THE NOTE STARED at me from my cluttered desk. It was sitting on top of a pile of unread essays and unopened journals. But it was right there, on a hot pink Post-it. My hot pink Post-it.

I was here. Just wanted to say hi.
--Gabe

I quickly tore it from the pile, crumpled it up, and tossed it into the trash can by my feet. I didn’t need any reminders. He wasn’t just here a few moments ago, he was always here. Wherever I was, he was there.

No matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t shake him from my thoughts. Take the paper I was just reading a few hours ago on how to catch a guy’s eye. The first suggestion was, “Just be yourself.”

I wanted to take my red pen and slash a huge X across it. Not just because I thought the topic was stupid and pointless and totally inappropriate for a junior high school research paper—which it totally was.
But because that wasn’t how I caught Gabe’s attention. I didn’t even know what kind of girl I was back then, but I know I didn’t get what I wanted by being her. She definitely wasn’t the girl who got Gabe to call her up and ask her out.

“Nat, how are you doing with the research papers? Remember, I need to give them back tomorrow.”

My back immediately stiffened, all thoughts of Gabe quickly flying out the faculty room window.
It was Mrs. Ruiz, the head of the English department. She was tasked to mentor me as I completed my internship at a private all-girls high school.

It didn’t make sense for a girl who was terrified of public speaking to go into teaching. I mean, you had to speak in front of thirty or forty kids every single day. But my adviser thought it might be something I’d be interested in since, sadly, there was nothing else that grabbed me—and the internship slots were filling up fast. He also told me that it wouldn’t be the same as delivering a report in class because these were children I’d be facing—not my judgmental peers—and I would know so much more than they did. At the very least, I would direct the lesson and they’d have to follow. This buoyed me up a bit and when I imagined standing in front of a bunch of five-year-olds who were singing along with me and clapping their chubby little hands to the music, I felt a flicker of hope. Maybe this was actually something I could do. Then I was mercilessly thrown into a den of high school girls. All of a sudden, I sorely missed my judgmental peers.

“Mrs. Ru, I’m so sorry I’m not done yet. I’m reading them all very careful—”

She cut me off before I could even begin my prepared list of excuses. I was up early this morning trying to come up with them when I really should have been reading the papers. I knew that Mrs. Ruiz wouldn’t be too happy about how long I was taking. I’d had the papers since last week, but I had intended to go over each and every one of them, remembering how it felt when I had to write a paper and how I wanted long, detailed comments from my teachers.

A plain “You could do better” never helped me.

Tell me, what was I supposed to do to make it better? You’d think these teachers remembered what it was like being a student. At the same time, I was also kind of afraid to start. What if I wasn’t a good judge of what made a good research paper? Besides, their grades were based on what I thought, right? Sure,

Mrs. Ruiz gave me guidelines to follow, but in the end, it all boiled down to what I thought. Which could very well leave someone like me paralyzed. Or maybe you could say I scared myself into procrastination. Whatever it was, I had nothing to show for my week of anxiety.

“Natividad Torres, you know how important it is that I give them back tomorrow or else the whole research paper schedule will be thrown off course!”

I cringed. Not just at her tone but at her gall to use my complete name.

Why does a nineteen-year-old girl in the age of iMessaging and FaceTime sport a name that sounds like it belongs to 19th century Intramuros anyway? Ask my parents who think they’re so cool.

They wanted my nickname to be Nat because they said it sounded “hip and fresh.” What did they think I was, a feminine hygiene product in bold, funky colors? And don’t get me started on why my full name couldn’t have been something like Natalia, Natalie, or even Natasha, for crying out loud.

No, because my wannabe cool parents felt they needed to pay homage to my pop’s long-deceased aunt who brought him up because my actual lola wanted to go to college and get a degree. You don’t know how many times I wish it were me and not my older sister Toine (in keeping with my parents’ delusion that they were so cool, it’s pronounced twan) who was named after my fun, shopping-obsessed, sharp as a whip lola Toni instead.

Yes, my lola was named Toni. And get this—her full name is Antoinette. I think my great grandmother had just learned about French history and gave her second daughter the prettier name.

So there I was, teased mercilessly all my life for having a lola name to which I would belligerently and rather naively reply, “It is my lola’s name!”

And get even more hoots of laughter. Maybe not the smartest thing to say at the time.

Before I could say something equally stupid to Mrs. Ruiz, I took a deep breath and nodded,
“Yes, Mrs. Ru, I promise to have them all on your desk by three PM today. I promise!” I flashed her my most winning smile. The one I had practiced in front of the mirror so that I could get Gabe’s attention.
The smile he had actually returned. If it had worked on that good-for-nothing, it had to work on
Mrs. Ruiz, right?

She heaved a great sigh that clearly told me, “Fine. Do I have a choice?” and gave me a stiff nod before walking away.

Surprised that the knots in my tummy could grow even tighter, I looked down at the piles on my lap. I had separated them into two: awesome and sucky. I wanted to write encouraging notes on them but because I had already scribbled “Awesome! Keep it up!” on around ten papers, I figured I had better think of more original things to say before Mrs. Ruiz called my university’s Education Department and asked them to take me back due to lack of imagination. I wouldn’t put it past her. Really.
I wanted to give these kids the best comments they’d ever read in their entire high school lives. It just so happened that I couldn’t come up with anything more inspiring than that. And when it came to the ones I didn’t like, I had to stop myself from scribbling, “What are you thinking?!” all over the pages. I was never the girl who could keep her mouth shut. Whatever went on in my head usually spilled out someway, somehow. If it wasn’t through something I said, it was through something I wrote or did. Not exactly teacher material, right? What was my adviser thinking?

