When fridge water starts a very deep thought

We don’t wait very long after knocking until Tanner opens the door. I know that I saw him at Christmas but considering how often I see my sisters, it feels like forever since I’ve seen him. I give him a tight hug.

I step forward to hug Emily, quite the feat considering her adorable little pregnant belly. I hear Tanner introduce himself to Grace behind me. He’s the last sibling for her to meet, now she’s met my whole family.

We settled down to chat and man I’ve missed Tanner. He has crazy strong opinions about pretty much everything and he isn’t afraid to share them. We’ve just finished discussing essential oils and how “they can’t just replace modern medicine!!!” when I ask if I can get a drink of water.

They direct me to the cup cabinet and I select a cup—or rather, a jar. It makes me smile that Tanner has adopted our family tradition of using canning jars as cups. I guess we dropped cups too often as kids, so this was Mom’s solution. We all love it now, even when we don’t drop cups anymore.

I turn around and stop short when I see the fridge. I blink.

“Oh yeah, you recognize that, huh?” Tanner says.

I do. I would know this fridge anywhere; it’s the fridge I grew up with. We got this fridge when I was six or seven and my parents still had it when I moved out.

“Did Mom and Dad give it to you?”

“Yeah, when they moved to Chicago. They didn’t want to move it and we needed a fridge so..”

I place my cup onto the water spout guy and start to fill it up, noticing the water residue lines that we could never get rid of. Pushing the cubed ice button is no help—that function broke years ago. Little crushed ice pieces are deposited into my cup. I sigh.

Once back at the table, it surprises me again when I taste the water. I know it’s stupid and it shouldn’t surprise me but man. I know this taste. It’s indescribable, but also not. It tastes like swim meets and sick days and AP tests and family dinners. It tastes like home.

Shaking the thought, I rejoin the conversation and we stay up until almost one in the morning just talking.

So it’s a very early morning the next day. But an early morning I can do. Because DISNEYLAND.

Grace and I are on our way by 8:32, only a few minutes off the time we wanted to leave. We buzz with excitement, singing along at the top of our lungs to Tangled songs and laughing. We’ve been planning this trip for months and it’s finally happening and just gah, it’s perfect. Our first adult road trip and it’s to Disneyland. Yup. Perfection.

For this first several hours, I’m so caught up in the wonder of it all. I don’t start to remember until we get to Buzz Lightyear’s ride. The last time I was here.

It was my senior trip and I didn’t have any friends left, especially since Sam decided not to go on the Disneyland trip. So I’d tagged along with Carlos’s group and they’d been so welcoming. Carlos had obliterated me in the Buzz Lightyear ride, and I’d shoved him, laughing, and he’d grinned and taken my hand.

Carlos is gay. He was also one of my best friends at the time, so it wasn’t weird.

When I obliterate Grace’s score, I remember and look down and my hands feel empty.

We’re waiting in the longest line we’ve had to wait in yet—a whopping thirty minutes. We chose a good time to come to Disneyland. Also we’re waiting for Space Mountain, so the wait time is worth it.

I glance across to Grace’s face. She meets my eyes and presses her lips together as we listen to the conversation going on behind us. That’s what we’ve been doing all day, eavesdropping, people watching. It’s the best. We’ve had an ongoing competition to find the most annoying couple, the most scantily clad person, the most interesting person, and of course any Mormons.

She turns away as the line moves forward. Her hair falls over her shoulder and she pushes it back as I know she will, tucking most of it behind her ear and then pulling out a few strands to fall in front of her ear. It’s funny how well we know each other.

And then it kinda hits me. Why the fridge water and the Carlos memory tugged at my heart so much. It hasn’t just been those though. It’s also being in California. The palm trees everywhere, the general landscape and look of the houses and feel in the air.

Familiarity.

I suppose Mom and Dad moving away from Salinas started it. I have no great love for Salinas, but it’s familiar. Visiting them in Chicago is just weird because it’s not home. I mean, it’s home, because it’s where my parents are. But Chicago is not home. It’s not where I grew up, it’s not familiar. But Salinas isn’t home either. It’s familiarity doesn’t make up for how horrifically it treated me. I suppose Provo is the closest thing I have to a home right now. It’s the most familiar thing I have that is familiar in a good way.

Still, I have such an aching for familiarity. So much so that I was willing to room with Grace again, just to have a familiar face and relationship. I’m realizing now that as much as I love Grace, we don’t always get along the best. Not that every friendship has to be happy all the time.. But she isn’t supportive of the things that I love. She goes as far as to put those things down. We talked about how much we hated it when Tiffany did it. But Grace does it too.

