Free Do-Overs by Christine Jarmola

different realities straight. Yes, I had spilled spaghetti on him and knocked into him and even talked to him, but only in my reality. In his time/space continuum none of those meetings had ever happened.
    “Oh, no I guess we haven’t,” I stuttered.
    “Well, then it is time we did. I’m Al, Al Dansby.”
    All I could do was gawk. “And this is the part where you tell me your name,” he said with the most magnificent smile. It was the perfect smile of a confident man, yet there was a twinge of a mischievous little boy just at the corner. The kind of smile that made grown, independent, liberated women go weak at the knees. Absolutely lethal to me.
    “Lottie. Lottie Lambert. Well, really Charlotte Lambert. But, my parents had some weird idea of using an old nickname for Charlotte and calling me Lottie. I never understood why they didn’t just name me Lottie if that was what they wanted to call me in the first place.” Why wouldn’t my mouth shut! I just kept rambling. I was making an absolute fool of myself like some silly, pathetic, lovesick schoolgirl. This just couldn’t happen. My hand was reaching in my bag for my handy dandy eraser when I realized he was still smiling.
    “Well, Charlotte Lambert, commonly known as Lottie, as it’s rather freezing out here, could we continue this conversation over in the library?”
    The library was one of the oldest buildings on campus. It gave the true ivy-covered redbrick college feel to the campus. I usually felt a sense of awe and reverence when walking through the door, knowing that on the shelves were books by centuries of famous authors. Yes, real books. Perhaps, although I didn’t want to admit it, I did agree with Dr. Jekyll, just not on cold windy nights.
    That evening the place could have been full of live pigs and molasses and I wouldn’t have noticed. I knew it was futile to attempt a relationship with Al Dansby, but we could be friends, maybe even good friends. That would at least give me the chance to spend time with him. My inner voice kept warning me to walk away, walk away quickly. I was going to get my heart pulverized and I wasn’t going to feel the least bit sorry for myself if I did. (Rachel’s Psych class would have a field day with my schitzo brain.) Nevertheless, my illogical persona was winning. I would pursue a futile relationship and deal with the disappointment later.
    “So Lottie, what brings you out on such a blustery evening?” he asked as we entered the reading room with its old burgundy leather couches and mismatched chairs. His voice sounded so cultured—slightly British. Not all snooty and fake like Geoffrey Hale, but like smooth, dreamy melting in my mouth butter. The real stuff, not margarine. He definitely wasn’t from around these here parts .
    My brain knew that this was where I was supposed to respond. My tongue hadn’t gotten the memo. My eyes just stared. I could have sworn my traitorous eyelashes fluttered. I was going to have to have an inner body conference soon about working on getting my different parts to be team players. Finally I came up with a witty response.
    “Research.” Yep, that’s me Charlotte “Lottie” Lambert. One minute I can’t stop my mouth and the next it’s on strike.
    “Oh, well this is a good place for it,” Al Dansby replied. “I guess I should let you get with it,” he said. Did I detect a slight longing for a reason to prolong our conversation or was I projecting my own desires on his simple statement? I needed something profound to extend the moment.
    “Okay,” was what my stupid mouth came up with. OKAY!? What was I thinking? I needed to ask him for help or suggest coffee. Instead I had just mumbled okay. There I was with my inner being wanting beyond words to connect with Al Dansby, but no words would come. Instead my inner turmoil and outward awkwardness made me come across as cold and unfriendly. I was practically dissing him. Then again it was probably for the best to not start