You're in a hotel lobby (work in progress)

Has it really been 15 years?

My heart threatens to pound out of my chest as I fight the urge to turn and run. A reunion. Graduation was last year, wasn’t it? Yet here I am, standing in the lobby of Hotel Zsa Zsa, in a Neiman’s dress that was way too expensive, hoping for . . . what exactly?

I practice my breathing techniques, breathe in . . . breath out . . ., as I squeeze my hands together trying to keep them from shaking. Goodness, what is going on with me? If I knew it was going to be this bad, I would have said ‘forget it’ when I got the green and gold, school colors, reunion invitation in the mail.

I’m not the pimply, frizz-hair girl who walked out at graduation and didn’t look back. I have a great job as an executive assistant at a law firm. . . the bonuses are amazing, I ran my first half marathon this year, and I’ve mastered how to do my own blow out. I also have a standing gig at Ramiro’s playing piano on Friday nights. Band nerd turned late night crooner.

“Sam, is that you?”

I recognize the voice before I saw her. A genuine smile spreads on my face when I look over my shoulder and see Misty. My smile falters as I take in her bug eyes. Do I look that different?

“Yeah, it’s me,” I say turning completely to her. I lean in for the obligatory hug, letting out a sigh realizing my nervousness had subsided a bit.

“You look great,” I say as I take her in. Her blonde hair is flatiron strait with not a root in sight. Very Misty. Her purple dress has just enough glitter to be eye catching. Perfectly French-manicured fingers match her toes. The slightest baby bump is visible under the purple glitter.

“You’re going to be a mom!” I say as I cover my mouth with my hand to suppress my giggle.

“Yes,” she coos as her hands rub her tiny bump. “I’m almost 5 months with my first. I’m past the yucky phase, thank God!”

“Oh good,” I say. Misty was a cheerleader and thus hung out with the jocks in high school. The only reason she knew my name is because we were lab partners in Junior Biology. She was actually nice to me, which made the hell that was high school bearable.  

“I didn’t know you were pregnant,” I say sheepishly. “Or even married.”

“Well, you would if you would friend me on Facebook,” she says whipping out her phone from her purse. “I’ve been looking for you online. What’s your name on Facebook?”

“Uh, I don’t have a Facebook,” I say.

“You don’t?” Misty squeaks. Her eyebrows almost hit the ceiling. “Why not?” she asks.

High school wasn’t exactly a fun time for me. I ran from high school and hadn’t looked back until tonight. Not wanting to dump all my self-esteem issues after talking to someone for 2 minutes, I shrugged, “I guess I never took the time to sign up.”

“Sign up for what?”

My heart stops. I know that voice. It belongs to “that” guy. You know him. The cutest guy in the school. The cutest guy EVER. The cutest guy who was completely out of reach.

“Hi Damon,” Misty says with a little wave.

“Hey,” he nods to her. I don’t exactly remember, but I think these two were an item at some point. At least, he always seemed to be outside our Biology class junior year.

“What have you never signed up for?” Damon asked turning his soft brown eyes at me. I had to jump start my brain to get passed the fact that he was directing a question to me.

“Facebook,” I finally get out, really wishing I had a drink in my hand. My tongue felt like I licked sandpaper.

“Huh… no wonder,” he mutters. At least I thought that’s what I heard from him. I wasn’t sure because someone, I assume she was in our class, came up behind us.

“Why are you out here?” She says in a raised voice putting her arms round mine and Misty’s shoulder. “You don’t have name tags, so I’m assuming you haven’t signed in. Although everyone remembers you, Damon.”

Damon smiled as she took his arm and led him to another group who had apparently successfully signed in because they had those sticky name tags that said “Hello, I am.”

Misty and I slap on our name tags as I ask, “Where’s your husband?”

“He ran into some people he knew,” she said rolling her eyes. “Happens everywhere I go. He’s at the hotel bar.”

“Oh,” is all I say.

We walk into the ballroom with the rhythm of 90s music thumping in the air. Seven foot black and white pictures that I recognize from our yearbook are propped up on both sides of a red carpet as we make our way into the room. Memories come flooding back causing my stomach to do cartwheels.

“I remember that picture,” Misty giggles.

One of the pictures is of me.

“Oh my God!” flies out of my mouth as I stare at my black and white self. I’m wearing our god-awful green band uniform with the ridiculous feather in the headpiece, or whatever it’s called, playing my flute for all it is worth. Oh, and I remember why I’m looking off to the side too. The football team had come back onto the field after halftime and Damon was running right next to me. You can see a blurry vision of him running past right where my eyes are turned.

“Who are you looking at there?” Misty teases.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I say unable to hide my grin.

“Oh, come on,” Misty says putting her hand on her hip, “It was so obvious.”

