Natalie

A hand gropes-no, claws my insides, attempting to yank a vital organ out. I wouldn't mind succumbing to a battle of floating kidney. Most cases don't wander the line of severe. When they do, there is a solution, unlike the action of dislocating a heart, that is fatal and most often voluntary.

I check my phone, ensuring for the third time that my eyes aren't deceiving me. What if I can't tolerate this person, Jack? What if he's like most of the jocks in existence?

Logically, the answer is irrelevant. Connection is unlikely. I shouldn't expect otherwise from Scramble's infatuation-renowned regime. Besides, this is a get-in and get-out procedure. After the connection striving meetups, "dates" in this case, I'll score the time-consuming job, the only plus side to this extravaganza. Thumbing up, I find Winn's message written in all caps and bolded, reiterating his text last evening about the three people he's paired me with.

I always knew Sundays were horrendous.

Now, I get the conjuncture realized.

Splendid.

"Hey, are you Natalie?" Turning, a hormonal male teeters three inches taller with thick, straight black hair and angular features. His chest and arms are built while his legs remain paper thin, suggesting negligence or inexperience with weightlifting. He fits his profile for sure, a football star. Knowing my extracurricular associates, they would fawn over him.

"You're Jack Morris." I nod, reminding myself to turn my lips upward.

"Yep, so, which school you from?" Jack questions.

Opening the door for us, I answer and ask the question like a good social robot. Fizzy's line stretches to the door, and all but three tables are occupied. Winn shuffles behind the counter, shouting an incoherent phrase at green hair. His back is turned, and his buzzed head provides a key identifying factor. I don't expect this to be the best moment to say hi. I'm on a date, no, a meet up. This isn't romantic.

"You want anything?" Jack asks, still standing at the open door.

"Just water, thank you." I play another smile, the cards dwindling.

Jack grunts, then bobs his head toward a booth in the back. "Go sit down," he says, his voice tipping the line between pleasant and rude. "I'll get the drinks."

My jaw tightens. You want to stand in a line for thirty minutes alone? Be my guest, Jack.

Shifting past a screaming child and a red-faced father, I secure a vacant table against the back window and glower at some woman shooting dirty looks at the father. For a second, I consider pitching a mustard canister at her.

At the table across from me, a couple signs to each other, the woman slamming her hand against the table, jabbing her pointer. The guy's fingers dance, his mouth moving with his hands. He shakes his head and holds his palm to the woman as if he's issuing a plea deal. Her first two digits tap against her thumb. More fingers fly, the woman's facade withering with time, and the guy's attempts slow like my patience.

Funny how I'm good at being intrusive, watching people, and listening in on conversations regularly.

A screech rings in my ears. Focusing on Jack and the slew of profanities he grumbles sends my mind on a trek to oblivion. Zip your lips, bonehead. Patience is a virtue. "Can you believe it? Forty-five minutes!" Jack's rant continues, my interest dissolving seconds after a tangent about the fair in town. Finally, he collapses in the booth with a green slushie and a water bottle.

Grabbing the water from his outstretched hand, I chuck another smile card into the mix. "What position do you play?"

"I play wide receiver and occasionally full-back," Jack says, slurping his slushie. "What about you? You play soccer, don't you?"

"I do." I lean back into the booth, noting how he examined my profile as I did his. "I'm a winger."

Jack shrugs, delivering question after question, which I ask in return, receiving drawn-out versions of what could have been a seven-word sentence. Jack must trust me or has no one else to rant to. Although, I have to give Jack credit. He could have a future as a spokesperson or a politician with his passionate, lively speech and willful gestures. But he has this other side that leaks through the passion in his voice regarding football or his strong distaste for mathematics. That side is rude, prideful, and jealous.

Precisely the current circumstance, his eyes lighting up wickedly and his shoulders broadening.

"Hell, that teacher is such a slug. I haven't told anyone this but," he lowers his voice and leans in. I don't mimic him. "me and my friends TPed the teacher's car and get this. We trip-wired a whole gallon of ice water about her desk too! It was hilarious. You should have seen her face! It looked like she was gonna cry. Oh, and I think she's going to quit next week."

Jack looks at me expectantly, for me to share his laughter, maybe. I barely manage to retract my glare. His previous sentences seem to burn my insides. "This isn't going to work," I state.

"What work? The teacher quitting? We'll just get a sub." Jack shrugs, finger tapping against the table frantically. "No big deal."

