“It’s fine,” I say, returning the smile. “No big deal.”
“You sure?”
I look down at my powdered sugar–covered clothes and then back up at him. “Yeah. Pretty sure.”
“Okay, well, see you around, then, I guess,” he says, the smile gone, replaced by something a little more flat. I miss the dimple—we’d just started to get to know each other.
“See ya,” I say, and then with a quick, awkward wave, I turn around and start walking toward my apartment.
I feel a weird pang of something I can’t really put into words go through me as I start to leave. Regret, maybe? Which is ridiculous because I don’t know this man at all. I’ve just choked on a donut in front of him, for heaven’s sake.
But this isn’t how I normally meet someone. Usually it’s at work or through a friend. And there’s also never been a zing before or even a zap . . . or whatever tingling thing I just felt in his presence.
Something one of the counselors said at a retreat I went to recently pops into my head as if it had just magicked itself there: Seize the cupcake; don’t settle for the bran muffin.
Honestly, I didn’t really get it then, and I’m not sure I get it right now. We were supposed to change “bran muffin” to something we’ve eaten before because of dieting that we hate. I chose kale. I’m not even sure how that’s a food. It tastes like disappointment.
I’m not a person who takes a lot of chances, especially when there’s high risk, but maybe—just maybe—I should “seize the cupcake” right now. Or rather, seize the donut.
I turn back around after taking only a few steps away. “Rain check?” I say to Henry, who isn’t as far away as I had thought he’d be. Like, logically—and also mathematically—we should be farther away from each other. Yet, it’s almost as if I’m the only one who’s taken any steps and Henry is rooted to the spot where I left him.
He looks at me as if I just pulled him out of a trance, and, blinking his eyes, he says, “Yeah . . . that would be brilliant.” The dimple is back. My heart does a fluttering thing.
I take the few steps needed to get back to him and then do what everyone does in this day and age: I hand him my phone so he can put in his number. He hands the phone back to me after entering in his digits, and then we stand there awkwardly because I don’t know what to say next and apparently neither does he.
“Well, thanks,” I say, holding up my phone.
“Yeah. Thanks.”
And then we look at each other, and I think—for the briefest second—that if this were a bad movie, he’d grab me and kiss me right now. With my powdered sugar–covered workout clothes and my skin damp from the exercise and the humidity-filled air around us. This idea doesn’t make me want to run away, which it normally would have because I’m not the kind of woman who gets carried away in such fanciful things. Well, okay, I do get carried away with fanciful things. I just pictured a stranger and myself married with a white picket fence and a baby. But I’m definitely not the kind of woman that men do that sort of thing with. Romantic interludes in my life so far have just been more of a mutual “You’ll do” type of scenario.
I swallow. “So, I guess I’ll . . . er . . . text you.”
“Sounds good,” Henry says and then gives me a closed-mouth smile.
“All right, well, I’m just going to go . . . uh . . . that way,” I say, pointing toward where I’d just come from.
If Henry was even slightly questioning it, I believe I just solidified my “moron” status.
“Okay, and I’ll go . . . uh . . . this way.” Henry points in the other direction.
Apparently, Henry and I have this awkwardness thing in common. But from him, it’s endearing and kind of adorable.
We both let out a strange/uncomfortable laugh, and then we back away, and finally I turn around and head home. And this time, I don’t turn back.
Chapter 2
“You’re cheating on Boring Brady?” Thomas says, his voice louder than it needs to be. In his hand is a very froufrou green cocktail. It doesn’t match his lawyerly suit pants and button-up shirt or his full head of blond hair that’s been gelled to perfection. I’ve often wanted to test its sturdiness during a hurricane. His look hasn’t changed in the seven years I’ve known him. Not even a little.
“Shhhh,” I say, holding a finger up to my lips. I’m not sure why. It’s not as if anyone is paying attention to us. Plus, happy hour is over, and the restaurant is starting to empty. Only light chatter and the faraway sound of dishes clanking together in the kitchen can be heard.
It’s Monday night, and my little gang of friends and I are at our normal meetup—Hester’s, a local restaurant that serves barely-above-mediocre food and has some pretty tacky decor. We love it, though. We’ve been coming here nearly every Monday for years.
There’s Holly, my best friend; Bree, who Holly and I met in college; Alex, who Holly met at her old job and brought to the group; and then there’s Thomas. I met him when he married my cousin for a hot minute . . . or a hot month. After the divorce, which lasted longer than the marriage, I kept Thomas and haven’t spoken to the cousin since.
“I’m not cheating on Boring Brady,” I say, an unintended defensiveness to my tone. “There’s nothing really going on there. It’s just a casual thing.”
“Is that why we’ve never met him?” Thomas asks, swirling the cocktail around before taking a sip. Everyone’s attention turns toward me, their eyes asking the same question. I’m a guilty party in front of a table full of Judgy McJudgersons.
“Wait, who’s Brady?” Alex asks, running thumb and pointer finger down his strong chin.
“Exactly,” says Thomas, giving me a pointed look.
“Just a guy I work with,” I say to Alex.
Alex shakes his head. “Don’t you know you shouldn’t date coworkers? It’s a slippery slope. And nope,”—he holds out a hand to Thomas—“no jokes about slippery slopes.” Thomas’s downcast eyes indicate that’s exactly where he’d been headed.
I shake my head at Alex. “I’ve dated coworkers before and it was fine.”
“No it wasn’t,” Holly says. “That one guy at the ice cream shop? What was his name? Trevor?”
I huff a breath out my nose. Not Trevor—Trenton. Of course my best friend of half my life would use stupid high school romances against me. Trenton and I both got fired for making out in the back room when we were supposed to be in the front, serving people ice cream. Those were some fun times.
“That isn’t the same thing, and besides, the thing with Bor—I mean Brady—was never serious enough to bring him here,” I say defensively, my eyes moving from Thomas to Bree, then Alex, and finally Holly.
This is true. But it’s only sort of the reason I haven’t introduced my friends to Brady. In truth, Boring Brady is . . . well, boring. We’re only sort of coworkers. He’s a broadcast technician at the station. And it’s never been anything more than going out on dates over the last couple of months. Nothing has come from it other than that. I mean, we’ve made out a handful of times, and it was . . . also kind of boring. No, that’s mean. It was nice. No fireworks, but also not gross like too much tongue. Because, yuck.