"I can't stay," I whispered.
"Five more minutes," he murmured sleepily and pulled me tighter.
Sunday night was the first time I'd met any of B's friends other than his roommate. There weren't that many people that came over to his house for their grill-out that night, but it was still my first real introduction to his world and their first real introduction to me. I liked them, but I was more excited by how comfortable they allowed me to feel. They seemed to like me, too, but I didn't talk much--I mostly listened--and sometimes that unnerves people.
I am the social equivalent of a tightrope walker. No matter how easy or terrifyingly difficult the situation, no matter how confident or insecure, I keep a slow and steady pace. I like to respect the inertia of friend groups and social circles; I step lightly at first. I ease myself in. Usually, I approach relationships in much the same way.
But I saw B last Saturday and last Monday and last Thursday and this past Saturday and this past Sunday and this past Monday, and in all likelihood, I'll see him again tomorrow. In fact, if it weren't for my volleyball and choir obligations and his late nights at work on Tuesdays and Wednesdays, we'd probably be seeing each other even more. Which excites me. And makes me nervous.
A wonderful friend of mine emailed me on Sunday after my last post to set me straight: "I don't want to be a total stalker and read your blog and all, but shit, woman, if this guy makes you so happy, be happy!"
I know she's right. I feel it in my my gut every day when I remember that I'd rather be with him than at work or at home or pretty much anywhere else. But I think my hesitation comes from the fear that I'll be so honest about my complete enchantment with him that he'll be turned off. It hasn't happened yet, but every time I open up, I cringe, waiting for the other shoe to drop.
I told him I liked him Monday night. He came over after work, and we sat on my couch for a couple of hours, talking about whatever, before he kissed me and talking took a backseat. Somewhere in the midst of making out, as though saying it at normal volume would elicit a different response, I whispered, "I like you a lot," and waited. He smiled, and kissed me, and replied, "I like you a lot, too." And even though I know he likes me--everything he's done to this point screams that he likes me--a small voice rose up in my head, swimming against the wave of endorphins flooding my system, to remind me of that most-intimate fear: Not as much as you like him, it pressed.
When it was time for him to leave, we sat on the couch in a loose embrace--my legs over his legs, my shoulder buried beneath his, his arms around me--and as much I knew it had to end, I couldn't pull myself away. His head leaned gently on mine, and I wished with all my might that time would move more slowly, or that some strange (but only inconvenient) force would cause school to be canceled, so that I could just sit there, for hours, with him.
Eventually, he spoke up, "I should go," and despite standing up and walking to the door, I clung to him. I couldn't help it. Sleep and responsibility and even feeding myself seemed unimportant by comparison.
I spent Tuesday fighting the urge to reach out. I reminded myself that we both needed space if I ever expected this to work out, and so I just daydreamed about him in every spare minute (or testing hour) of the day. He sent me a message, finally, that evening to wish me good luck on my volleyball game, and we texted briefly about it.
B: Not sure what time you're playing but good luck tonight!
Me: Just won our first game ever!!! On the last week of the league, but still. We're pumped!
B: That's awesome, congrats!
Me: I also tripped on a line and face-planted in the sand before later being hit in the head by a ball.
Me: I am not always the most graceful person.
Me: It was hilarious.
And then after a quick exchange, he didn't text me back, and I wondered whether he was caught up in his work, or if he'd crashed as soon as he got home, or if that small voice that had had its say the night before was right.
When I woke up this morning, I had three text messages from him, all sent after 3am. Two of which said, "I'm just getting home.... Were you tired today? I felt bad for keeping you up." I texted back "Not that tired, actually" and "Why were you just getting home at 3am?? Yikes!"
He responded almost immediately. Apparently his cell provider has been having some text messaging issues this week, and his messages are being delayed. He sent me a screenshot from his phone as proof. "I was wondering why you never texted back last night," he added. In reply, I sent him this screenshot to show the time-stamp:
And then I realized that my screenshot included the picture I'd set as his contact photo a few days ago. A picture he hasn't seen yet. A picture of us at Jazz Fest. Of us. And I was mortified.
Me: Oh wait, that's embarrassing. Now you can see the pictures I use under contacts. Whoops.
B: Yeah, that's so weird.
B: And by weird I mean that you're getting some of my texts hours later.
B: Not embarrassing. That's cute ;)
And all of the air that had escaped my lungs for a full minute rushed back in. He may still not like me as much as I like him, but at least he's not SUPER freaked out that I'd already put a picture of us in my phone, ten days after our first date.
