In a heartbeat, her hands are on my chest, and she pushes me away.
I look at her, dazed. “Is everything okay?”
She nods, a little breathless. “I’m okay.”
“Are you sure? Because you just shoved me away. Generally speaking, that means you don’t want to kiss me anymore.”
She sighs and runs a hand through her hair. “I do want to. But I’m going to be totally honest. I don’t think you’re ready for it. And I also don’t want to ruin what we have.” She takes a deep breath like she’s prepping herself for something hard. “I think we need to focus on being friends.”
I try to reroute thoughts already racing ahead to what we could be next. But maybe she’s onto something. Maybe this is the way to demonstrate I’m not rushing into anything post-breakup. “So if we focus on being friends, would that prove to you how I really feel?”
She tilts her face. Her lips are soft; her eyes are vulnerable. “I don’t know. How do you really feel?”
I drag my thumb along her jawline, and she closes her eyes as if it’s almost too much. And then I speak the complete and utter truth. “I’m just beginning to figure it out tonight.”
She opens her eyes. There’s a certainty in her gaze. “That’s exactly why we need to continue being friends.”
Later, when I’m alone, I wonder if I’ve been friend-zoned. And then I decide I shouldn’t be asking myself. I should ask her. I send her a text.
Gavin: Was that a friend-zoning?
* * *
Savannah: Did it feel like a friend-zoning?
* * *
Gavin: I have no idea.
* * *
Savannah: Do you want to be friend-zoned?
* * *
Gavin: I think I made it clear that I don’t want that.
* * *
Savannah: Let’s consider it a temporary measure.
* * *
Gavin: So I can eventually get a zoning change?
* * *
Savannah: Maybe. :) What zone are you trying to get into?
* * *
Gavin: I thought that was abundantly clear tonight. I want to get into the end zone with you.
* * *
Savannah: And I thought you were the music guy. All of a sudden, you can’t stop with the sports analogies. :)
* * *
Gavin: Sports analogies seem to work well in this case.
* * *
Savannah: Yes, so let me be as clear as a fifty-yard touchdown pass into the end zone—I don’t just want to sleep with you.
* * *
Gavin: Allow me to be as clear as a game-winning home run—I don’t just want to sleep with you either.
I reread the text, and it feels like one of the truest things I’ve ever written. To anyone.
But I also know that I need to prove myself to her. That’s why I send one more text.
* * *
Gavin: How about a game of bocce ball this weekend?
* * *
Savannah: I thought you’d never ask.
7
Gavin
As I toss the ball along the lawn, I ask her more questions, diving into all the things I don’t know about her. I know a lot already, but there’s so much uncharted territory too. I ask about her family, her mother, her aunt Ellen.
“This may shock you, since I’m not a traditional gal, but Aunt Ellen is—very much so—and I adore her. She’s this sweet, darling old lady, and she loves to crochet,” Savannah says, a lightness in her tone as she talks about her family.
“Is that why you know how to crochet?” I ask after she throws the ball.
The look she gives me brims with curiosity. “How did you know I know how to crochet?”
“Was it a secret?”
She shrugs, a little impishly. “I don’t go out and advertise it.” She whispers, “It’s not very music-business cool.”
I pat her shoulder, taking advantage of any chance I get to touch her. “Aw. Don’t worry. Your music cred is still good with me. Crocheting is super retro.” I loop an arm around her waist and pull her close.
She arches a brow. “Is that friendly?”
I hold up my free hand in surrender. “Seems completely friendly to me.”
“It’s not making me think friendly thoughts,” she whispers.
I grin. “Excellent.”
“You’re being bad,” she says, but her tone is playful. “But let’s get back to the topic. How did you know I like to crochet?”
I grab another ball and send it down the grass. Then I turn to her, admitting, “I spotted crochet hooks in your bag once. Thought it was kind of adorable.”
She acts shocked. “You little spy. And you knew they were crochet hooks instead of knitting needles or something else?”
“Um. Confession: I did. I was raised by the latest in a long line of crafty women.”
“Excellent. Crafty women are forces of good in the world.”
“I’d have to agree,” I say, as she defeats me for the twentieth time, it seems. “Also, I was not thinking friendly thoughts as I watched you throw that ball.”
She rolls her eyes, but that feels like a good sign.