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From that moment on, a kind of peace settled over me that I’d never known was possible. Ken’s promise to marry me felt like a security blanket, comforting my restless, wayward soul. I’d spent my whole life searching for my future. Aggressively. Obsessively. What would I do? Who would I be? Who would I marry? Where would I live? Every morning, I would wake up and resume my quest for adulthood, and every night, I would go to bed, discouraged and frustrated and exhausted from trying to claw my way out of the quicksand of adolescence. But, just as I’d begun to lose hope, Ken had reached in with both arms and dug me out. He’d dusted me off. And he’d whispered the answers I’d been searching for as we stood together, admiring our future.
We fell into a natural rhythm that weekend, finding our new normal. Ken did the dishes. I did the laundry. Ken did the yard work. I sat on the bench swing in the gazebo and smoked while I watched him do the yard work. Ken did the grocery shopping. I went with him but was not allowed to touch, look at, or even think about adding anything to the cart unless he had a coupon for it or it was on “a good sale.”
On Monday morning, I woke to the sound of my alarm clock instead of the sensation of being burned alive, and when I curled up against Ken’s back and told him I loved him, he squeezed my hand and said, “I love you, too.”
I floated to school on a magic carpet woven from angel feathers and unicorn manes. I sailed through my classes on a fabric softener–scented breeze. And, as I skipped to the subway station that afternoon, eager to get back home to my betrothed, my phone damn near exploded in my purse.
Whistles and chimes and dings and doodle-oodle-oodle-oos burst from my bag in all directions as I rode the escalator up to the train platform.
“Jesus fucking Christ,” I muttered, digging in my purse until I finally grasped the source of the digital cacophony. The device vibrated violently in my hand as notification after notification flashed across the screen. One, two, three, four, six missed calls and four voicemails.
Flash, buzz, flash, buzz.
“What in the ever-loving fuck?”
I scrolled through the missed calls first, all from the same unknown number. Then, I listened to the voicemails that were flooding in as I waited for my train.
Tuesday, September 16, 1:03 a.m.: “What’s up, BB? It’s Zach. This is my cell in case you want to call me back. It was awesome, hanging out with you tonight. Come by anytime. Juliet’s way less scary when you’re around.”
Tuesday, September 16, 8:38 p.m.: “Hey, BB. It’s Zach. I just wanted to let you know that Drivin’ N Cryin’ are playing at the Georgia Theater this weekend, in case you want to go. My roommate’s a bartender there, so I can get us free drinks. Hope you can make it.”
Thursday, September 18, 5:22 p.m.: “Hey, BB. Sorry if I came on too strong last night. I blame the whiskey.” Zach chuckled. “Listen, my buddy is having a soft launch for his new tapas restaurant tomorrow night, and I’d love for you to come with me. I’ll be a perfect gentleman, I promise. Just let me know.
”Sunday, September 21 12:38 p.m.: “Hey, BB. It’s Zach. Juliet told me you got back together with your boyfriend. I, uh…I kinda felt like we had a connection, but…I guess I was wrong. It’s cool. Hope things work out for ya. See you around.”
I stared at my phone.
I blinked at it.
I blinked again.
I put the tiny device back in my purse.
I stared at the train tracks in front of me.
I waited for actual thoughts to form.
Zach called?
Blink.
Zach. Called.
Blink.
Six times.
Blink, blink.
Zach called almost every day, and none of his calls went through.
Ken called every day, and all of his calls went through.
Blink.
Zach had been trying to ask me out.
My mouth fell open.
Oh my God! What if I had gotten those calls?
Some people would call it divine intervention; some would call it providence. All I know is that any doubts I’d had about guardian angels were smashed to bits with the realization that mine had been cockblocking Zach for an entire week. Like an overbearing mother, my angels had politely taken Zach’s messages at the beep, but they hadn’t let me have any of them until they were sure I was safely back on track with the guy they liked better.
“Motherfuckers.” I laughed, shaking my head as my train approached.
The number on the front read 1111.
Eleven eleven always showed me the way. And, that afternoon, my cockblocking angels sent it to carry me home.
