Chapter 1
I REMEMBER MY first boyfriend. He was a little chunky, a lot handsome, and he serenaded me with a splash of yellow and violet wildflowers. He had blue eyes like my mother’s, and I thought he was kind of gross because he was a boy. All I knew of boys came from my father, who wears suits to the grocery store and polishes his church shoes every single morning until they’re shiny black. And this boy, this boy who had obvious feelings for me in that way adults usually succumb to, was anything but my father, whom I hold in the highest regard.
The little boy was like a rocket blasting into outer space. He was the class wild child, raised on caffeine and action, and he smelled like prepubescent sweat and dirty socks. What was worse was the fact that he wrote me a love letter when we were in the first grade. It wasn’t like him, and that surprised me, Teresa Flores, the little go-getter who did what she was told. That girl was infamous for wearing big, hideous bows that most Southern girls are forced to don because of their old school sorority mothers. I’m still shocked that anybody would find me attractive in the first place. That bow…
The love letter was cute, but there were a lot of misspellings, and when I found the note years later, I laughed at the fact that first grade Teresa Flores had corrected his mistakes in red ink.
Dear Tessa,
I think you are as prettie as your hair.
That’s why I always have to stair.
You make me feel warm inside,
And it’s like a car ride.
I want you to no,
That these feelings just won’t go.
I like you, Tessa Flowers,
Even when it showers.
Then I know your the only sunshine.
The letter was stuffed into an envelope along with dead pink flowers that left a serene scent with the declaration of his love. I was shocked to open up my desk and find the letter, addressed to me, and I was even more surprised when I found out it was Elliot Blake who’d written it. The wild kid with a penchant for tossing paper planes at the back of my neck was actually in love with me?
And there was a bouquet of wildflowers to make things a little more intense.
And so I found myself on the playground, holding out the letter to all my friends, who passed it around like they’d later pass around the bottle. There were endless snickers.
“Tessa, do you know that Elliot wrote this?”
“Tessa’s got a crush on Elliot”
“Poor Elliot, poor Elliot.”
“Thinks he can get a girl like Tessa? No way!”
Now, mind you, this was only fourth grade. I wasn’t particularly special. I just knew how to be social, how to be loud, how to force people to congregate around me. I’m not saying that because I’m too fond of myself, because it’s actually not a gift. It’s just how things have always been. Some people are naturally independent, free-thinking individualists, like my sister, Miranda; there are others who are more dependent, but still prefer a small cluster of friends and family, like my sister, Kristina; and then there’s me, the loud, obnoxious, social one.
Until very recently.
Trust me, I remember the boyfriend with whom I fell in love. I remember him like the back of my hand, like the makeup regimen I’ve practiced since I was fifteen-years-young. I remember our love like it was yesterday, and I remember how he hurt me like it was today and not a year ago. The simple truth is that I wish I was more like my sisters, who go about love like it’s a marathon, where I go at it like it’s a sprint. They both have found the loves of their lives: Kristina’s with a hotshot attorney, and they’re planning the wedding, while Miranda met a Californian hotshot doctor, and they raced off to Africa to get married. They treated love with respect and care, and I went about it the wrong way, and I got burned. Flayed really, like my favorite mahi mahi.
It wasn’t fate. It wasn’t real, or Alex would still be here. He wouldn’t have pretended like he loved me and then up and left for Boston, his hometown, without my coming with him. All those years, dedicated to the upkeep and maintenance of our faux relationship, and he left without a proper farewell.
The boy I loved is now the boy I hate. And I still love him, because I hate him, and it kills me every day. It kills me when I look at my sisters and their men; it kills me when I see my parents; it kills me when I see couples on Instagram, when I hear my friends complain about their boyfriends, when my coworkers only read romance books to satisfy that missing component.
“Just download a Tinder account, Tessa!”
It kills me because I wanted nothing more in this life than to marry, pop out some kids, and write a blog about it.
Am I a proper feminist? Burn me like a witch, please. I learned a year ago that honesty is the best policy, and I don’t want to sit around and talk about my feelings. I don’t want to obsess when things went wrong, but they did, and I’ve got my life now to answer for it. Instead of engagement announcements and wedding cakes, I’ve got a hideous tabby cat, a smelly suburban apartment, and a crabby temperament.
And if we’re being honest, the Teresa Flores of today wants nothing to do with marriage, children, or writing a blog about my feelings.
But here I am, and why not have a little fun?
Bring it on, blind date.
