Choking on the air, I end up completely flustered. I’m used to random, unwelcome comments about my body at work, but never from someone that I actually am attracted to. My face is getting embarrassingly warm, so I focus my attention back on his drink. The espresso and milk mix together as I pour them in at the same time, and adding a lid to the top, I hold it out to Patrick.
When he takes his drink, our fingers brush over each other. The reaction from just the smallest touch makes my body go haywire. I try to muster up some semblance of a valediction, but nothing comes out.
“Have a good day, El.” Patrick smiles and keeps looking back at me as he walks through the lobby.
It would do me well to learn how to play it cool when he pays a compliment to me because it is seriously hindering my day to day life.
“So, you guys are sleeping together?”
“Yes.”
“But still fake dating?”
“Also, yes.”
Nick leans over to me like he’s telling a secret, but I'm confused since we’re the only ones in our apartment. “And when are you going to tell him that you have a big ol’ crush on him?”
“Stop it! I do not have a crush on Patrick.” I hit him with my pillow and try to hide my defensive tone. He rubs the spot on his arm where I just hit, attempting to milk my sympathies, but I am not having it.
He singsongs, “That’s not what it looks like from over here.”
“Stop it! I like him just as a friend... A friend who is interested in making me come… multiple times.”
“Okay—” Nick does not believe me, but he doesn’t have to. “But, when you guys fall in love, I get to say I told you so.”
I roll my eyes. “We are not going to fall in love, and you need to leave me alone so I can study.”
Nick always thinks he knows everything, but he does not know this. Well, maybe he can sense it from the big emotionsradiating off of me, but I don’t really know how I’m feeling about this new predicament.
My brain is probably just getting a little scrambled by the physical stuff because I definitely do not have a crush on Patrick. Not that I want to date him anyways—since the idea of being in a relationship still frightens me. My ex was nice for a long time until he wasn’t. So, how am I supposed to know that it won’t turn out the same this time?
My stomach churns just thinking about the things he used to say to me. What’s worse is the way he used to say them. Like it wassoobvious that I wasn’t smart or pretty. Like everyone else already knew, and I was the idiot for believing that people actually liked me.
Shaking off those thoughts, I try to gain my composure, but it’s hard.
After my last couple breakdowns, I have thought about reaching out to my therapist, but it’s been over a year since I’ve needed to talk to her. While I feel mostly recovered, other than these moments of overthinking, it still makes me wonder…
Whatever, I’ll be fine.
Hearing a knock at my door, I get up to grab the takeout that I ordered.
It has been four hours straight of reading through old texts and annotations, and my notebook is a complete mess. I’ve filled six pages with ideas that I desperately hope are connected, but who knows if they will actually be helpful?
It’s hit-or-miss with grad school professors. I could say the same thing to two different professors and get vastly different responses, so the only thing to do is to hope for the best.
Doing what I can to stack my work in a pile, I make my way out of my study zone safely, but in order to actually make it to the front door, I have to move out of the chaos that I’ve created all over the living room.
What normally exists as a safe haven to relax and watch TV has turned into a dumpster fire. There are books and papers covering the entirety of the coffee table and most of the floor. Not to mention, there is a slew of writing utensils scattered in my mess, and if you have ever accidentally stepped on a mechanical pencil, you will understand why I am taking these precautions.
The space is in complete shambles, but there is an organization to the madness. I know exactly where everything I need is, and if I move any of it, it will all be ruined. So, I need to be very careful to not mess any of it up.
It takes me a solid minute to move cautiously through my mayhem, but I like to wait a couple extra minutes anyway for the delivery person to walk away.
Getting annoyed when I hear a second knock, I do my best to compose myself.
I hate when they feel the need to hand you the food, especially when you say that you want a no-contact delivery.
I take a deep breath, preparing for an unexpected social interaction, but I am puzzled when I see Patrick standing in front of my door with my takeout in his hand.
