Every Last Word

The parking lot is practically empty. I swipe my card key across the panel, the gate clicks open, and I step inside, looking around and wondering why there’s no one here. Team practices ended hours ago, but even though it’s after eight o’clock, there are usually a few adults swimming laps when I arrive. Tonight, there’s one person in the pool. I’m relieved she isn’t in lane three.

I drop my swim bag on a chair near the edge and unzip the side pocket that holds my cap and goggles. From the main compartment, I grab my towel, and when I do, I spot my blue notebook. It’s such a nice night, so I stuffed it in here at the last minute, thinking I might sit on the lawn and write for a while after my workout.

I’ve never actually written at the pool before. My poems come to me as I’m swimming, and I put them on paper when I get home, but they never sound quite as good as they did in my head. This way, I figure I won’t lose my groove.

I’m only halfway through my workout when the other swimmer leaves the pool and heads for the outdoor shower. A few laps later, I see her unlatching the gate and disappearing into the parking lot.

I’m alone. I hop out of the pool and walk over to the chair, grab my blue notebook and a pen, and set them on the edge of the pool under the diving block.

By the end of my workout, the paper is soaked through at one corner and some of the ink is smudged, but I can still read my latest poem clearly. I add the final line and read the whole thing through, top to bottom, crossing out a word here and another there, swapping them out for better ones as I go. When I’m done, my toes are sore from sliding them back and forth against the wall, but I don’t care. This poem is actually pretty good.

I wrap myself up in my towel, jam my notebook back into my bag, rinse off in the shower, and head into the locker room to change into my sweats. I’m piling my hair into a ponytail when my phone chirps. I grab it off the counter and read the text:

you were really good today

It’s from a number that’s local but unknown. I type:

who is this?

I rest the phone on the counter next to the sink and gather the rest of my things together. I’m throwing my bag over my shoulder when the phone chirps again.

AJ

My bag slips to the floor and lands with a thud. I check the string. This isn’t a message to the whole group; it’s a message for me. My eyebrows pinch together as I reply.

hey

It’s been two weeks since that day at his house, when he taught me how to play guitar, told me about his ex-girlfriend, and we became friends and nothing more. I’m not sure what to say, so I stand there, leaning against the bathroom sink, holding the phone with both hands, and waiting for his reply. Finally one comes.

what are you up to?

I can’t really tell him that I’m standing in a semipublic bathroom, my hair still wet from the shower, wearing sweats and no makeup, so I fall back on what I was doing fifteen minutes earlier.

not much. just writing

sorry. didn’t mean to interrupt

you didn’t

I’ll let you get back, just had to tell you I really liked your poem

Yesterday, when I took the stage for the sixth time, I read a poem about unreliable friends, people you love and feel bonded to but can never truly trust. It was about feeling alone and vulnerable, and never being able to fully let your guard down. When I read it, my voice was clear and loud and direct, and I’ve never felt more confident on that stage, but I’ve never felt more exposed either. Everyone clapped and I slapped the paper on the wall, officially giving myself another contribution to Poet’s Corner. And it felt good. Really good.

thanks

I’m not sure what to say next, but I don’t want the conversation to end, so I decide to keep it going, being mysterious, or flirtatious, or maybe a little of both.

remember when you asked me if I had a favorite place to write

yeah

that’s where I am

As I type the words, I’m thinking about what AJ said that day I was alone in Poet’s Corner with him. When I asked him why everyone starts by saying where they wrote their piece, he said that the places matter, and by voicing them, they become part of the poem. I liked that idea.

I’m intrigued…

I bite my lip. Is this still friendly chatter? Or are we flirting now? He might be flirting. I’m not sure.

Just in case we are flirting, I wait for a minute before I reply, letting his words hang in the air a bit longer, keeping him “intrigued.”

are you going to tell me?

I stare at the screen for a long time, gathering my nerve to reply with the first thing that pops into my head, which is definitely flirtatious, no way around it. I leave the locker room, throw my bag down on the grass, and then sit, legs folded underneath me, thumbs hovering over the keyboard. He’s the one who keeps telling me to blurt. And blurting in a text is way easier than blurting face-to-face. Feeling shaky all over, I type:

want me to tell you or show you?

Before I can chicken out, I press SEND, and my heart starts beating faster and harder than it had been when I was swimming laps. I drop the phone on the grass and shake out my arms, wishing I could un-send that text. But I can’t. It’s out there. I can’t take it back now. Crap.

I can see the screen. There’s no response. He doesn’t know what to say. I pushed it too far. I wind my wet ponytail around my finger, feeling stupid and starting to wonder if he’s ever going to reply, when the words appear in a speech bubble on my screen:

show me.

I fall back on the grass and reach for the phone, covering my mouth with my hand to hide the stupid grin that just appeared out of nowhere. Play it cool. Play. It. Cool.

tomorrow night?

pick you up at 8

He’ll be in my car again. I start to panic about the odometer, but then I force the thought away with a nice memory of the day he sat in my passenger seat, listening to me talk about my playlists and how I named them. Telling me how he learned to play guitar, even though it was painful to hear. My parents would kill me if they knew I was driving around with passengers. So would Sue. But I can’t pass up this chance. I want him to sit in that seat again, to talk to me like he did that day.

see ya then

I stare at the screen for what feels like a long time, wondering what this whole thing means. Wondering if it means anything.

It’s not a date. It’s me showing a fellow poet where I like to write. That’s it. But the thought of bringing AJ here makes me feel giddy and light-headed. I look around the empty club, hoping it will be this quiet tomorrow night.

bring your swimsuit

I press SEND and wait until the ellipses finally appear on the screen, telling me he’s typing his reply.

I’m not sure I’m intrigued anymore

I laugh. I’m not ready for this conversation to end, so I read back through the string as if that will keep it alive, and to double-check to be sure I didn’t misread anything. I don’t think I did. He started it. I kept it going and turned a friendly check-in into something else. “It’s not a date,” I say aloud as I run my finger along the glass. “We’re friends.”

Even if that’s all we are, it’s okay. This is already more than I ever expected from AJ Olsen.