A Late Bloomer, Chapter 3
Melanie has a job she hates, anemia, and a horrible relationship with her father. She’s a little judgmental and she probably needs therapy. This is, A Late Bloomer. New chapter every Friday night.
The first day of this conference isn’t going as badly as I thought it would.
Actually, I should stop lying to myself. It’s a little bit annoying if I’m being honest.
I’m tired of sounding like a curmudgeon, but it’s true. Everyone here is just too much. Too happy. It feels fake.
Or maybe I’m just the only one who isn’t happy. That could also be possible.
To be the only one in the sea of happiness with a dark cloud over you is kind of a bummer, but it’s me right now. That’s my cloud, she has a name, and I need to own it, even if I want to slap a smile on my face and act like I’m okay.
I promised myself that I’d start being more honest, so I’m trying to do just that. Even if it makes me sound like an angry bird all the time. Sometimes the truth is uncomfortable.
It doesn’t help that I generally don’t like large gatherings either. They give me headaches, and I usually leave with a disease from someone who doesn’t like to wash their hands and is always the first in buffet lines to contaminate us all.
This conference isn’t totally valueless, though.
I’ve been learning that we, as a group of professionals, often work with a glass-half-full mentality. We always have to do more with less, and our managers usually have no idea how to manage us.
Ha! This is the story of my life.
In a lot of ways, I’ve had to do more with less. I’ve had to leave bits and pieces of my life to people who have no idea what to do, and I‘m always expected to look on the bright side. To give others the benefit of the doubt, making me have to doubt my intuition in return. The last time I did that, I was hurt pretty badly.
So no, this experience isn’t totally valueless, but it could have definitely been an email.
Having been lost in my thoughts, I didn’t realize that walking right toward my table was Ponytail, the gorgeous guy from yesterday.
As he gets closer, I can see his smile even better. “Melanie,” he said my name like he’s happy to see me or something.
Ditto Ponytail, ditto.
“Hi,” I try to say with more energy than I have at the moment.
“So you’re at this conference too? Did you have to travel far?”
I nod and watch him sit down across from me, “I’m from Ohio.”
His eyebrows raise as if he’s surprised. “Ohio?”
“Ohio.” I give another nod, and I can’t help but tilt my head curiously. “Where are you from?”
“I’m from Ohio, too, Columbus actually.”
This time, my eyebrows raise, “I’m from Columbus.”
Now, I’m looking at him sideways. Did this man read my address off my ID?
“Interesting. I’ve never seen you around before.”
“Well, Columbus is a big place.” I shrug, eyeing him suspiciously.
“I suppose. Which part are you from?”
“I’d assume you knew that since you clearly read my ID.” I throw out, but immediately regret it. No, I have to stand in this.
I can hear the therapist I probably need now. “Accept the consequences of your actions, Melanie. You have to live with your choice of words.”
“You really think I’d do that?” He seems offended.
I shrugged again. “Well, I don’t really know you, so yes. You totally could, and that’s fine if that’s your prerogative, but this is as far as you’ll get with that game.”
“I’m not playing a game.” I must look unconvinced because he insisted again, “I’m not playing a game. I’m not like that.” His neck is turning red.
“Well, what am I supposed to think?” I challenged.
Truly, what am I supposed to think when a total stranger, albeit a hot stranger, is coincidentally from the same place as me, had the chance see my ID, and just so happens to run into me here? This wouldn’t be the first time someone followed me from one place to another under the guise of a coincidence, when in reality it was on purpose, and then that person found a way to hurt me.
I could see the wheels turning in his head. My eyes squint, and I won’t back down.
Where is it?
Where is his real intent?
I’m not seeing it.
His posture relaxes, and his eyes soften. “I hear you.” He acquiesces. “Look, I’m really sorry. I get how this looks, but I promise you I only saw your name on your ID. Nothing else.”
Maybe he’s telling the truth.
“Here, check my phone,” he shakily grabs his phone out of his pocket, unlocks it, and hands it to me, “check my photos, texts, anything you want. I didn’t save any of your information.”
Oh shit.
His hand hangs in the space between us.
Did I go too far?
“I promise.”
Shit.
Shit, Melanie!
I stare at his phone. Screen bright and open for me to investigate.
“I’m sorry,” I whispered. I could feel the sting of embarrassment behind my eyes. For some reason, I believe him, and that worries me.
“Please, check.” He wasn’t being condescending. He wants me to look. “I get it; I really do.” He said in earnest, his eyes unguarded and hopeful. When I shook my head at myself and this entire situation, I could see a dejected look cover his face.
Oh, Ponytail.
“Again, I’m sorry.” He didn’t try to explain anymore and started to get up.
“Wait, I’m the one who should be sorry. I jumped to conclusions.” A sigh ripped through me, “Old habits die hard, I guess.”
His curious eyes met mine, evaluating me and he decided to stay seated.
Rubbing the back of his neck, he huffed a laugh, “Can we start over?”
I nod, excited that I didn’t ruin this with my well-founded paranoia. I cleared my throat and reached my hand across the table, “Hi, I’m Melanie.”
“Hi, Melanie,” his warm voice relieved the last bit of tension in me and he encased my hand with his, gently shaking it. “I’m Chris.”
I know I’m smiling like an idiot, but so is he.
If you’re writing and don’t want to be alone on your writing journey, welcome!
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“Protect your story, but share how you got there.” - My words that my Substack will live by.