“I never…” Teresa’s girlfriend hesitated, holding her wine glass high, as if she were delivering a toast. In actuality, she was daring herself to finish the sultry thought. Her eyes flicked nervously to the jesting grins of the girls gathered around her. Finally, with a deep breath, the courage surfaced. “I never… went down on a guy… in a public place.”

The room erupted into nervous laughter, jeers, and a chorus of “Oh my God!” from the tribe of girlfriends surrounding their sleep over circle. Comfy pajamas. Pillows. And wine, of course wine. Glasses were raised in unison, though only one woman took a sip. Her bold admission quickly met with flying pillows, friendly jibes, and playful cries of, “You sluuuuttt!”

Girls’ weekend. Not just any girls’ weekend, though. Teresa had known these women since college. These were deep rooted friendships. Solid. Tested over years, into marriages, through divorces, around children, - up, down, over and under all of the unpredictable twists and perils of life. Together, they stepped forward into adulthood and now they navigated life’s hazards with an unshakable bond. Reliable. Like I said, tested.

Every summer, they returned to their alma mater, Notre Dame. No, not the cathedral in Paris. South Bend, Indiana. One member would rent a house for the weekend, and the others would pitch in with plane tickets, Uber rides, and naturally - wine. Always wine.

The circle was buzzing when one of the women turned to Teresa, her grin mischievous. “Teresa’s got a story like that.”
“No, I don’t,” Teresa shot back quickly.
“Oh, come on,” the woman teased, dragging out her words. “You know. The guuuuuyyyy?!?”

Teresa raised her brow.
“What guy?”, her tone deceptive and lightly defensive.

Another chimed in, her eyes alight with recognition. “Oh yeah! I remember. Go on. Tell them about ‘The Guy,’ Teresa.”

Teresa hesitated. She had known exactly who they meant the moment the topic surfaced. The story of “The Guy” wasn’t just a college fling. The tale had taken on a kind of mythic quality over the years for Teresa. The story resembled a drama, but was more a historical tale stretching back to those college years. She had stopped at an enclosed ATM vestibule, when “The Guy” strolled in, holding the trifecta hand for attraction: tall, dark, and handsome. But, he also held a bonus pair of pocket kings: athleticism and charm. That’s a tough hand to beat. Young and inexperienced, Teresa found herself utterly captivated by his presence, as though she’d been transported to another world just by standing near him.

The vestibule housed two ATMs, each with its own small line. Teresa and “The Guy” ended up at opposing machines, a silent exchange unfolding between them as they waited in line. Without saying a word, they began a playful, unspoken conversation through fleeting glances and coy gestures. Teresa brushed a strand of hair from her face while his Irish green eyes danced from the floor… over to Teresa…then cast onto the ceiling, but they always returned back to her.

His shyness eventually dissolved, and when she caught a true look of those eyes, they weren’t just green; they shifted, deepening to a mossy hue when shadows touched them. In the right light, they held the power to disarm her, as though staring into a forest at dawn - calm, endless, and dangerous. His gaze lingered, intense and knowing, as if he could see every thought she was too afraid to speak. And when he looked at her, really looked, she felt like drowning in something wild and untamed, something she didn’t want to escape.

She debated whether to say something, maybe ask him a casual question, but youth has a way of wrapping us in self-doubt. Her inexperience and self-consciousness held her firmly in place. Slowly, the lines moved forward until they were both standing at their respective ATMs, the last two in the vestibule. Teresa’s nerves bubbled up. She rushed through the screen prompts, suddenly hyper aware of her actions. She knew she looked flustered but couldn’t figure out why. The machine’s gears whirled as if taking an eternity to dispense her cash, feeding her growing impatience.

Finally - BEEP. The screen flashed the prompt to collect her cash, card, and receipt. Teresa snagged her card, stuffing it into her clutch along with her cash, and zipping small bag within a wink. She ripped the receipt from the machine while pivoting toward the door when - BAM! She collided directly into him, just as he turned from his own machine.

He was taller, much taller. Her head had bumped squarely into his chest. The impact slowed her chaotic urgency, almost as if hitting pause on the moment. Her social recovery plan was simple: look up and apologize. But…those eyes…those late Spring green eyes…their mesmerizing effect. When hers met his, everything around faded. His nearness sent a ripple through her, like a storm brewing just beneath Teresa’s skin. Her thoughts became a blur of sensations. Childish words floated to her mind: “princess,” “forever,” and “Disney.” She couldn’t explain why, but she felt swept up in something larger than herself, which made her nearly drop her clutch while her ATM receipt slipped away, floating like a feather between his feet.