And then, as I caught my breath and returned the phone to its place on my bedside table, I heard a ringing. At first, I thought it was coming from the other side of the wall. Maybe my neighbors had their ringer volume up to max. But then I realized it was coming from my phone. I opened the cover, and there on my screen was a call TO "Jack." Yes, that "Jack," ex-boyfriend "Jack." At six in the morning. I promptly hung up the call and texted him: "Whoa, weird. My phone just randomly dialed you while it was closed. Sorry about that." I also quickly removed his number from my list of favorites, and I sat for a moment, considering the important post-break up question: To delete or not to delete?
In the end, I didn't delete his number. Not this morning, anyway. I'm not sure why, but it seemed rude to. I wasn't mad at him, after all. And yet, why keep the number? I have no desire or intention to call him at any point in the foreseeable or distant future. It seems like a no-brainer. But it wasn't until twelve hours later that I finally pressed "delete." After all, the memories of the last five months are not housed in those ten digits, and if I ever need any reminder of our time together, I can simply find his mother and bask in the death glare behind her strained smile.
The accidental call to "Jack" wasn't the only awkward male interaction of the past week, either. On Sunday, as I was standing in B's kitchen with him and his roommate, prepping food for the grill (or really, watching them prep food), a very familiar-looking man walked into the room. He gave a what's up to us, and B's roommate introduced him. "This is Xavier," his roommate said, pronouncing it za-vee-ay. "He works with me." As B introduced us, it hit me: I went on a Tinder date with this guy six months ago. When we shook hands, he looked at me pointedly and asked, "What was your name again?" I repeated my name, and though he didn't show anything on his face, I knew he'd placed me as well. "He's French," B's roommate said, and B looked at me, "You should talk to him in French!" I didn't, though; what would I say? Xavier walked back outside, and I silently thanked him for keeping mum. B and I made our way to the backyard minutes later, and there, on the porch swing, he sat with a woman in a revealing dress who kept her hand on his leg. His girlfriend. No wonder he'd kept quiet. Nonetheless, I avoided eye contact and conversation for the next half-hour (hard to do when there are only eight people total) until he and his girlfriend stood up to leave. "I'm the lead bartender at such-and-such place," she said as they left. "Work calls." I don't know why I was so embarrassed by the prospect of admitting that we knew each other. It had been a painful date; we'd run out of things to say in both languages pretty quickly. As he was leaving the backyard, though, I recognized the value of running into him, however potentially uncomfortable it may have been. He had told me on the date that he was a big partier, and I could see how dating a bartender would fit him well. I looked over at B, who was manning the grill at the time and watching me talk with his friends, and I was grateful that I'd ended up with this guy instead of that guy.
And I am exceptionally grateful to have found someone as thoughtful and attentive and mature as B. Our time together reminds me of when I dated my boyfriend Peter in college. It happened quickly, and we saw each other almost every day, spending hours together at a time. Years ago, I'd shared that memory with a friend of mine, a guy, and he'd said, "That was college. Adult relationships don't work that way." In a sense, he's right. I don't see B every day, and we don't sit on The Lawn with books in our hands and our eyes on each other. But it feels the same. It feels urgent and all-encompassing. It claws at my heart, leaving a burning sensation where I'd felt nothing of the sort for years. Not like this. It drags me out of myself. It makes me tender where I am normally stiff. It lifts my feet ever so slightly off the ground.
That memory of college reminds me, too, that there has to be more than a feeling. Peter and I dated for a year and a half before it all fell apart. There was so much love, and there were so many differences we'd quietly or loudly chosen not to talk about. They say that when you know, you know. But I thought I knew, and I didn't.
My uncle Robert can't wait for me to get married. Beyond the desire to see me happy (I hope), he is elated at the prospect of eating catfish at my reception. I happen to hate catfish, but it's the only thing I currently have planned; we've been talking about it since college. Since then, catfish has become for us synonymous with marriage. On a recent post about B, he commented, "Too early for catfish talk, but I have my fingers crossed." And the thing is, I have my fingers crossed, too. Not because I can't wait to get married--I think it'll be harder and more restrictive than being unmarried--but because I can't wait to finally be with someone who "gets" me. I don't know if B's that guy--we have a lot more we need to talk about before that even begins to clarify itself--but I guess it doesn't really matter right now. I mean, we're only eleven days in.
I texted him a few minutes ago. "Hey, what are you doing tomorrow night? Want to go see that movie?" And I'm waiting, but it's alright. We've got time.
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