“Again, don’t know what you’re talking about,” I say. “How about a drink? Oh, never mind.”

“I can still drink sparkling water, you know,” Misty says as she grabs my elbow and we maneuver our way through the sparse crowd. I don’t see any faces I really recognize, but it’s early.

“He works for UH football,” Misty says as we get in line at the bar. At my blank expression on her face she clarifies, “My husband. Mark. He’s a coach so there’s always meetings, and dinners, and all kinds of stuff.” She sighs and finishes with, “It’s part of the job, as he always tells me.”

“Sorry,” I say not really knowing what else I can do.

She smiles. “It’s okay. He’s a good guy.”

A couple of girls I don’t recognize come over and squeal as they see Misty. She hugs them all as I awkwardly check my phone.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Misty says in between laughs. “Sam, this is Regina, Julie, and Tiki. You remember them, right? We were all cheerleaders.”

“Sure,” I say with a smile. I kinda remember them, but these girls definitely were not in my crowd.

“I think I might have had a class with you,” one of them says.

“Probably,” I say. I turn to Misty, “Why don’t you go get a table and I’ll bring your sparkling water.”

“Oh, thanks,” she says with a sigh of relief, “My feet are starting to hurt.”

“Well no one told you to wear heels, preggo,” Regina says.

“They look fierce,” Misty says as the four of them walk off. It’s amazing how Misty turns into a completely different person when she’s around her cheer crew. It happened in high school too. That’s why we were not more than in-school friends. The memories come back of the four of them walking past me on their way to their lunch table as I stood holding my tray in the loud cafeteria. To avoid looking like a loser, I sat outside in the grass pretending to take in the sun. Kinda hard to do when it was raining.

Now here I stand all alone again, like when I was standing in the hotel lobby. Great. Standing alone is why I didn’t go to school dances. I fight the urge to dig my phone out of my purse. It’s my safety net and a convenient barrier when I don’t want to talk to anyone, or my shyness takes over. But I’m at a reunion, right?

I catch someone staring at me.

“Hi,” I say and nervously tuck my hair behind my ear.

He looks at my nametag. “Sam,” he says as if he doesn’t recognize me.

“Yes, and you’re,” I look at his nametag, but don’t need to. “Michael. I think we had senior English together.”

“That’s why you look familiar,” he says.

“She should look familiar,” Damon says coming up behind me snaking an arm around my waist. “She was one of our best flute players in the marching band.”

“You remember I was in band?” I ask honestly surprised.

“Sure,” Damon says as we step up to the bar. “What are you drinking?”

“White wine,” I say, digesting what he said. He knew I was in band, he knew my name when I got here. I thought he didn’t even know I existed.

“And a sparkling water for Misty,” I say. He smiles and nods at me. Heat flushes through my veins causing my cheeks to flare. Goodness, he’s probably engaged or, gulp, married. Calm down, girl.

“So, are you here alone or –” Michael doesn’t have a chance to finish his sentence because Damon turns and hands me my drink.

“Here’s your white wine, beautiful,” he quickly grabs the other two drinks and nods at Michael, “We have to be heading back to our table. Great to see you, Mike.”

“Yeah, you too,” he says, his eyebrows furrowed in puzzlement.

“He works at a car dealership,” Damon says as we walk towards Misty sitting with the cheer squad. 

“He’ll try to sell you a car.”

“Don’t need one,” I say stupidly as I’m following Damon. I’m not really sure what’s going on here, but I like it.

“Hey, Damon,” Tiki says as we walk up to the table where they had all sat down. There’s only one open seat, and I feel the nervousness of high school creep up along my spine. It’s night time. I don’t think I can excuse myself to go sit in the sun.

“Hey,” he says as he puts Misty’s drink down. There’s a big, football-looking guy sitting next to her. I assume he’s her husband.

“Oh, I’m sorry, babe,” football guy says to Misty as he kisses her on the cheek. “I didn’t get you a drink.”

“Meh,” she says as she takes a sip. “Mike, this is Damon and Sam.”

“Hi,” Mike says extending a hand to Damon, “Thanks for bringing my wife a drink.”

“Sure,” Damon says.

“So, how long have you two been married?” Mike asks gesturing to Damon and me.

Had I been drinking my white wine at that moment, I would have spit it out dramatically like you see on TV all the time. Instead I did nothing as I felt my cheeks flare up like that fire you see when football teams run out of the locker room onto the field.

The cackling from the cheer squad snapped me back to the present.

“That’s funny,” Tiki says with the most annoying high pitched giggle.

“We’re not married,” I say before Damon could. I know it’s ridiculous, but I had to say it first before hearing what he had to say about the idea that we could be married. “We both went to school with your wife . . . Misty  . . . and all of them,” I ramble. Please let the floor open up and swallow me whole.