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Got it, loud and clear.
Thanks Mom.
It’s actually kind of a relief that James and I have five-year plans that don’t match up, because now I’m off the hook. I don’t have to process how I feel about him (MORE THAN I SHOULD). I don’t have to consider that it’s been weeks since we last spoke (AND I CAN’T STOP THINKING ABOUT HIM).
He called me a few days ago, totally out of the blue. My heart raced when I saw his name flash across my screen, but I couldn’t bring myself to answer it. It eventually went to voicemail, and he didn’t leave a message. For all I know, it was a butt dial. I need it to have been a butt dial, in fact, because if we’re going to stay away from each other, no communication is probably the way to go. A platonic friendship won’t work for us. James has only been in my life for a few months, and already he’s consuming too much of me.
What would an older, wiser version of myself say? Walk away—no, run as fast as you can. James is going to eat you alive if you let him. Stay focused on what’s important. Double your efforts to find a new tutoring position so you can quit your dead-end job. Accept that date from the nice guy who works at the cafe down the block and revel in the lack of chemistry. Thoughts about cafe guy won’t keep you up at night.
It sounds like a solid plan, right up until I leave for work the next morning and nearly trip over three massive bouquets of peonies sitting outside my door. I search for a card and find one tucked into the middle bunch.
From Harry.
…
I’m sitting in Ellie’s car as we head back to the co-op. We’ve just stuffed our faces at Madam Mam’s, a Thai restaurant near UT campus that I’ve been craving for the last few days. The chicken pad thai temporarily distracted me from all the thoughts about James swirling around my mind, but as we turn another corner closer to home, I dread the moment when she drops me off.
I’m growing weaker by the day when it comes to staying away from him. He called again last night, and I didn’t answer. One call can be written off as a mistake, but not two. His toned behind isn’t that clumsy.
I’m not sure why he’s calling. It could be about something innocuous (Where did you buy Harry’s fish food?), but I know better.
Ellie turns and the seatbelt rubs against my chest. I pre-wince, expecting pain, but nothing comes. The burn from the crash has healed and now there’s one less thing tethering me to James.
“Should we stop at Amy’s?” Ellie asks, and my heart sinks.
She’s not a big ice cream fan. If she’s going to pig out, it’s going to be on cake or pie, so the fact that she’s suggesting Amy’s tells me she can tell I’m upset.
“I don’t need ice cream. I’m fine,” I say with forced cheer.
“You’ve been quiet all night. What’s going on?”
I turn to look out the window so she can’t read my emotions. I’ve been told I have a terrible poker face.
“I’ve just been thinking about job prospects,” I offer, because it’s a half-truth, and it’s easier than delving into the whole truth.
“Are you sure that’s all?”
“Positive.”
When Ellie drops me off at home, I’m surprised to find a black Porsche sitting by the curb. The doors are open, but the driver is missing. A few of my roommates are there though, kicking the tires and checking out the interior. They don’t even notice me until I’m beside the car, asking what they’re doing.
They nod their head toward the house. “James Bond’s inside waiting for you.”
My heart soars.
I want to twirl and skip up the front path, but I take my time and gather my wits as much as possible. With the flowers and the phone calls, I knew something like this was bound to happen. James might have been the one to initiate this forced separation, but he’s also the one who’s been pushing the boundaries. I wonder if he regrets his decision, and I suppose I’m about to find out because he’s here now, in the co-op living room, chatting with my roommate Maggie.
I have no clue how this tableau came about exactly, but Maggie and James are side by side on the ground, making posters, open paint cans and used brushes scattered all around them. The man is wearing designer clothes. Sure, it’s just jeans and a t-shirt, but the thread count on that cotton is probably higher than my bed sheets, and now it’s speckled with paint.
There are already a dozen signs completed and drying in one corner of the room.
CAPTIVITY IS NOT CONSERVATION!
