It was a windy Wednesday afternoon when I decided to eff my fate up. All of my finals were finished, all of my articles were edited and all grades were in. I was officially a college graduate – a bored one. I paced around my empty apartment, racking my brain for something to do…you know, besides job apps. I was lonely, which is weird for someone who’s so used to being alone. I could’ve called one of my homegirls to catch up or hang out, but I craved company – the male kind. My roster of boos and baes was so pathetically empty, though. All of a sudden, I got this idea. Peter.
Yeah, that Peter – the summer fling whom I unsuccessfully tried to morph into the real thing. Peter, who made it his hobby to tap dance around my feelings. The one who ducked dates and Skype sessions. The one who was all text and no action. The one who – time after time – kept ghosting and reappearing like it was normal. But there’s nothing wrong with trying to be friends, I rationalized internally. He has a good heart. He’s just not right for you romantically. And obvi, he wanted me back anyway. He randomly added me on Facebook a few weeks back, long after we’d stopped talking. So I extended the olive branch and requested his private page on Instagram.
A few hours later, I got a like and a comment on a photo from seven weeks ago. OMG. It was him! “Hey, I know that girl,” he said. “She’s a Howard grad too, right?” I was in the photo with a mutual friend who also sort-of dated him. He didn’t know that we knew that he talked to the both of us, though. From there, we engaged in a brief convo right underneath my photo. “Well, you have my number,” he said. “Text me or call me.” “No, I don’t anymore,” I lied with a crestfallen emoji. Because I deleted everything about you and saved your number as Asshole, asshole. We ended up exchanging numbers again and five minutes later, I got a text from the Asshole himself. “I did have you saved – first and last name” he admitted.
We caught up and he congratulated me on graduating. It was very easy and natural – we picked right up where we left off. No mention of the past – at least not yet – because it wasn’t even that serious. I was reconnecting with an old flame that could be a new friend, and I felt so grown and mature. Like a “Sex and the City” character. Who said that you can’t be friends with an ex who isn’t even really your ex because y’all technically weren’t in a relationship?! No one. And no one was going to stop me. I didn’t mention my reconnection to Peter to a member of my council of homegirls because I knew that they’d discourage me from carrying on with him. I’m a grown, degree-toting, unattached, drama-free 22-year-old who didn’t want to hear that ish. I can do this without getting hurt, I thought. Plus, he had a girlfriend whose selfies were all over his timeline. It couldn’t get that deep even if I tried.
The conversation died down and I honestly thought nothing of it until the next night when he texted me during the “Scandal” mid-season finale. We engaged in casual banter before he hit me with a plot-twister that rivaled Sally Langston killing her husband or Mama Pope rising from the ashes in a trendy trench: I miss talking to you. I never stopped thinking about you. I made a mistake. When can I see you again?
WHOA. I spit out my white wine in a totally un-Olivia way. Tf. Wasn’t HE the one who basically broke things off? And doesn’t he have a girlfriend?! I couldn’t figure out what irritated me more – the fact that he thought it’d be so easy to walk back into my life or the fact that I was genuinely curious as to what he’d have to say. I ignored my better judgment like the dummy that I am and agreed to meet him for drinks before I left D.C. next week. One last hurrah couldn’t hurt.
When she’s not watching for Blue Ivy sightings or doing some serious Facebook creeping, Khalea moonlights as a print journalism major at the REAL HU, Howard University. Follow her on Twitter at @letsbeKHAlear, or feel free to Twatch. Whatever works for you.
