The Culture of Hooking Up

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

According to Taryne I'm not allowed anywhere near our dorm because, I repeat, "sad hoes aren't welcome." She even tried to pack away my juicer, but thankfully I caught her and continued to chug celery juice until I felt better. Too bad, I'm running out of celery, and I still don't feel better.

My laptop and I are hiding out on the black carpeted floor in the library in between the sociology and psychology shelves on the second floor. I purposely wanted all the energy from the great sociologists that came before me to surround me, distract me, and bleed into me and the last paper I need to write for my thick black glasses professor, who always gives short papers as opposed to multiple choice tests.

I've got one ear bud in my right ear and am halfway through my first paragraph when my left ear decides to go haywire and pick up on the conversation happening in between the shelves in front of me. I want to say those books involve mathematics and statistics, but I don't know. I do know the girls have been discussing people in between all the numbers.

"I just don't understand, you know, I thought—I don't know. I just thought she really liked me, but she just stopped answering, and I can't help but think I did something wrong," one girl whispers.

"You did nothing wrong," presumably her friend responds.

"I know, but I just keep replaying all our conversations in my head, over and over. I just don't understand. We talked about some really deep stuff, too and yet . . ." She trails off.

We've all been there.

All the flirting stops. The texts stop. The person you thought you were getting to know, the person you thought you liked, the person you thought liked you back, just stops.

"It's like she just f*cking flipped a switch."

And the ghosting is not because the person physically disappears. It's because the memories linger like semi-transparent allusions. Whether you want to hold them tight in your grasp and never let go of all the could've, would've, should've, or you'd rather burn them into the ground. They haunt you. All the potential haunts you.

We all deserve better.

We deserve the exceptions to nightclub rituals. The way a guy and a girl stand all wrapped up together as they chat with a group of friends, occasionally swaying from side to side with lazy smiles dancing across their lips. The way two guy's hold each other's hands, and one reaches up and plants a soft kiss to the other's knuckles. The way Jack managed to catch this one girl that almost fell on him. Her friend apologized as he handed the drunk girl back, who then proceeding to smother the other girl's cheek with kisses before collapsing in her arms.

We all deserve someone who not only buys you a drink but also holds it for you when your song comes on and you make a beeline for the dance floor. Someone who enjoys spinning you around and then holds your hair back when throw up into a sidewalk grate.

Jack always held the door for me and anyone who happened to walk in or out behind us. He'd always give me the window seat on the bus and occasionally nudge my leg with his, even though his eyes often looked just as sleepy, and his head looked a little too heavy for his neck.

The way Jack made conversation with the lady working at the twenty-four hour pharmacy, joking about oatmeal cookies from his childhood and telling his mom's secret ingredient, craisins instead of raisins.

The way he'd hold back on kissing me when he hadn't shaved, but laugh when I would only grab his cheeks, scratch them with my own fingernails, and enjoy the way they'd scratch against my own

The way he would always turn his head and stare at me and only me. Even if he was chatting with someone else. Even if I caught him. He never flinched and pretended to look away. He'd only smile, a small smile, that would start with only his lips, before stretching to encompass all his teeth.

Jack deserves better.