On instinct, Teresa rose onto her toes, her hand trailing upward to the back of his head. Gently, she pulled him closer and kissed him. For a moment, he froze, caught off guard. But then, slowly, his lips softened, and the kiss deepened into something meaningful. They hadn’t exchanged a single word, yet the connection between them felt almost otherworldly, as if this existed on a plane beyond reason.

And then, just as suddenly as the whole thing had started, Teresa bolted.

“WHAT?” The collective gasp from her girlfriends was deafening, their disbelief palpable. Questions came rapid-fire. “How could you?” “Why?” “Where is he now?” “I don’t get it!”

Teresa shook her head, her whispered reply unwavering. “I don’t know. I don’t know.”

The group eventually dispersed, frustrated by the lack of a satisfying ending to her story. But for Teresa, the memory of the mysterious young man lingered. This wasn’t the first time. Over the years, she had replayed that encounter countless times, imagining alternate endings and weaving “what if” scenarios into the fabric of her regrets. Whenever she endured heartbreak, another failed relationship or a rough breakup, her mind inevitably drifted back to him.

He had become her emotional anchor, the centerpiece of every fantasy she used to soothe herself. Even her private, “me times” or personal fantasy experience came back to their shared emotional center. The memory of that fleeting, unexplained connection brought her comfort, with underlying longing. That night, as always, thoughts of him lulled her to sleep, leaving her with romantic and spicy dreams of what might have been.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The next morning greeted the women with an air of excitement, as though the day held an adventure waiting to unfold. The group had splintered into smaller clusters, exploring a lively street fair. Teresa found herself gravitating toward two of her former roommates, the ones she felt most at ease with, the ones who allowed her to be her true self. The others? Still cherished friends, but some friendships demanded the expectation of “good girl” perfection, a performance Teresa needed to momentarily step away from. For now, she was happily assigned to “1st Battalion, Fun Company,” where laughter and lightheartedness replaced judgment.

As they wandered past cotton candy vendors, carnival game booths, and stalls of amateur artists, Teresa’s squad leader convinced her to sit for a portrait by a bohemian-artist. The attractive, middle aged woman had surrounded her makeshift studio with energy globes and aura beads which created a soothing sensation. Teresa accepted the order without any resistance to the idea. With a playful shrug, she perched herself on the artist’s creaky wooden chair like a bird settling into its nest.

From her seat, Teresa kept an eye on her two roommates, who stood behind the artist, watching the drawing take shape. At first, their faces were lit with curiosity, but soon their expressions began to shift. Puzzlement crept in. The two exchanged glances, their brows furrowing slightly.

“What?” Teresa asked, smirking.

Neither answered. One leaned closer to get a better look while the other squinted, her head tilting slightly. Teresa’s curiosity turned into unease. “What’s he drawing? Is it a caricature?” she asked, laughing nervously.

Still, no answer. Finally, one of her friends took a step toward the artist, as if ready to intervene, but the other grabbed her arm and pointed to a small sign next to the artist. They both stared at the sign for a moment, then exchanged knowing nods. The first retreated back to her spot, her expression now returning to her original curiosity.

Teresa raised an eyebrow. “What did you guys get me into?” she teased, settling back into the chair.

For a brief moment, silence reigned between them. The ambient buzz of the fair blended into a distant, muffled hum. The only distinct sound was the scratch of the artist’s charcoal pencil, a rhythmic, almost hypnotic noise against the canvas. Teresa drifted into a gentle, meditative trance, as if this bohemian woman were pulling fragments of joy from her, like whispers of light, and weaving them into the canvas.

Before Teresa could stir herself from her peaceful daydreaming, the bohemian woman peeked from behind the canvas, a soft “All done” escaping her lips. She stepped aside, revealing her creation. Teresa rose slowly, her gaze catching the playful glint in her friends’ eyes as she rounded the easel. The artist turned the canvas toward her, and time seemed to shatter into stillness..

Her breath caught, as she folded both hands around her lips. Her chest tightened. Color drained from her face, leaving her ashen, as if she’d come face to face with a ghost.

Her friends erupted into laughter, one of them throwing an arm around her shoulders. “He’s handsome, isn’t he?” they teased.

But Teresa could not respond. She could not move. Her wide eyes were fixed on the portrait, her mind swirling. Finally, she managed to whisper one word: “How?”

One of her friends giggled. “How what?” She pointed to the artist’s posting.

The sign read: I will draw your soulmate.

What her friends did not know was that the gypsy artist had captured him. The boy from the ATM, some fifteen years ago. The gypsy artist had somehow drawn…The Guy.