And that’s why I was willing to accept her apology for kinda ripping apart our relationship when she told me she didn’t want to room with me anymore because I wasn’t “social enough” for her. That hurt like nothing else, but when she apologized, I just wanted that relationship back. For the familiarity.

Thinking back further, that must’ve been the reason I kept going back to Ian. He was must first love, sure, but that made him so familiar to me.. it was comforting. It was something I knew. It was something I had to overcome.

I’ll have to overcome it with Grace too. I can’t be her best friend just because she’s familiar. I’m not saying I’m gonna ditch her or anything, that would be stupid. But living away from each other will create some healthy distance I think.

And then my attention turns to familiarity and you.

Whenever I leave after hanging out with my sisters for a while, I always get this pit in my stomach. I don’t want to leave, I don’t want to go back to whatever crap is going on in my life at the moment. It’s taken me a while to figure it out, but I think it’s the familiarity of them. They know me and I know them and there are so many references that I don’t have to explain and I’m pretty much never anxious around them and just.. familiarity is a nice thing.

I want that with you. I think one of the telltale signs I’ve found you is that feeling whenever I leave your company.

I need to be careful to not let my need for familiarity cloud my judgement, like it did with Ian, like it has with Grace.

But I can’t wait.. to have inside jokes with you. I can’t wait to learn how you kiss. I can’t wait to talk together about the stupidest and most insignificant things from our days. I can’t wait to know you and for you to know me.

But I can’t wait to be familiar with you.

I hope to God that I never pass out in front of you

Alrighty here mister, you listen up.

If I ever get the crazy idea in my head that “foot-zoning” is a good thing for me to try again..

You HAVE to stop me. My feet should not be zoned. Absolutely never.

Kristen and Lauren and I went to a Women’s Expo thing today, which was glorious and it’s ridiculous how long it’s been since I’ve seen either of them.

They had this booth about foot-zoning. Faith’s grandma does it and I thought, what’s the harm? And I signed up for a ten minute sample.

What’s the harm.

Pfft.

So the lady started chatting and rubbing my feet.

“Do you have circulation problems?” She said, all random.

Why yes I do. Renolds, where my fingers and toes turn white if I get too cold for too long (Pay attention, cuz this is something you’ll have to know about me too).

And I guess she could tell through foot-zoning? It’s a legit thing. Very very legit, as I was about to find out. She started “working my circulation” through my feet. It was going great until I started to feel nauseous. But I didn't want to be wimpy, so I just ignored it.

About a minute later, I got suuuppper light-headed and my vision started to go a little black, so I said something and she started trying to reverse whatever the heck she did. I was sure I was gonna be sick, so I ran to the trashcan.

And that’s it.

That’s all I remember.

Next thing I knew, I was waking up, sitting in my chair again, and Kristen was on the phone with 911 and the lady was waving some stupid essential oil under my nose to try to bring me to again.

It took me a couple minutes to really become responsive again, during which I learned:

I walked back from the trashcan? (I have no memory of that). And then got all pale and clammy and just kinda drooped there and passed out for two minutes.

Two. Minutes.

I guess the lady really overdid it with the circulation thing. She was trying to get more blood into my feet and she got ALL MY BLOOD INTO MY FEET.

At this point, the paramedics were already on their way, so they came and checked me out, took my blood pressure and all that.

The guy who took my pulse was actually really cute. Was that you??

And of course I was fine, my vitals were normal and whatever. They told me that if I passed out again, I should go to the ER.

Wow. Thank you for that life-changing advice.

Lauren and Kristen were all cautious around me the rest of the afternoon. Like, holding my arm as we went down stairs, asking me if I needed to sit down, buying me food to get something into me. I was being all grouchy and saying that I was fine.. but I was feeling a little weak still. We went home earlier than I think they wanted to. But they were super good about it. They even called me later tonight to make sure I was feeling okay. And to ask me how my finals went. (I hope your finals went well, if you had to take them this week).

And actually, my finals went fantastically. I'm officially done with this semester.

Moral of the story? If you want to do well on your exams, just go pass out for two minutes. 

Life-changing advice.
Please never let me do foot-zoning and know that I love you.

Fragments of the girl he loved, but an entire girl waiting to be loved by you

I can’t write to Ian anymore. I can’t do it. He’s not in my life. He’s my past. He is not my present. He’s not my future.

You are my future.

Whoever you are. I’m not sure yet. Maybe we’ve met already (why haven’t you asked me out yet??) but if not, I can’t wait.

I can’t wait to meet you, in all my glory and awkwardness.

To learn you, all your cracks and missing pieces.

To laugh with you, the quiet giggling and the kind of chuckles that make your belly ache.

To let you see me, the deepest parts of me, the parts meant only for you.

To love you. To let you love me.

