“I owe her a dinner,” Logan adds, after seeing everyone’s surprised reaction. His explanation only opens the door to further scrutiny, especially when he fails to elaborate.
“Why?” I mouth to Logan, indicating my confusion.
Logan smiles at me inscrutably as if he is taking delight in watching me squirm and keeping everyone else guessing. His devious behavior continues as we walk to the car. Casey, Marcy, and Jay look on curiously as Logan walks over to my side of the car and opens the door for me.
I wave my hands in a plea of innocence, shrugging off Logan’s gentlemanly gesture. “He’s messing with you,” I shout over to the three of them.
“Are you trying to start rumors?” I ask Logan when we both get in the car.
“I don’t know; it was kind of fun.”
“And why did you pay for dinner? Why did you say, ‘you owed me a dinner’?”
“Well, we never did end up going out to dinner. You do remember that I asked you out?”
I can’t believe it. The big elephant in the room—the one that has shadowed our friendship—is finally going to be addressed.
“Yes, but you started dating someone else,” I blurt, surprising myself with my directness.
Logan remains silent for several minutes; his smug brashness disappears. Instead, he looks over at me with a sincere and remorseful look. “I’m sorry about that,” he finally replies.
I don’t respond; I don’t know how to respond. It feels safer and easier not to say anything. Instead, we drive the rest of the car ride in silence.
The parking lot is empty when we pull up to retrieve my car. Sitting alone underneath a streetlight, my dark blue compact looks particularly sad and lonely. The impulse to jump out of Logan’s car and rescue it takes hold of me. However, the closer we get to my car, the slower Logan drives. Finally, he breaks the tension that had permeated the car.
“So, whatever happened with that guy—the texting one? Did you end up speaking with him?”
“You mean Zach?”
“The one who called you the other day while we were practicing.”
“We’re going out tomorrow,” I confess. “He just wants me to hear him out.” I don’t know why I feel the need to justify meeting Zach.
“Are you going to give him another chance?” Logan asks.
Would I? That is a good question. “I don’t know,” I answer.
“Well, I don’t think you should.”
I stare at Logan—struck by the sincerity in his voice. He stares back, not talking, perhaps waiting for me to respond. I frantically try to come up with something to say—anything. My entire body radiates with unease as I fight an overwhelming desire to kiss him right there and then.
“Thank you for dinner,” I finally say, leaving his car and his words unacknowledged.
STAN’S IS A SMALL, nondescript restaurant and bar, situated between both my office and Zach’s. When we were dating, Zach and I would often meet there after work because it was convenient. I agree to meet Zach there, not because I want to rekindle our courtship, but to hear what he has to say—and to do so on familiar territory.
I am still feeling affected by my car ride with Logan. If only I could figure out what he is thinking and feeling. Finally, after weeks of dancing around it, Logan and acknowledged the date that we never took. Yet, rather than coming to a resolution, it now feels as if a shadow of tension is hanging over our friendship.
Thank goodness for my ability to compartmentalize. It’s a technique I employ often whenever I need to forge ahead despite a setback or worrisome issue. It’s a necessary coping mechanism for an anxiety-prone person like me. Thanks to my mastery of this skill, I am successfully able to shift my obsessive worrying from Logan to Zach.
I am grateful for the martial arts empowerment that came about after receiving my yellow belt. The exhilaration from the previous night is still palpable and becomes the fuel that allows me to face Zach—sweaty palms and all.
Yes, handsome Zach. When I arrive at Stan’s, Zach is already waiting for me by the door—standing confidently with his broad shoulders and magnetic grin. Sporting a light gray button-down-shirt, a softshell vest, and dark jeans, he looks as if he just jumped out of a GQ magazine. Zach was always a good dresser. Damn it—he still looks good.
Kaitlyn doesn’t know that I am meeting Zach. I thought it better to report back with a success story of how I rebuffed Zach’s advances. Telling Kaitlyn beforehand would only cause added stress and bring on an unwanted lecture. My intent is to give Zach a chance to explain himself. I am fully aware that he’ll probably feed me a bunch of excuses, but I plan to keep the image of his cowardly text plastered in the back of my mind. I make a pact with myself to remain immune to his charm—I’ll just keep thinking cowardly text, cowardly text.
“You look great,” Zach says as he greets me with a hug. The smell of his cologne envelops me, causing me to temporarily grow weak in the knees. Cowardly text, cowardly text.
“Thanks,” I say politely.
Zach motions me toward a booth and encourages me to lead the way, which makes me incredibly self-conscious. Something about walking in front of him, where he is free to inconspicuously check me out, feels uncomfortable.
“So, how have you been?” Zach asks when we sit down.
“Good,” I answer not elaborating nor asking the same of him. I am not going to make it easy for him.
A waitress appears at our table within seconds, taking our order—a red wine for me and a draft beer on tap for him. Small talk ensues until our drinks arrive: What have you been up to? How’s work going? I think we even talk about the weather—yes, it is that awkward.
I anxiously await my liquid courage so that I can converse without sounding so inhibited. Both us immediately take sips when our drinks arrive.
Thankfully Zach initiates the conversation: “I’m glad that you agreed to meet me; I wanted to apologize in person and explain . . . I just got freaked out,” he says, getting straight to the point. “We were getting along so well that it just seemed like we were headed in a serious direction, and – well – I wasn’t ready to get serious.”
“What’s your definition of ‘serious’?” I ask.
“I guess I felt as if you were getting expectations . . . which I don’t blame you. I just didn’t want to disappoint you or – well – give you the wrong idea.”
Mixed emotions ramp up inside me: Do I call him an asshole and walk away? Do I tell him that he has it all wrong? Or do I just let him continue talking without my saying a word?
“I realize now how stupid and impulsive I was,” Zach continues. “Any chance that you would be willing to go out again, maybe just take it slower? I did—I mean I do—like you. When I saw you the other night at the bar, I . . . missed you,” he says, reaching across the table for my hand.
#$%^&*! Are you kidding me?!
“Could I get another glass of wine,” I ask the waitress who comes to the table, probably recognizing my look of pure desperation.
“I don’t know,” I finally answer. “I have a lot going on right now.”
“One date and we won’t even call it a date – just dinner and a movie. How does that sound?”