As I was making my list of encouraging comments—I already came up with Great job!,
You rock!, and Who’s the best?—I heard a little chuckle behind me. I quickly turned my embarrassing list upside down and swiveled around in my chair to see who it was.

There stood Gabriel Lopez. In his polo with the sleeves pushed up, dark jeans, and short haircut—definitely a lot shorter than the last time I saw him. He still managed to disorient me and turn my insides into mush, even if I hated his guts.

“Nat, you’d make a lousy copywriter.”

He grinned, looking all too sure of himself.

As if he was any better. Okay, fine: He was great at everything he did. He wrote amazing articles for the school paper and even had some published in local broadsheets, and he was smarter than anyone I knew. But it didn’t give him the right to put me down, did it?

“What are you doing here?” I tried to keep the venom from my voice, but I couldn’t help it.

He gave me a half smile, which made me narrow my eyes in suspicion. I knew that smile. He was trying to be charming. Well, I’d had it with his charm.

“Spit it out, Gabe.”

“Mrs. Ruiz invited me to give a talk to one of her classes about the art of crafting the perfect essay.” He raised an eyebrow at me. A challenge if there ever was one.

And of course, I rose to the bait. As usual.


“The perfect essay? And why are you the expert on that?”

“The awards I’ve won? The many articles I’ve written for The Journal, the—”

“Yeah, I get it,” I muttered, cutting him off.

I needed him to shut up or my insecurities would rise up once more and make me retreat and feel less than worthy of even being in his presence. He had that way about him. It used to make me want to prove myself, to contort my personality and interests in ways I felt would win his approval.

“I have to work, Gabe. Please go.”

“Don’t you want some help in going over those essays? Mrs. Ruiz said you were struggling.”

Son of a bitch.

“I don’t need your help.”

I turned back to my papers and started angrily flipping through the one on catching a guy’s eye. Oh great, it had to be that one. And of course he was still there. In fact,
he pulled out the chair in the next cubicle and straddled it, facing me, his hands on the backrest.

“Yes you do. The key is to look for three different things in each essay. Hold on, did you actually approve these topics?”

He took the sucky pile from me and frowned at them. Now if I were to be brutally honest with myself, having Gabe there going through the papers would actually be a big help. He knew what would make a successful research paper and he knew how to give proper, constructive criticism. He could have gone into teaching if he didn’t think he was too good for it. Instead, he wanted to join a consulting company, make the big bucks, and let the world know just how awesome he was. When he had first told me that, I was brimming with jealousy.

I didn’t want to share him with the world. My biggest achievement by far was actually getting him to notice me and return my affections, if not my devotion.

I was not ready for even more people to get a piece of Gabe.

Snatching the papers from him and actually ripping one in half, I snapped, “No I didn’t. These are their initial proposals with a few paragraphs on how they plan to write the paper.” With teeth gritted,
I tore off a long length of scotch tape and hurriedly began taping the ripped pieces together. I’d just say it was Gabe’s fault. I mean, it really was anyway.

If he hadn’t shown up feeling like God’s gift to poor struggling teaching interns like myself, I would never have ripped—I peered at the name printed on top—Eliza Gomez’s paper.

“Nat, I’m sorry about that. I’m sorry about this mess. I’ve been wanting to talk to you.” I whirled around and faced him, pretty sure my incredulity was written all over my face.

“What the hell are you talking about, Gabe?’

“I’ve been trying to call you.”

“I haven’t gotten any calls from you. Nor any texts or any e-mails. It’s as if you completely disappeared, Gabe. So do you expect me to believe that now?”

A loud shushing sound erupted in the air, followed by several more. I was in a faculty room all right, where shushing was an art form you had to learn quickly if you wanted to teach a bunch of squealing high school girls. I dumped the papers on my desk, yanked him off his chair and dragged him out into the hallway, away from prying eyes. “What right do you have showing up here, telling me how to do my job—”

“Well, you obviously don’t know what you’re doing.” He frowned.

I decided to let that slide. I had more important things to say. “And then apologizing for disappearing from my life? You think that makes it okay?

An ambush apology? While I’m trying my darndest to make sense of these junior research papers?!”

Gabe took my shaking hands and held them tightly.

Holy crap.

“I’m really sorry about the past couple of months. I got really busy.” His voice trailed off.

“You know how it is. I had to work on my internship too, I was getting pressure from my parents…”
I wanted to stay steely and cold, I wanted to be the strong fighter that I convinced myself I was. I almost started chanting the lines of “Invictus” by William Ernest Henley to myself just to keep from falling under his spell again. His evil, painful, sweet spell.

“I wasn’t myself, Nat.” He was pulling me close and oh hell, I was letting him. “But you know what? I missed you. You have no idea how much. I was always missing you.” Then he leaned down, quickly kissed me on the forehead, turned on his heel, and left.

I stood there dumbfounded. I didn’t expect that. I didn’t know that all those times—all those times I was wishing the worst possible things would happen to him—he was actually thinking of me, missing me. That’s like, almost the same as saying he loved me, right? Oh shit, I even sent him that scathing e-mail about what a rotten scumbag he was for abandoning me with no warning whatsoever. Who was the scumbag now?

I closed my eyes and took a deep breath.

“I missed you too, Gabe,” I whispered. “It seems I’m always missing you.”