Katie Taylor's Guide to Heartbreak

01: hellos and goodbyes and messy kisses under streetlamps

Maybe it's better to start without a greeting. You can't mock it if it's not there, right? Although I suppose you can't mock it at all if you never read this. That's a plus, right?

It's about the only good thing to come out of this damn mess. I'd give anything to hear you laugh at me again, though. Does that make me pathetic? Or is it just the mark of someone who knows how to care? Honestly, I think that's something created to make people who don't know how to stop caring feel better about themselves.

It shouldn't be possible to love too hard. But the universe is fucked.

I'm probably pathetic. One of the reasons I miss you so much is that you'd tell it to me, for lack of a better word, straight. (And yes, I know we banned that word, but I'm not the one with the English degree. Sorry, but synonyms were always your forte.)

–Katie

Step (Shot) One: Drink to forget.

Sub-step: Hellos and goodbyes and messy kisses under streetlamps.

Example:

You're really, really bad at parties. Classrooms are more your scene than the majority of college events, but your best friend is as wild as you are controlled, and as stubborn as anything besides. The first time he reminds you of the parties during initiation week, you roll your eyes and kick him out of your dorm. The fifteenth time, you give in, albeit with a lot of appropriately dramatic sighs.

"There's this thing called socializing, Kat," Lewis says, exasperated, and drags you along anyway. And now that you're here, well. You'd rather drink than dance. It's not so bad when you get used to the noise, right?

Two hours in and you've lost him and his friends in the crowd. That's practically a proffered olive branch, a gift-wrapped excuse for you to escape, and you're just sober enough to take it. It's getting late, anyway. You wind your way through the throng of people, apologize when your elbow ends up in a stranger's side, and you're about fifteen feet from the doorway when you look up and in your way is the prettiest girl you've seen in, well, forever.

The bass beats heavily in tandem with your heart, though you think it could be the drink talking. But alcohol or not, it definitely takes you at least three seconds to realize you've been staring, blush – though it's too dark for her to see that properly, and you'll take all the small mercies you can get at this point – and hurry back the way you came; which just so happens to be away from the exit.

You should probably add girls to the list of things you're bad at.

Once you gather you've put enough distance between yourself and any other stupidly pretty brunettes, you stop and press your back up against the wall. The plaster is cool, enough so that you're tempted to turn and press your cheeks to them – and almost drunk enough too, as well, but you settle for tilting your head back and closing your eyes. You can still feel the blush flaring there, and you just know you're not going to be able to talk to her after that debacle. You'd stared silently at her and then fled. How much of an idiot will she think you are?

Someone taps you on the shoulder. Your eyes fly open and, yes, it's that girl again, because apparently the universe hates you enough to make you relive the staring humiliation up close.

The girl tugs on the end of her dark braid, looking vaguely apologetic. "Uh, hey," she says, half-smiling.

"Hi," you say far too quickly, and wince inwardly. Just as a preventative measure, you make sure you're not looking at her eyes, but that means your eyes fall on her mouth, and, oh, this is definitely the alcohol talking. You're going to kill Lewis the next time you see him.

"I'm Jenna." She twists the curling ends of her hair around her finger and lets them go. "I, uh, saw you over there," and she gestures back towards the exit.

"Katie," you say, playing for time. You're fully aware she saw you over there. In fact, you think the image of her seeing you over there may be permanently burned into your brain because of the sheer embarrassment resulting from it. "And, I, yeah," you answer, and it comes out as dumbly as you expected. Because your autopilot mouth is about as stupid as the rest of you, you repeat your name before you realize what you're doing, and blush even more. If your back wasn't up against a wall, you're pretty sure you'd run again.

"Right," she says, smile growing wider, which is probably a hint that she's laughing at you inwardly. "Did you come here with anyone?"

That's the escape avenue you've been looking for. "Yes," you say, hoping the thankfulness isn't evident in your voice." I was just, uh, looking for them. When I went. Back there." You start to point, then realize how idiotic it will look and shove your hand back down.

"Oh, me too," Jenna says, polite enough to gloss over your awkwardness. The hand that was fiddling with her hair moves to her neck, pushing the dark ponytail off it to swing free.

She has a nice neck, you note.

You're definitely drunk.

"I don't know where they've gone, though," she adds. "You lose people in crowds like these."

"I've lost mine," you say honestly. "Went home with some guy, like, an hour ago."

She nods sympathetically. "Oh. That kind of sucks. She do that a lot, then?"

"He. And, um, no, yeah, I – I don't usually come to these."

"Oh, god, I'm sorry. I forget not to assume – bit hypocritical, I guess."

"Hypocritical?"

Jenna looks down for a second, then bites her lip and runs a hand through her hair. "Yeah," she says, and you're not imagining the smile now. "Since I'm a lesbian and all."

When she invites you out for coffee at the shop just off campus, you go, and you get her number somewhere along the way. The shop closes just after two and you sit on the curb outside it with her, nursing your hot chocolate and talking about nothing – and blushing a lot, still, but the way she smiles when you do isn't exactly conducive to stopping.

Later, she walks you back to your room. The white light over the entrance to your building is too bright and when you turn around to say goodbye to her, it blinds you for a moment.

"This was fun, Katie," she says quietly, and it's then that you notice you've stepped closer to her in turning. "And, god, I'm drunk and this feels like a good idea and you should probably stop me if –" and then she leans forward, takes your face in her hands and kisses you. You can feel your pulse, beating up a storm, and for a moment, you swear your heart stops; and then she lets you go and you step back and it starts again, but you can still feel her against you, ghost-like. She smells faintly like mint and you can taste her, milky chocolate laced with alcohol.

"Call me, okay?" she says, lips pressed together and eyes crinkled in a smile just as real as the ones you'd seen at the party. You think, maybe you can.