No big deal? I sharply inhale. No big deal?

"You, me, being friends." I point to each of us in turn.

Jack's face screws in confusion. "It's a date," he corrects, "You're saying you don't want to go out with me again? Why?"

"I can't respect you or your actions," I reply, retracting my smile card. "That was immature and, frankly, an inefficient use of your time."

"It was a joke!" Jack exclaims. "Just a joke."

"You most likely damaged school property," I point out. Which is among countless other casualties. Who knows what other stunts you've pulled, bonehead?

Jack arches a brow, bats his eyelashes, and plasters on a charming smile. "Still a joke."

"Even you admit the teacher didn't find the joke funny." As soon as the phrase leaves my lips, instant regret plagues my stomach. This is definitely not how you win friends and influence people.

Jack shoves his chair in. "Dude, you don't have a sense of humor. It was funny," Jack emphasizes the word, "Lighten up." He's wearing a glare. With an aggravated sigh and a shake of his head, he mutters, "Just, you're right. This isn't going to work. This is how I am. If you can't accept that, then have a nice life."

He may be a stereotypical definition of the hot jock type, but if he thinks I'm going to run after him, his eyes skirt back at me, he has another thing coming. For starters, I only chase after balls in soccer. Even then, I don't. We pass.

Zipping my lips, I remain frozen. This is how I am. No. You could implement self-control and intelligence. The phrase invades my brain, rounding every corner of my less-than-thrilled mind. This is how I am. You didn't have to do that.

If I had laughed his "joke" off or used a softer tone, Jack wouldn't have stormed off. He would still be here talking. Yet again, I ruin everything. This is why I don't have friends, isn't it?

I ruin everything.

My parents would still be living in their storybook if I hadn't walked in on their argument. If Dad hadn't walked me away from her. If I had only had the decency to not eavesdrop. I may not have ruined their only chance for reconciliation. We wouldn't be threatened by a court hearing if they were still together. But not all fairy tales have happy endings, as Dad says. Infatuated love seems to be the only form of "love" on this miserable planet.

My eyes fixate on the window that dots with flicks of water. The sky is gray, like my mood, and the wind whips as quickly as I shut Jack down. I've been told that I'm too honest. It makes me think that I should keep other truths to myself. I guess that makes me more likable.

The sky flows into a light hue. Clear, everything I want my head to be.

"What's hopping, Natalie?" Winn plops into the chair before me. I startle, jarred, my shoulders tensing in protest to his contrasting mood. His smile is almost refreshing, almost. Forcing myself to inhale, I clench my fists tighter. His face doesn't break a lively formation. When I don't reply, he only continues. "I wanted to check on you. Did Jack come?" he questions.

I rest my gaze upon his eyes, nowhere else, not daring to let my mind wander. "He did." Again, swallowing seems challenging. I should leave. Now.

"Do you want to talk about it?" Winn surveys me, gently placing his head against his hand.

Unlike his previous, I have an immediate answer that shoots out like a stream of fire. "No," I say, watching him wince and pull at his sleeves. "I should go." In a hurry, I barely grasp my change-filled clutch. My chest constricts. The air seemingly sucked out of my lungs. I sprint, hiding in my car.

I don't want to talk.

With one hand on the steering wheel and another on my key, I jerk the metal in the ignition, blurring my mind. My heart seems to settle, and the tension in my stomach fades. My mind darkens to nothing, rooted in an inexplicable sense that I'm a horrible human. Which does nothing to ease the stiffness of my shoulders.

Off the bypass, I zip past the high school, the local park, and the family-owned bakery. The next street melds into a suburban neighborhood with houses constructed by cookie-cutter construction companies.

I don't want to talk... correct?

Parking in the one-car garage, my fingers automatically reach for the glove compartment, producing a package of cinnamon-flavored gum. Logically, according to multiple studies, I can force myself to relax. I pop a piece of gum into my mouth and chew. I close my eyes, take a deep breath, and look around.

The Happy Meal is gone, cleaned out yesterday, Lindsey's aux cord remains plugged into the outlet, and a styrofoam cup rests in my cup holder. There's a note attached to a Fizzy's slushie that I don't remember getting. It kicks my heart back into the ring.

Hey, I noticed you didn't seem so good. If you want to talk about it later, I'm free anytime.

Stay stoked, Winn. The note reads.

The buzz in my head sounds above all noise in a malicious triumph. Instead of producing my phone, I stare at the roof of my car.

Do I want to talk?