With my shower turned up all the way, I quickly strip down. Tying my hair into a messy bun is the only choice since wash day isn’t until Tuesday, and I don't need to be screwing with my hair schedule logic on top of everything else.
As soon as I step into the shower, the water scorches my skin—just the way I like it. The shower is my safe space where I do a lot of my deep thinking, which is why I spent a solid thirty minutes letting the water soak me when I got home from work yesterday going back and forth on whether or not this whole thing was going to be a good idea. If the shower thoughts dictate it a good choice, who am I to doubt it?
However, there is no deep pondering in this shower. I only need a few minutes to lather myself with my honeysuckle and orange body wash and rinse off, saving as much time as possible to choose an outfit.
It’s late June and stupidly hot outside, but I can’t stop myself from pulling on a pair of high-waisted jeans. Shorts seem too informal, and I hate having to worry about my thighs rubbing together to create my worst enemy: chub rub.
Why can’t a girl just have thick thighs and no issues? Is that too much to ask for?
Staring into the chaos that is my closet, I look for my comfort sweater—slightly oversized, beige, lightweight, and perfect for a summer evening. Once the sun sets and a breeze sets in, I’m always thankful that I chose it. I pull it over my head and tuck the front into my jeans. The decision to put on the tiniest amount of mascara seems smart, and so does slipping on my gold pendant necklace. It’s not real gold, but it’s my favorite and goes with any outfit.
When I look in the mirror and release my hair from the bun, my layers fall messily out of place, and my wispy bangs sit disheveled. I flip my head down and shake my fingers through. As soon as I flip it back up, the layers look perfectly imperfect with my bangs only needing some smoothing down.
Good enough.
Grabbing my keys and my purse, I stop as I move towards the front door, feeling a knot in my stomach. Without a doubt, it’s my anxiety. As much as I want to, I can’t escape it, but for good reason it seems. I’m going to a random guy's house Thereare literal shows about this onDateline. What is wrong with me?
In the middle of my freak out, my phone vibrates in my pocket.
Patrick:There is an open parking spot out front labeled 349.
Ellie:Great! Thanks!
When I start to put my phone back, I decide to meet my anxiety in the middle.
Ellie:Hey random question. You’re not secretly an axe murderer or a serial killer?
Ellie:I have a busy week, and it’s not really in my plans to be murdered tonight.
Patrick:Nope, you’re all good!
Patrick:However, I’ve been thinking about picking up a new hobby.
Patrick:I’ll keep you in the loop… *axe emoji*
Ellie:…
Ellie:See you at 6
With that interesting back and forth, my phone goes back into my pocket, and it is time to leave the safety of my home.
Arriving in his neighborhood five minutes before the agreed upon time, I pull into the spot labeled ‘349’. If I get anywhere early, I will sit in my car until the exact minute, sometimes down to the second, I need to go in. One of the worst things in my opinion is inconveniencing people by being too early—or too late. There’s something about inconveniencing people that bugs me to my core. It also gives me some time to take some deep breaths and prepare what I am going to say. Most of last night and this morning was spent making a list in my notes app of what I think the boundaries should be for our ‘fake relationship’ and writing down a couple of clarifying questions.
The clock on my phone reads 5:59.
It's now or never.
Turning off my car, I walk towards his front door. While it is a very average looking neighborhood filled with endless rows of townhouses, there is still some personality in each one based on their colors. Patrick’s house is the one on the end that looks the same as the others, but his has a light blue exterior with dark blue shutters.
As I take the six steps up to the front door, I consider turning around. I’m sure he would forgive me. Or, there’s always the option to move out of the state, change my name, and forget about all of this. Deciding to ignore my internal objections, I ring the doorbell anyway.
It takes about twenty seconds before the locks click open and Patrick stands in the doorway. It’s funny how he looks strikingly handsome as he fills up the entryway. He has on dark grey joggers and a black t-shirt that fits snugly on his chest and arms. How does one’s entire wardrobe fit them so well? Does he have a personal tailor?
It takes me a second to notice the quiet that is building up around us. The look on his face is something I haven’t seen from him before, and I can’t quite pinpoint it. Clearing my throat brings his attention back to me, and with a small smile, he steps out of the way and gestures me inside.
“Welcome to my humble abode. It’s not much, but I really like it.” He says as he walks deeper into his home, and I take in my surroundings.
The first thing that hits me is a delicious smell I can only assume is coming from the pots on the stove. The scent of Italian spices mix with the newly familiar scent of Patrick. My mouth waters, and I pray that it’s the food that causes the Pavlovian response.