I think I wrote to Ian because some part of me was still his, still wrapped in his embrace, still living for him.

I’m living for myself now. For myself and for you.

This is for you.

Ian,

April 14, 2015

      When I set out to write this, I didn’t think it would change me, but more importantly, I didn’t think it would change you.

It has.

I guess this is the first time I’ve really looked at our story my story, where you’re in it, from a broader viewpoint. It’s helped me to see a lot of different truths.

I realize that I loved you. As much as a teenager is capable of, I loved you. I want to believe that you loved me too. I think you thought you loved me. But I don’t think you actually did.

I see how manipulative you were. You were my first everything and you took advantage of that. You were loving, sure, but you also had me doing things that aren’t me—lying to my parents, ditching my friends, rebelling against a religion I know and love. Of course I have to take responsibility for my actions. But you had a (heavy) hand in it all.

It’s taken me a while to understand that those things aren’t who I am. They’re things I did, maybe even things I got comfortable doing, but they’re not me. I’m not a liar. I’m not disloyal to my friends. I’m not a rebellious Mormon.

I’m not under your influence anymore.

It’s scary to look back and see the kind of effect you had on me. You were like a drug, as cliché and awful as that sounds. You were a drug and I was addicted.

Not anymore. 

All the titles in the world can't capture this moment

December 3, 2009

I run a hand through my short curls, still a little surprised when my hand pulls free so quickly. Mrs. Ramirez is standing at the front of our little ensemble, ordering her music and rambling about the winter concert, which is an entire month away still.

I sigh down at my white t-shirt, pulling funny at one of my hips. I hold my trumpet in one hand as I reach to adjust it.

When I glance up again, something other than Mrs. Ramirez catches my eye. The bass guitarist.. what was the name again? Liam? No.. Ian.

Ian. The name lingers on my lips as my eyes linger on you. Chestnut brown hair, gelled and styled and mussed to perfection. Thin lips and a sharp jaw.. a strong nose. And those eyes.. my sister has always preached about the virtues of brown eyes—cow eyes she calls them. It’s only now that I understand what she meant. Big and brown and soft and..

Flickering to meet mine. I drop my gaze, embarrassed. But when I look up moment later, everything sharp and strong has softened with your smile. You jerk your head towards Mrs. Ramirez and roll your eyes.

I don’t even realize I’m smiling until I feel my smile widen at your gesture. We hold each other’s eyes for a moment, a minute, possibly several hours, or even days.

I’m the first one to look away, finding my peach flip-flops fascinating for a moment. But it’s not the only time in the ninety minute block that our eyes are drawn to each other’s, each time leaving me more fluttery and giddy than the last.

When class is over, I pack my trumpet into its soft case and throw my backpack over my shoulder, stepping out in to a typical cloudy Salinas day with a single word running through my mind.

Maybe.

The amount of potential we have is overwhelming

December 17, 2009

My palms are so sweaty as I step forward to take the microphone from my director. She offers me a small smile, but still, I can’t shake this nervous knot in my stomach. I’m suddenly sure I’m going to be sick.

“Good luck!” A small whisper from behind me, and even though it’s only been a couple days, I recognize the voice. Your voice.

A warm feeling overtakes me and I perform with confidence, belting out the last notes clear and high.

Your messy handwriting and stumbling words just makes me like you more

                January 9, 2010

                I’m fumbling with the lock combination when I notice a teeny corner of white sticking out from my locker. If it’s another flier about winter ball, I swear..

                The lock clicks and I pull it open and twist it off, reach up to open my locker.

                A piece of notebook paper falls out. It’s neat, folded into thirds, the little frilly edge torn off crookedly. On the front, in sloppy hand-writing, Jessica.

                What?

                Distracted, I pull out my Spanish book, realize I grabbed my math book, and try again. When I have my Spanish book in hand, I close up my locker and start down the hallway towards the 700 buildings.

                I struggle to open the letter, cursing water polo for making me keep my nails short. Long nails would make this so much simpler.

                I smooth the paper flat against my book. And read.

                Jessica,

                Well, where to start! First off let me say that you are beautiful! I’ve seen a lot of cute girls, but the first time I saw you was the first time I ever really thought, “Wow.” You have a dazzling smile and don’t even get me started on those eyes.

                This probably seems pretty random, but I broke up with Margaret a couple weeks ago and just had to tell you how awesome I think you are :) Whenever I see you, my throat closes up and I feel like I can’t speak. It sounds like a medical condition haha.. but it’s how I feel.

                I hope I didn’t just make a complete fool of myself!

                Ian

                P.S. My locker number is 281.. ya know.. just in case.

