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From PlainJane2 to GothamGuardian5:
Interesting. Boys are dumb.
From GothamGuardian5 to PlainJane2:
You’re not wrong. T. Swift has made a career of pointing that out.
“YOU BETTER NOT PUSH ME off this mountain, Price,” Graham says as we stand at an overlook of the lake and the mountains on a late Sunday afternoon. The sun is setting, tinging the sky orange, pink, and indigo. It’s an incredible view. The company ... debatable.
“I’m considering it,” I tell him, holding my phone up and snapping a couple of pictures.
Today’s challenge was photography inspired. We’re to take a picture of the sunset and send it to Morgan for her to judge. It couldn’t be any old sunset—it had to be from this particular lookout. Which was oddly specific, but when she suggested that Graham and I drive up together, I knew what she was up to. But I let him drive me up these winding mountain roads because it’s winter and it’s snowy and cold.
I didn’t tell her about Friday morning and ... whatever that was. I think Graham was going to kiss me. It really felt like he was going to. I think I wanted him to. He was so tender with me when my leg cramped up, so willing to help. And then we were so close, and he was looking at my lips, and my heart felt like it was going to pound out of my chest.
He hasn’t mentioned it since then, and neither have I. I think we’re pretending like it didn’t happen.
It did happen, though. And I’ve been replaying the moment often, because, sadly, it may have been one of the most sensual moments of my life so far ... an almost kiss. My gosh, that’s pathetic.
What would have happened if that stupid whistle hadn’t gone off?
It would have been a bad idea. That’s what I keep telling myself. But then I wonder ... would it? Until last week, I’d only been thinking of Graham as a friend. I obviously find the man attractive, but that feels something more akin to breathing—a natural thing. He’s handsome—that’s widely acknowledged. He’s the star of my fake hot-doctor calendars, after all.
But I’d noticed, even before the kiss-that-wasn’t, that he’s started touching me more—a brush of his hand on my arm, a quick rub of my shoulder when he walks by at the hospital ... and I like it. Maybe I’m just so desperate for attention from the opposite sex that my hormones are like: Look, there’s a man; he’ll do. But I don’t think that’s what is happening here. I feel like I’m developing real more-than-friendly feelings for the guy.
In addition to his obvious good looks, Graham’s funny, and witty, and gentle ... and he’s kind. I still haven’t seen any sign of the player I was warned about, not even in his interactions with others. You’d think I’d have seen something by now, some modicum of proof. But the only evidence I have is what Kyle said, and what Graham himself has alluded to. It doesn’t add up on my end.
But even so, I shouldn’t like Graham. Especially since, that almost-possible kiss aside, Graham has shown so little interest in me in that regard, beyond a couple of potential flirtatious lines and some basic touching. None of that does a smitten man make. Not that I know what a man who’s interested in more looks like, since as was previously pointed out, the moment in the pool might have been the sexiest of my life so far.
I’ve got to put myself out there more. What’s happening with Graham is that he’s around. He’s the low-hanging fruit in my life. Whatever I’m feeling for Graham is just inexperienced me making something out of nothing. Maybe I should see if GothamGuardian5 wants to meet in person sometime. Although, he’s never alluded to wanting to progress things to meeting in person. I’m living in the friend zone with every man in my life, I guess.
“I just took the winning picture,” Graham says.
I snort. “Sure you did.”
He might have; I’ve been thinking about the kiss-that-wasn’t this whole time and mindlessly taking shots. I better get my head on straight so I can win this challenge. Especially considering Graham won the last two nights. Friday it was to cook something you’ve never made before, and yesterday’s was to leave a generous tip for someone.
I still maintain that he ordered takeout for the cooking challenge; the chicken marsala he made looked too well-plated in my opinion. He even garnished it with parsley. Who does that? My lasagna, while good, didn’t set up all that well and sort of looked like lasagna vomit. Apparently, it is possible to add too much cheese.
And of course his tip was more generous than mine for yesterday’s challenge. The man makes way more money than I do.
“Are you done yet?” Graham asks as I take another shot. “I think one of my toes might have just been lost to frostbite.”
“Bonus: you can save yourself some money by amputating it yourself,” I tell him, giving my best smirk.
“I’m sure you’d love to assist me with that,” he says.
“I’ve got a dull knife and some peroxide back at my place.”
“Seriously, though, can we leave? I’ve already kicked your butt.”
“You wish,” I say, taking yet another picture. I’m only prolonging this to be annoying now. I’ve actually taken the shot I want to use. It captures all the color, and I caught it just as a hawk was flying by. Get ready to lose, Graham Shackwell.
We get in the car, and as the air and the seats warm up, we quickly text our pictures to Morgan, sending them individually instead of in the group chat.
She texts back only a minute later.
Morgan: Graham wins
