I'm Scared of Heights | ONC 2023 ✔️

7) The Sky is Gray

Natalie

A hand gropes-no, claws my insides, attempting to yank a vital organ out. I wouldn't mind succumbing to a battle of floating kidney. Most cases don't wander the line of severe. When they do, there is a solution, unlike the action of dislocating a heart, that is fatal and most often voluntary.

I check my phone, ensuring for the third time that my eyes aren't deceiving me. What if I can't tolerate this person, Jack? What if he's like most of the jocks in existence?

Logically, the answer is irrelevant. Connection is unlikely. I shouldn't expect otherwise from Scramble's infatuation-renowned regime. Besides, this is a get-in and get-out procedure. After the connection striving meetups, "dates" in this case, I'll score the time-consuming job, the only plus side to this extravaganza. Thumbing up, I find Winn's message written in all caps and bolded, reiterating his text last evening about the three people he's paired me with.

I always knew Sundays were horrendous.

Now, I get the conjuncture realized.

Splendid.

"Hey, are you Natalie?" Turning, a hormonal male teeters three inches taller with thick, straight black hair and angular features. His chest and arms are built while his legs remain paper thin, suggesting negligence or inexperience with weightlifting. He fits his profile for sure, a football star. Knowing my extracurricular associates, they would fawn over him.

"You're Jack Morris." I nod, reminding myself to turn my lips upward.

"Yep, so, which school you from?" Jack questions.

Opening the door for us, I answer and ask the question like a good social robot. Fizzy's line stretches to the door, and all but three tables are occupied. Winn shuffles behind the counter, shouting an incoherent phrase at green hair. His back is turned, and his buzzed head provides a key identifying factor. I don't expect this to be the best moment to say hi. I'm on a date, no, a meet up. This isn't romantic.

"You want anything?" Jack asks, still standing at the open door.

"Just water, thank you." I play another smile, the cards dwindling.

Jack grunts, then bobs his head toward a booth in the back. "Go sit down," he says, his voice tipping the line between pleasant and rude. "I'll get the drinks."

My jaw tightens. You want to stand in a line for thirty minutes alone? Be my guest, Jack.

Shifting past a screaming child and a red-faced father, I secure a vacant table against the back window and glower at some woman shooting dirty looks at the father. For a second, I consider pitching a mustard canister at her.

At the table across from me, a couple signs to each other, the woman slamming her hand against the table, jabbing her pointer. The guy's fingers dance, his mouth moving with his hands. He shakes his head and holds his palm to the woman as if he's issuing a plea deal. Her first two digits tap against her thumb. More fingers fly, the woman's facade withering with time, and the guy's attempts slow like my patience.

Funny how I'm good at being intrusive, watching people, and listening in on conversations regularly.

A screech rings in my ears. Focusing on Jack and the slew of profanities he grumbles sends my mind on a trek to oblivion. Zip your lips, bonehead. Patience is a virtue. "Can you believe it? Forty-five minutes!" Jack's rant continues, my interest dissolving seconds after a tangent about the fair in town. Finally, he collapses in the booth with a green slushie and a water bottle.

Grabbing the water from his outstretched hand, I chuck another smile card into the mix. "What position do you play?"

"I play wide receiver and occasionally full-back," Jack says, slurping his slushie. "What about you? You play soccer, don't you?"