Page 12 of Meet Cute

Both outcomes suck.

Shiny metal doors slide open, but when I step in I find that I’m not alone in the cramped space of the elevator. One of my neighbors is standing in the corner, fiddling on her chunky phone from at least a decade ago.

“Oh!” She perks up the moment she realizes I’m here. “Hello, Duncan. How have things been for you, lately?”

Sandra's aged features twist into something warm. Her brown eyes are close in color to my own, yet they carry so much more life than mine do. In a way I’m envious of her. From what I know she has a husband and kids and all the things that mean your life mattered.

“Good.” The lie feels bitter on my tongue. I never thought of myself as a good liar, but I’ve done it my whole life. “How about you? Anything interesting?”

Her deep voice rasps as she laughs, dismissing me with a wave of her tanned hand. “Not a chance, sweetie. Just me and Harold and reruns of M*A*S*H.”

“That’s really sweet.” The doors open again and we step out into the blue patterned carpet of the first floor hallway. “I’ve been focusing on work.” Yep, work. The job I don’t have anymore.

“Really?” She grins, nudging me with a sweater-clad shoulder. “No… special someone?”

“H-Huh?”

Giggling, she beams at me like there’s a secret I’m unaware of. “The short guy with the brown hair? Kinda squirrely? Glasses and sweet eyes? He’s a cutie?”

Oh. This is obviously a misunderstanding. She probably saw him pick me up. That’s fine. I’m sure I can explain this clearly.

NINE

“He’s not my boyfriend!” The words shoot out of me with no grace at all as we enter the laundry room together. Washing machines hum as the clothes inside thump about. “...But he is pretty cute, right?”

Clearly pleased with my willingness to talk about it, Sandra winks at me. “Very! So I presume your talk with your parents went well, then?”

Barbed wire fills my throat. Opening my mouth, nothing comes out at first. “Uh… Uh… Well, n-not exactly…”

Sandra’s smile disappears in an instant, her hunched over frame appearing even smaller when her eyebrows raise up in obvious pity. “Oh, dear…”

“It’s okay.” It’s not okay. “I’ve got my friends, and my super awesome neighbors.”

Just as I thought, I suck at lying. Sandra doesn’t seem convinced at all, but she’s not like Haley, she doesn’t push. Her eyes do all the real speaking. “Well, I’m always here if you need to chat. You’re a very wonderful boy, Duncan.”

That’s enough to make me wanna cry. “T-Thank you, Sandra.” Blinking quickly to hide my tears, I turn away to carelessly dump my clothes into the washing machine.

Why was it so hard for my parents to care about me? If some lady I barely know is capable of showing me that kind of warmth, why weren’t the people who spent my entire life with me able to?

Is it me? Am I the problem? What other reason could there be? In the end, it's always a me problem. No one likes me because I’m me. I could spend the rest of my life blaming everyone else, but that wouldn’t change anything.

“Duncan…?”

Sniffling, I force myself to face her with the same warmth she gave me. “I’m fine. Thank you very much, Sandra. I’m going to head back down now. Thank you for talking with me.”

I’m sure she wants to protest, but I don’t give her a chance as I race for the stairs. I swear I wasn’t always this sensitive. The walk back to my own apartment is short, but it feels as though time itself has come to a stop.

When I push the door open a familiar cold breeze hits me. There’s no way. There’s literally no way. I stomp over to my bedroom to find that the window is open again. How? Why? I didn’t open it. It wasn’t open. I close it with a sigh, only to find that the space is oddly quiet. My usual greeter wasn’t here.

“Chalupa?” My voice is quiet, because I really don’t want what I think to be true. “Chalupa? Are you here? Come on out, buddy.”

No thud of padded paws hitting the hardwood, or the little pitter-patter of his hastened steps. My heart sinks. “Chalupa! Come on…!”

The panic finally grabs hold of me, and before I know it I’ve ripped open not only my bedroom but every other hiding spot I can think of. He’s not under the couch, he’s not sleeping in my bed, and he’s not hiding on top of the fridge.

Where the fuck is my cat?

“Chalupa!” I shout, voice breaking as I race back towards the window to pull it open. Peering my head out like a madman, my cat is nowhere to be found. What should I do when I can barely form a cohesive thought?