24
I’m low-key freaking out.
But seriously, how do people do this all the time?I haven’t liked someone new in over ten years, and apart from some very awkwardly chaperoned dates in middle school, I haven’t dated anyone except Robbie.I mean, is dating even what comes next?Or is there supposed to be flirting?
Or more kissing?
Okay, I wouldn’t be opposed to the kissing because that kiss yesterday was mind-blowing, knee-weakening, earth-shattering, and more, but I feel like I should know what the next steps are.I’m sure there’s a lot more to it than kissing.Am I supposed to make the next move, or am I supposed to wait for him to do it?Isn’t there a three-day-wait rule or something?I feel like Cam mentioned something like that when he was going through his college frat-boy stage.And if I am supposed to be the one who makes the next move, what move am I supposed to make?
Why isn’t there a road map for dating?
“Okay, I got here as soon as I could.Sorry it took so long.I wanted to check in on all of the guys before they started talking about the tour.What’s the emergency?”Becka says as she enters my house.She heads straight for the kitchen with her arms full of groceries for our girls’ night that I begged for because I was experiencing an emergency.
“I kissed Tristan.”
She stops at the entrance to my kitchen and slowly turns around.“I’m sorry.I think I just hallucinated for a second.Can you repeat that?”
“I kissed Tristan,” I say, slightly more composed.
Her eyes bulge, but she recovers quickly.“TristanBridger?”
I nod, nibbling on my thumb and trying to quell the panic making me feel antsy.
She shakes her head slightly.“I’m at a loss for words.”
Oh my God, she probably thinks I’m the worst person in the world.I mean, my husband has only been gone a little over a year.Who does this?And with his best friend no less.
“Okay, I can see you’re freaking out,” she says.
“Of course I’m freaking out!”I shriek.“What was I thinking?”
She puts her hand up like she’s approaching a wild animal.“Okay, hold on.Why are you beating yourself up over this?”
I look at her like she’s crazy.“Isn’t it obvious?”
“Uh, clearly not.I’m gonna need you to break it down for me.”
“He’s my dead husband’s best friend!”
She frowns.“He’s your friend too.”
I open my mouth, but I have nothing to say to that.He is my friend too, arguably my best friend after the last year.And that thought causes all the panic to seep right out of me like water down a drain.
“Do you regret it?Is that why you’re freaking out?”
Do I regret it?
“No,” I say softly.“No,” I repeat, louder and surer this time.“I don’t regret it.”
We stand in silence while Becka lets me process how I’m feeling.
“I don’t know what to do now,” I admit, embarrassed.
I used to feel so confident—and honestly, a little arrogant—because I never had to worry about dating disasters and missteps since my husband was my high school sweetheart.But now that I’m thrown back into that world, I realize how stunted I am when it comes to this kind of thing.I have no idea what I’m doing, and I feel like a teenage girl all over again, but trapped in a twenty-six-year-old body.
“What do you want to do?”she asks, like it’s the simplest and most obvious question in the world.
“What I want to do and what Ishoulddo are two very different things.”