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I lick my lips and continue staring at my phone, trying to decide what to do. Ultimately, I hold off on responding and instead return to my workstation. There’s no harm in giving it a few hours or a day to decide. It’ll give me extra time to really think about it.
A little while later, I get another one.
Bishop: No pressure if it doesn’t sound fun. Thought it might be a cool thing to do with friends but understand if you’re not feeling it. Good luck with work tonight!
I sigh, wondering if I’m making a mistake by keeping him at a distance, or if the mistake is talking to him at all.
Immediately, I know that’s not the case. I can just feel it in my bones. There is something relieving about knowing Bishop still seems like the same person in some ways, knowing he’s still that kind and friendly and funny guy I knew. The last thing I would want is to realize I spent all those years with someone who wasn’t anything like I remember him to be.
When I wrap up around 10, I head into the house and make a peanut butter sandwich before joining Leah at the dining room table where she’s working on a large project.
“How’s work coming?” she asks, her needles moving slowly and methodically. “You were starting those skinny vases tonight, right?”
Nodding, I finish my bite of sandwich before answering. “Yeah. It’s going good. I finished forming, but now I’ll still need to carve, put it in the fire, glaze, and then fire it again.”
“Everything okay?”
I pause and glance at her. “Yeah, why?”
She shrugs, returning her eyes to her yarn. “You just never come in here and sit with me while I’m working. Thought maybe something was on your mind.”
Taking another bite, I shake my head. “I’m good.”
“So you said.” Leah glances at me again. “But if you suddenly realize you’re not good, you can talk to me about it.”
At that, I snort. “Not about this,” I mumble before I can stop myself.
She points at me. “I knew it. Spill.”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re not, and someday, you’ll finally learn that you feel better when you talk about things instead of letting them sit inside you forever.”
I roll my eyes. “It’s about Bishop,” I share, uncharacteristically deciding I’d rather just tell her and get it over with than do our little dance.
When Leah doesn’t say anything or even look at me, just goes back to her knitting, I spread my arms wide.
“See? Told you you wouldn’t want to hear it.”
“You’re right, but go ahead, tell me,” she replies.
“Not with that tone.”
Leah growls. “Fine.” She sets her knitting aside and gives me her full attention, a sweet smile on her face. “Tell me all the gory details.”
I laugh. “God, you’re the worst.”
“I’m the best. Tell me.”
Taking a deep breath, I push it out long and slow, and then I launch into sharing about Bishop’s texts and this…paint party. She listens intently, though I can see just in the way she’s staring at me that she already has an answer. It’s clear she still holds on to every piece of resentment she’s felt about him since we broke up.
“Part of me wants to go, part of me doesn’t. I don’t know what to do.”
“Don’t go.”
Snorting, I take my last bite of sandwich and push up from the table. “Shocking.”
“What?”
