“You have to leave?”
“I have to do a podcast before the party.” She gulps, pushes strands of hair off her neck. She’s fidgety and that’s not like her. “But maybe we can talk after the event?”
“Sure,” I say, but my nerves tighten. Talk sounds bad. Like a talk could end our understanding. “About what?”
A faint smile flickers on her face, but then vanishes. “Just stuff. The bet. What it means. Us.”
“Right. Sure,” I say, and the tension between us is thick, like humid summer air. The kind that makes you want to go inside and escape from it.
“Would that work for you?”
“Yeah,” I say, since what other answer is there? Hey, Bellamy, I’m feeling out of sorts, and I have no idea why, but let’s roll up our sleeves and talk about what the hell is brewing between us and how awful and great it feels at the same time.
“Cool,” she says, then points to the door again. “I should go.” She laughs at herself. “And I already said that.”
She stands, but I don’t move. Do I kiss her? Hug her? Wave goodbye?
In the few seconds it takes me to run through those options, she’s already stepped away.
“Okay,” I say, and I let her go.
She heads to the door, her chestnut hair whooshing in the afternoon breeze as she walks away.
I should have kissed her goodbye.
My phone buzzes, and hope rushes through me that it’s her with a sassy note, a fiery barb.
Or, better yet, a letter.
God, I live for her letters.
Nothing has made me happier than those.
I slide the screen open. But it’s only a notification from the dating app she put me on.
I hit ignore.
Soft lights shimmer around the bathroom mirror as I shave. My eyes keep darting to them.
They’re just bathroom lights. That’s all. But I can’t shake the feeling that they’re flickering when they are fucking not.
I finish shaving, set down the razor, then splash water on my face.
Shake it off.
I need to get away from these lights. In the bedroom, I grab a shirt and button it up.
This weirdness in my chest? That’s just party nerves, right? That’s all it could possibly be.
The antsy, caffeinated sensation rolls through me again as I tuck the shirt into my slacks.
Regular old jitters. Nothing more.
Except, I’ve thrown a ton of romance soirees, and I’ve never felt anything like this insistent, too-big sensation in my chest. It expands through my ribs, pushes against my skin until I feel like I don’t fit inside my body.
With a rough swallow, I slam a hand against the wall. I take a deep breath. In, out. In, out.
Get it together, man. Now is not the time for your first panic attack.
I haul in a breath, let the air fill my lungs. Will away the thoughts of window curtain lights, and years gone by, and all these emotions.
So many goddamn emotions.
Old ones, new ones. Too many ones.
That’s the trouble. There’s just no room in me for them. I’ve got to do my best to ignore these feelings. As I walk to the warehouse, I pounce on my sister’s text, eager for the distraction.
Mom and Dad’s favorite child: Listen to any good podcasts lately?
* * *
Your favorite brother: No. Why? Should I?
Is she talking about Bellamy’s show?
I click over to my podcast app, but I don’t have time to wait for Rory’s reply or to check for a new episode. I’m inside the building, and it’s go time. Vendors are here, and I have a party to throw.
Matches to make.
A brand-new guest to introduce to the men of Manhattan.
Except, that’s the last thing I want to do.
Just the thought of it stirs a hornet’s nest of emotions in my chest. So clearly, the solution is to do more than ignore the fuck out of my fidgety heart. My angry heart. My warm, squishy soft one.
My heart in all its crazy forms.
The only answer is to take these damn feelings, stuff them in a cage, lock them up, and throw away the key.
In the elevator mirror, I square my shoulders, run a hand through my hair, and then look straight ahead.
I’m steel, and I’m ready for anything that could come my way.
39
Bellamy Hart’s A Million Frogs . . .
Episode: Will you be mine?
* * *
Bae. Steady. Boyfriend. Main squeeze. Lover.
Doesn’t matter what you call it, dear listener. At some point, if you’re seeing someone on the reg, chances are you’re going to level up in the what are we department.
Yes, that can be a terrifying conversation, fraught with nerves and hand-wringing and necessitating multiple glasses of wine with your girlfriends.
What if your hookup doesn’t want the same things you do? What if the guy or gal you’ve been dating doesn’t want to lock you up in the same way?
And, as Kitty in Manhattan asks in our listener question of the week, how do you know when it’s time? And what do I do if he doesn’t feel the same way I do?