You are the first boy that's tried

January 27, 2009

But you- you work hard at it. You worm through my barriers, cutting down the walls I’ve constructed to keep anyone out. You surprise me. As you unlock my mind, you don’t recoil in disgust. You…like it. You like me. Which surprises me most of all. How well you can get through my barriers….how you accept every part of me- the good and the bad, the tired and the happy, the depressed and the smiling…..every single part. You accept it all. And you like me for being me.

It's been two and a half months and we half three thousand facebook messages

February 19^th, 8:04 pm

Ian Villegas:                                                                                                      Jessica Rosa:

Whose turn is it?

Umm, idk. Yours?

Haha okay :) I’ve been thinking
about Colbie Caillat a lot..

That’s a surprise..

Shut up! Lol do you want to hear
what song I picked or not?

Yes please :)

Okay. It’s You’ve Got Me.

Got it :) I’ll go listen to it right now!

Hang on! I need my song too!

Oh yeah huh? Okay, John Mayer,
Your Body is a Wonderland.

Okay :)

8:17 pm

Ian Villegas:                                                                                                      Jessica Rosa:
Aww I love it :)

It’s the best one so far :)

Aww you think?

Definitely :)

What about mine?

Well.. how do you mean it?

Do you like it?

As long as you don’t mean it
 in a bad way or anything

Of course not!

Okay :)

So I miss you :)

Haha you saw me yesterday!

Lol so? I’m Jessica deprived today!

I miss you too :)

You make me lose my breath a whole lot

March 14, 2010

It’s freezing. My arms are all goose-bumpy, and that has nothing to do with your fingertips drawing random patterns on my shoulder. I squeeze my arms around you a little tighter. Your white t-shirt bunches under my fingertips. I bite my lip. Squinch my eyes closed. Bite my lip again.

                It’s been fifteen minutes. Standing out here, wrapped in your embrace, bits and pieces of conversation surrounded by this nervous kind of buzz that’s not typical of us. This is different.

                I take a very deep breath in, and asfghjkl your smell. It’s not a cologne, but it’s just.. you. Gosh, that smell. Woah, sidetracked. I’ve just got to do this. I’ve just got to say it.

                “Iloveyou.”

All the air goes out of me as I realize… I can’t take it back. It’s out there now. It feels like an eternity, but it can’t be more than a breath before you respond.

                “I love you too.”

                “Yay,” I say and then immediately regret it.

                But you just chuckle and kiss the top of my head.

I'm not sure if romance makes up for the overall dampness of our evening

April 2, 2010

I glance up at you and tuck a damp t curl behind my ear. We came straight from swim championships, so I could play in the pit orchestra for the one song Mrs. Ramirez asked me to play in. I told you that you could go home, that you’d seen the play already (because you stuck it out last night and the night before just to keep me company), but you just smiled and said you wanted to stay.

You’d already stayed through a freezing cold swim regional championships—the same championships that not even my own parents would stay for. They left before my last relay because it had started pouring rain and besides it was just a relay, right?

Right. You’d stayed though, and kissed my cap for good luck and held my towel while I raced. And you’re staying again now.

My cue to join the pit crew comes and I grab my trumpet from the chair next to me. The song is brief, I’m just adding extra power behind the keyboard really, and then the play is over.

My mom isn’t due for another ten minutes, so we wait outside. It’s still freezing, but at least it’s stopped raining. You pull me into your embrace as the band starts a new song—something slow and swishy. Taking one of my hands, you hold it to your chest and lead me around in a slow dance.

I’m giddy with the romance of it all; I’m not sure I could’ve imagined this moment better if I tried. And I just want to kiss you like nothing else.

I raise onto my tiptoes, dismayed to find my five feet and four inches isn’t enough to reach your lips.

I sigh. “I’m not tall enough.”

I feel you chuckle. “For what?”

I count the seconds it takes for you to get it, one, two, three-

It’s wet.

Like, really wet.

Like dog slobber on my mouth wet.

I’m so confused. I settle back onto the ground, onto my feet. Of all the times I’ve imagined my first kiss, wet isn’t the first thing that came to mind.

Are kisses supposed to be wet?

Maybe they are and I’m just freaking out over something totally normal.

Maybe they’re not. Maybe the wetness was all my fault! Oh my gosh, did I slobber all over you? You’re probably so disgusted, you probably don’t even like me anymore.

I’m overthinking, I must be overthinking. Oh my gosh, I have to get out of here.

“My mom is probably here,” I say.

You sigh. “Alright. I’ll see you Monday though?”

I step away from you. “Of course.”

You reach out and lean down, one hand pulling my face towards yours, and give me a brief peck. At least I think it’s brief? I don’t have much to compare it to?

I blink and turn around and book it towards the school gates.

It was still wet.