Views At The Lake

What's your type?" He skids his white sneakers against the parking lot gravel, playfully mimicking a kicking drill with an imaginary ball released from his feet. The motion sends puffs of dust swirling towards a nearby field where kids in front of us mimic the same move. A boy in green cleats catches their buddy's ball from a punt.

I can't help but roll my eyes at his question. This, on top of yesterday's conversation, feels like the icing on the cake. After he inquired about a guy I had mutually parted ways with, he teased, "Maybe he'll be getting some of your birthday cake." I was sitting on his piano stool while he lay on the floor, letting three of his dogs pile on top of him. It was quite a sight, watching him become one with his dogs, rolling around as they tugged at his clothes. I shook my head, chuckling. "I wouldn't go out of my way, but I'd be civil if he reached out."

His high-pitched laugh pierces my ear, his face scrunched up as one of his dogs licks the inside of his knee. He turns to his side, hugging his legs in a fetal position. I continue, trying to stifle my laughter at how silly he looks. "Unless he genuinely saw me as a friend, but we weren't really friends before we started seeing each other, so it's not like we were really friends. I don't know if guys think like that."

One of his dogs hops over his legs to their water bowl in the kitchen, allowing him to sit up straight from the floor. He raises himself, his bulging tricep muscle showing his weight has shifted from the floor to his upright arm. "Yeah, I know what you mean. I don't know how you're supposed to feel about someone you used to see."

"What do you mean?" I press, injecting a hint of sarcasm. It's not like we haven't seen each other for the past three months.

"Like sometimes it's awkward trying to talk to them if the only thing you genuinely had in common was wanting to hook up," he explains, pausing to glance up at me from the floor. "It's different when you can actually talk to them about anything, though."

That's when I realized he might not be sure how he felt about me. "Is this hitting home for you?" I venture, prompting an almost involuntary groan to escape his lips. "Why?" he retorts, clearly on edge.

"Was she from school?" The anticipation oozes from my voice, but he remains guarded, unwilling to divulge more. "She was," he concedes, reluctantly.

"Ooohh, who?" I tease, my excitement barely contained, but he remains steadfast in his defensiveness. "Why? We'd hook up every now and then, but she has zero interest in me."

"Sorry for being curious," I mutter.

"It be like that sometimes."

The uncertainty of our dynamic gnaws at me. If we're just friends, why can't he confide in me with these types of things? I'd support him in any decision, no matter how tangled or complicated. "Cheers to that, bud," I finally say, hoping to break the tension, but he rolls his eyes in response, offering a sarcastic, "Thanks, pal."

-

The silence lingers a bit too long now, as he's stopped in his tracks in the parking lot, facing his black Jeep. It jolts me back to reality from my own spiraling thoughts. Either I'm terrible at showing my feelings, or he's playing some goofy game that's making my insides feel itchy and restless. My intestines twist like the feeling of being told you'll get a refund on a delivery three weeks after you've already waited for it. Except in this case, I've waited six years. After six years of an on-and-off friendship, you'd think that after spending a few months thinking we were on the same page, he wouldn't need to ask what my type is. My type **was you. My eyes must have rolled so dramatically that he jerked his head back, looking stunned. He raises his black cup and takes another sip of water. I stare him down and squint my eyes. “Doofuses apparently.”

He lowers his glass, and I take a sip of mine from my pink thermos. The sun begins its descent, casting a warm orange glow across the lake.

"I don't know," I start, my voice carrying over the tranquil scene. "I really like Latin men who play soccer or white boys who are tall and muscular and are really funny and adventurous, outdoorsy and smart. But also humble." He nods his head, his ears still perked up, and takes a step forward towards the lake. I follow behind him, drawn into our conversation.

“-Athletes.

Honestly, I don't care about their profession as long as they're passionate. Oh, and a bonus if they have leg tats and wear pinky rings." I playfully raise my finger to emphasize the last point. "Hm". He raises an eyebrow and tucks his lips in, examining his ringless fingers. His shoulders droop a little. “That’s an interesting type. What is it about the pinky rings though?”

I shrug. It’s no dealbreaker, however, a little accessory is cute. “I like the thick ones. Just good fashion.” As we approach the edge of the shoreline, I lean against a thin tree trunk. A lone goose flaps its wings gracefully across the water, its legs dangling below, disturbing the stillness as ripples frame around its feathers.

He follows my gaze, his eyes fixed on the goose in the distance. "What else?" he asks, crouching down to pick up rocks, his hands idly playing with them.

"I like men who make me feel comfortable enough to be myself but are also blunt enough to call out my nonsense," I continue, my words spilling out before I have time to think. "I like patience.

"And men who take care of themselves. I like guys who pay attention to detail, not just book-smart but emotionally intelligent." My eyes briefly meet his, silently conveying, 'So you, then?'

