I met my younger self for coffee today...

She was fifteen minutes early, I was ten minutes late.

I met my younger self for coffee today.

She was fifteen minutes early, I was ten minutes late.

She wore silver mixtapes as earrings, I wore black jeans I wished were skinny. They’re out of fashion now, I told her. I thought we didn’t care about those things, she said.

She ordered a caramel latte, extra whip. I told the barista to make it two.

Soymilk, she said.

Oatmilk, I corrected.

I asked her how she was, she said she was ok, but she’d been worrying about the future a lot. You’re too young to worry so much, I told her. You sound like grandpa, she smiled shyly and tucked her hair behind her ear. This is a source of pride for her; the worrying.

Are you happy? she asked, and I’m reminded that like me, she doesn’t enjoy being in the spotlight. Even if the spotlight is just a conversation with a friend. I allow her to turn the conversation over to me, not because I’m more comfortable, but because it’s what she needs.

I am, I tell her. It’s the quiet kind of happy, the kind that feels ordinary and calm. She frowns at this. One day you’ll understand, I tell her. It’s not always about chasing the lows just to feel the highs.

Are you in love? She asked. I nod and her eyes light up. With that musician?

Which one? I joke, and we laugh because musicians are the worst. I tell her that after all that, I fell in love with a musician anyway. Not that one, I said. Someone better. Someone who understands me and the unique way I interact with the world. Who makes me laugh, even when I’m furious at him. Who is silly and kind and generous. Who will pick the nacho cheese off the tinfoil just like us, and watch 90 Day Fiance, just like us. Who loves me, just as I am. Her eyes mist over at this. I know, I said, reaching for her hand. It took a long time to get here.

But are you successful? She asked. Did your blog take off? Did you start your agency? Are you working for a major record label? I smile at the memory of my music blog, all the adventures it afforded us. In a way, I tell her, our blog set the course for the rest of our life. I’m even writing a book based on some of those experiences now.

But did you do it? She urged. Are you in charge of a huge team? Has your PR agency been hired for the biggest festivals? The most sought-after bands?

Seeing her unrelenting passion sent a slow, pervasive ache throughout. My dreams have changed over time, I told her. I’ve traded band interviews for steady work and late nights chasing musicians for early mornings chasing my word count. You’ll see. But it’s all going to work out.

She frowns at this and pulls up a listing for a warehouse. It would be perfect, she said. For your writing studio, your agency. It could be the art complex we always talked about. You can do it all! See? She has so many dreams for us, I don't want to break her heart.

She brushes her bangs to the side, still framed in Manic Panic pink. I wonder if she knows how special it is that her mom sits with her to touch up the dye. Tell mom I love her, I said. And that I’m really looking forward to our roadtrip in a few years. Her eyes widen. We’re going on a roadtrip?

More roadtrips than you know. I said. And some of them will be tough. But mostly they’ll be amazing. You’ll even fall in love. With new people, new places, new friends.

Where will we go? she asked. Everywhere, I said. California, New Mexico, Montana, Arizona. You’re going to see the whole country. But the roadtrip with your mom to Red Rocks will be your favorite. Because you’ll be with your best friend, and it will all feel so easy. Savor it.

She rolls her eyes but I know she understands. We’re lucky to have a mom that loves us this much.

I better get going she said, distracted by her phone. I peered over, smiling at the name of our college best friend. In this world, we still speak every day.

You don’t talk anymore? she asked, sensing my sadness. I shake my head. It’s hard, being an adult, I tell her. You mean to keep in touch, respond to texts, do it all but…She holds my hand. She knows.

But you have mom still, she said. I have mom still, I confirm. And you’re in love? she asked. And I’m in love, I repeat.

Then it sounds like everything worked out. She stood to leave, and I reached for her hand.

One more thing, I said, don’t wait for your book to come out to tell them how you feel. Tell them now. You don’t know what it could mean to them.

She nodded and slipped her sunglasses over pale winter skin. I suspected she was trying to hide the tears that were welling up, the faces that sprang to mind. It’s the good kind of hurt, I want to tell her. But this, I knew, she had to learn on her own.

I watched her walk out the door, shoulders slightly hunched, head down, long strides. Trying so hard to hide from the world.

I love you! I shouted at the last minute.

She paused and I worried I’d scared her. She’s not used to this kind of declaration from me. I love you too, she finally said. I’ll see you around, ok? And I could tell by the way she said it, that maybe I’d disappointed her. That I wasn’t all she hoped I’d be.

So I sat there for a little while, and I sipped my latte and read my book. I scrolled my phone for hits of inspiration and reminded myself of nacho night and the quiet love of a strong partner. 90 Day Fiance and a full writing day waiting for me. I ignored my emails. I delayed responding to friends. I tried not to think too hard about the future. And I waited for the dull ache of missing her to subside.

Then//Now