Portrait of an Ivy League Crush

Hyper-extroverted and exceedingly interesting, charmingly awkward and theatrical to a fault, Chase was a veritable bundle of energy who thrived on captivating an audience.

You knew he was in his element when he was in the midst of telling his outlandish tales. He jumped from topic to topic with a polymath’s expertise—I heard stories ranging from the elitism of final club culture to the dark underbelly of investment banking, from the hilarity of stereotyping to the rave-worthy summer he spent abroad, and from the obscurity of old Harvard traditions to (let’s not forget) his personal experiences as a socially adjusted white male in high society. In fact, he was so good at storytelling that you never really knew if he was fabricating realities or living out his fantasies. Chances were, you were too fascinated to care.

Did I mention that he was cute?

His haircut looked expensive—he'd gotten this edgy close shave in the back and longer, windswept bangs up front, bangs he’d habitually run his fingers through whenever too much blonde fell into his eyes. And his eyes—light blue and electric with energy—danced when he smiled. He was a good dresser, too. He wore his privilege and vanity and egotism with a sense of humor, much in the same way he wore his fitted seersucker buttondown or his fancy leather manbag. He also spoke multiple languages and was resident expert of imitating accents, probably because he had one himself.

I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t captivated from the start. I felt myself drawn to him to the point where he was the focus of my attention whenever both of us were in the same room. Sometimes I caught myself staring—at his profile, his jawline, the tuck of his shirt. Whenever he looked in my direction I lowered my eyes, heart pounding, skin tingling from the idea of accidental eye contact. I admit it: I was a schoolgirl with a crush. It was at once exhilarating and familiar, like falling in a dream.

But I couldn't afford to fall for someone like Chase. He took a walk with me one day, explaining that he while was technically in an “open" long-distance relationship, he preferred to keep a steady stream of girls in his life because he didn’t really like being “tied down” to any one person. And I didn’t understand why he was telling me this. I couldn’t figure out if was trying to impress me or sleep with me, brag to me, or incite my jealousy.

All I knew was that after he left I caught myself staring aimlessly at the sidewalk, my breath catching in my throat. It was like my picture of him had been stripped of its glossy veneer, like any semblance of a pedestal had been kicked from beneath his feet. Like reality had finally set in.

They say not to judge a book by its cover because without reading it, how would you know what’s really underneath? And the more books I've picked up, the more I've realized how true this is. As intriguing as Chase seemed on the surface, he was foreign to the concept of loyalty. He was so bent on keeping his “options” open that he’d effectively reduced every girl to an option, sending the clear message that he was too full of himself to make anyone a priority in his life.

It was sad to see intrigue fade into incompatibility, but a part of me whispered that it was time to move on. Because if there’s one thing I know, it’s that no self-respecting girl deserves to be just another option in somebody else’s life.