He selects a large grey rock, about the size of his fist, and lets it sit in his palm. Slowly, he stands up straight, his rock cradled like a shot put. With a powerful twist of his hips and a flick of his wrist, the rock skids across the water's surface, creating a double ripple. The sudden splash startles the nearby goose, which flaps its wings and croaks as it hastily retreats.

I feel like I'm given front-row seats to watch him compete at an Ithaca track and field meet. He turns back to me, his expression a mix of pride and amusement. "Didn't mean to startle the goose," he chuckles. Sure.

"But yeah," he continues. "Not being around new people all the time is rough. But it's fine."

"It's harder to meet people when you're an adult," I sympathize, my voice tinged with understanding. "Finance bros surround me since I live in the Leather District, but I don't work with any of them."

"I was gonna say, I can picture you with some finance dude."

I shook my head. "No, I don't think so. I want to be besties with my man, and I don't think I could be besties with a finance bro." He nodded in agreement, taking a sip of the water, and I decided to take a seat by the sturdy tree trunk, gesturing for him to join me. He settled down, legs crossed.

I prodded, "Okay, it's your turn now. What's your type?"

He leaned back, eyes wandering toward the dimming sky as if he were searching for answers in the newly lit stars. "I don't really know, to be honest. Kind, funny, shorter than me," he offers a wry smile. I raise an eyebrow, chuckling slightly. "Love how I gave you an in-depth analysis, and you gave me a general overview."

With a twirl of his beard, he pondered, "Okay, uh, someone relaxed and laid back, likes to sit around and hang out. Good in the sheets is nice too," he added, matching the cheeky smirk I gave him earlier. "So, like the college girl you were missing yesterday?"

"Pretty much," he admits without hesitation.

Those words hit me like a punch in the gut, but I hid my discomfort with a forced smile. My thumbs twitched anxiously, and a wave of nausea washed over me. Stop it, Marissa, don't be melodramatic.

"-Forgot to mention doesn't like me."

“Friend to friend, you should tell her this. I don’t know why you’re telling me.”

“I kind of want to text her. But she’s told me she doesn’t want a relationship and I don’t want to embarrass myself for nothing.”

I knew he didn't reciprocate my feelings, yet the mixed signals were baffling. I understood his tendency to evade emotional entanglements, and I couldn't risk our cherished six-year friendship by confessing my feelings. I decide to play the supportive friend role by blurting out, "Who cares? Literally, no one cares; just do it. You have nothing to lose. You'll be 50 and single if you don't tell people how you feel. Sorry, that was harsh, but it's the truth." I couldn't help but acknowledge my own hypocrisy, knowing that I grappled with my emotions too.

He nodded, rolled his eyes, and turned to face me on his side. "No, I agree with you. I know I'm being a bit of a coward about it."

"Yeah, you are." I couldn't resist teasing him further.

He smiles, sighing. "It's fine; I'll figure it out."

His willingness to confide in me for once about his emotions was flattering (since yesterday was the opposite), suggesting that he might value my opinion after all. Yet, there were limits to what I could offer, I knew I wouldn't be comfortable getting into an open relationship down the line. "It's almost like you're talking to the wrong girl, bud."

He scowled. His face contorted in a mix of emotions, and he began to ruthlessly yank at the grass beneath his ankles. Each tug reflected his internal turmoil. With deliberate intent, he picked up a single strand of grass, expertly tying the ends into tight knots. His voice carried the weight of years as he revealed a piece of our shared history that had etched itself into our memories since high school. "You want to know something?"

He begins, his words dripping with sarcasm. “Since high school, all of my friends from Morris Hills know you as ‘Bird Girl’”.

The vivid memory of that day at the Randolph YMCA flooded back in a whirlwind. It was a moment when he had taken a bold leap and struck up a conversation with a quirky question: "What's your favorite species of North American bird?" That single question sparked an unconventional introduction that had left a lasting impression.

I couldn't help but quip, "That’s a good one. So I’m not known as a pal.”

“No, you are not known as a pal.” His voice lowers, now with a hint of defiance. He snapped the strand of grass in half, crumpling it in his clenched fist. It was clear that my previous remark had touched a nerve, though the reasons behind his sudden defensiveness eluded me. “So why am I known as ‘Bird Girl’?” I already know the answer, but I am curious to understand the complexity of his bitterness.

“Because when we first met and I asked you what your favorite bird was, that was the one and only time I made a stupid liner like that to get your attention.” he admitted, his voice tinged with a mix of nostalgia and self-deprecation. "And after six years, you're still here." He flung the two pieces of grass out before him, only for the wind to mockly toss them back into his lap.

The sudden change in his demeanor leaves me in deep thought. He's not short on chicks that dig him, and not lacking in friends either. Why does he perceive himself so harshly, as though he's unworthy of friendship? It's a conundrum that blows my mind. While our history bears its imperfections, I see beyond that, as do so many others who appreciate his true character.

I refrain from pressing the issue, letting silence settle between us as I divert my gaze to my own feet, lips sealed, and words left unspoken.