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I hate it instantly, but I keep it anyway. It’s always easier to keep typing when there are already a couple words on the page. I set my fingers back to the keys and give it another go.
“The rapport was extraordinary,” I say aloud as I type. “But really, would you expect anything less from the devil’s mistress when thrust upon one of God’s most noble men?”
I snort at myself and hold down the delete button with unrepressed angst. I don’t think my editor will take kindly to a five-hundred-word essay of female hate speech in place of my fun, fluffy article about the latest date with Bachelor Anonymous.
Let’s try this again.
“The chemistry between the two was something out of a ninth-grade biology lab—hormones galore.”
Ugh. I groan. I’m not built for this, dammit. I don’t know how to write about a svelte, supermodel-esque woman and her terrific chemistry with the man I’m getting way too emotionally attached to. At least, not without making it seem like anything less than the ninth circle of hell.
But who would? It’s not normal. It’s not natural. It’s not sane!
Come on, Holley. It’s just a crush. A simple, harmless crush on the first decent, adult male you’ve been in contact with in the last god-knows-how-many years who isn’t over the age of seventy.
After numerous attempts to type something halfway decent and a lot of self-deprecation, I dig the heels of my hands into my eyes and sit back in my chair. I’ve been at this for far too many hours and have had way too many glasses of wine. My productivity is best found in the mornings, before the sun gets going full blast—before my brain is awake enough to give any credo to anxiety.
Maybe I’m better off calling it a night, giving in to the will of the writing gods, and taking a small, stinging loss in the tally. I’ll still have plenty of time to finish up writing the article in the morning, go over it with fine-tooth obsession, and turn it in by tomorrow evening, well before the print deadline and the start of Jake’s fifth and final date.
The only problem is…if I stop working now, what will I do for the rest of the night?
Obviously, the simple, logical answer would be to get some sleep.
Yeah, but you’ve had too much wine for all that rational bullshit…
An evil bird nips at one ear, and I’m too tipsy to recognize its wordless warning.
Instead, I do exactly as my heart wills, grabbing my phone and typing out a text message.Me: Are you still awake?My God. What have I done?JakeHolley: Are you still awake?I sit up in my bed and grab the chain to the lamp on my nightstand, flooding the room with ambient light.
I’d just settled into a light sleep, and the buzzing of my phone against the wood top of my nightstand woke me almost instantly. Groggy eyes had to make sense of a blurry-looking screen, but it wasn’t long before Holley’s name stood out starkly.
I read the words again and type out a quick message, fibbing only slightly.Me: Yes. Are you all right?Holley: Uh…yeah. I’m fine. GOOD. I mean, I’m good. How did the rest of your night go with Elle?Me: Anticlimactic. The date ended not too long after you left.Holley: Oh. Interesting, interesting. It seemed like you guys were really hitting it off.She saw the kiss. I know she saw the kiss. She knows that I know she saw the kiss.
What she doesn’t know is that neither one of us liked that kiss.
As I type my next message, I try my best to rectify any misgivings she may have.Me: We weren’t. Things were fine at best, but when I almost got served a tongue down my throat I didn’t order, things took a turn for the worse. Damn near getting molested while I’m wearing oven mitts isn’t my idea of a good time.When she doesn’t respond right away, I send another.Me: Holley, are you sure you’re okay?Leaving things the way we did tonight was hard. Harder than I’d ever have imagined something so simple would be after surviving the Hell Week portion of SEALs training without ringing the bell.
But emotional challenges, it seems, are unique. They exercise an entirely different muscle—the heart. And when one of the body’s most important organs gets involved, it’s hard to stop a situation from feeling like life or death.
I watch as the bubbles wiggle in my text thread and disappear. Over and over again, she seems to be typing without ever coming up with something she deems worthy of sending.
With a flick of my wrist, I toss the covers to the side and jump from the bed, heading to my closet to get dressed. It’s impulsive and not at all thought-out, but there’s a simple need inside me I can no longer deny.
