”

The laugh that escapes my mouth makes me want to run back home and bury my head into all sixteen of my pillows. I can count the number of times a laugh has started in my core and left my lips in a lion’s roar. Tonight makes four.

“If any guy tells you he doesn’t think about it often, he’s a liar. I’m not joking! A definite liar and you should stay clear of him.” Hartman brushes the hair from his eyes and grins. “But tell me. What was your actual question?”

I wipe the beads of tears in my eyes and swallow the air I wasn’t breathing. “I just wanted to know how much you knew about your birth mom.”

“Oh…”

“That’s why I said if it’s too personal, you don’t have to answer.” I shift the weight into my other hip. Way to go, Drey. Making a man uncomfortable…again…and enjoying that you’re doing it. You’re sick, I swear.

“No, actually…I enjoy talking about her. I don’t get the opportunity often, and I feel bad talking about her with my mom because I don’t want her to think that I’d rather be with my biological mom instead.”

“Do you?” Oh, come on, Drey!

“Sometimes,” Hartman swallows. “I mean, doesn’t every adopted kid wish or want to be with their actual parent? And mine seems so cool. She’s in Los Angeles and she’s some big shot artist out there just loving life.”

“Wait, no way! Mine is, too.” I pull out my phone. “Shoot, I actually deleted my Instagram this week. I was gonna show you her work.”

Hartman scoots back to look at me. “You follow her?”

I nod.

“Does she follow you back?”

I shake my head. “She has so many followers. I don’t even think she knows who I am.”

“And that…” he clears his throat.

“It doesn’t bother me, no,” I say and give a small smile.

“I don’t know how you do that. I can’t bring myself to follow her. I just don’t get it.”

“You don’t get how she could give you up and then continue living her life?” For fucks sake, Drey! Reel it in.

“Exactly.” Hartman looks over to the duo performing a cover of Chasing Cars. The song is 12 years old now. We should lay it to rest.

“I understand that. I felt that way for the longest time.”

“What changed?”

I shrug. “Once I got to college, I started pouring myself fully into art. It became something I couldn’t live without, you know? It’s so cheesy, but I started to feel as if art and I were deeply connected; if I couldn’t do art, I just couldn’t live.”

Hartman raises his eyebrows.

“Listen, I know it sounds dramatic, but that’s what it felt like then and definitely feels like now. So, I stopped hating and resenting my mom because I felt like I understood why she did it.”

“You don’t feel like she chose her artist life over you?”

I shake my head. “I used to, sure. Don’t most kids who are given up for adoption feel like their parent chose something over them? But like I said. Once I realized how much I loved art and couldn’t see myself without it, I began to forgive her. Every now and then I get upset, but everything happens for a reason, right? I think I’m probably better off watching her from a distance than watching her in a crowded room explaining the reasons she chose color palettes.”

Hartman laughs. “Mine is a visual artist, too.” He pulls out his phone. “Show me her page.”

I type in her username. “My favorite piece is one of her older ones.” I start scrolling. “It’s one with a big circle and then smaller ones on the opposing side.” I stare at it before showing him. “It makes me think that she’s the bigger circle and all the smaller ones are things she’s leaving behind.” I look up to meet Hartman’s eyes that are now swelling with tears. “Dude, wait. Don’t cry! I know it’s beautiful, but not tear worthy.”

Hartman snatches his phone from my hand and storms for the door.

“Wait, Hartman!” I grab my jacket and chase after him. Me, Audrey Abrams, chasing after a guy at a coffee night. Who the hell am I tonight?

He’s hunched over on the curb, head in the palms of his hands, tapping his toes.

I reach to touch his shoulder, but he pulls away. “What just happened?” I ask and sit on the curb next to him.

He lifts his head, eyes red the way I used to look when I smoked too much weed between classes. “Drey…your mom…” he bites his lip.

“Makes really good art that makes you cry?” I force a laugh. This is not the type of uncomfortable I enjoy. His uncomfortableness makes me uncomfortable, and me uncomfortable makes my mouth shit bricks…figuratively speaking, but I bet I could actually do it.

“No, she…” he swallows and wipes his eyes. “Eliza Simmons is my mom, too.”

I blink so hard I feel my eyes will either fall out or get stuck. “No,” I say. I shake my head and laugh a laugh I have never heard come from my throat. “Eliza Simmons is my mother. If she was yours, well, that would mean that I’m on a date right now with my—”

“—with your brother. Yeah.”