I’m tempted to straight up ask if she was flirting with me. Because it took me way too long to catch on the last time that happened. This feels a little more obvious. Except it also feels casual at the same time, which is confusing.
I think that’s her personality. Casual, laid-back, unbothered.
Everything I’d like to be, but I’m clearly not.
The flirting could be in her body language, though, rather than merely her words. It’s like some kind of secret code I don’t have the key to yet.
It occurs to me that instead of asking if she’s flirting with me, I should be asking myself if I want her to be. And I really don’t have an answer to that.
The smart answer would be no, of course. Because it would be too messy—I’ma mess right now, my life is a mess. And this woman seems like someone who stays away from messy. But I’m afraid the smart answer might not be the one I’m leaning toward.
“I owned a restaurant with my ex-wife,” she tells me, untucking her leg from under her thigh and letting it hang in the small space between our stools. “My wife, at the time. Christy. Things with the restaurant were going great, but things with us weren’t. And I stayed focused on work and ignored the problems until I found out she’d been cheating on me. A lot.”
“Oh my god, I’m so sorry.” My fingers reach out without my permission, finding her knee. Touching her bare skin flusters me, but I try not to show it. I want her to know I’m listening, and that I understand how much that sucks. “That’s such a shitty thing to do to someone. How long were you married?”
Hearing she was with a woman doesn’t even surprise me, so maybe I am picking up on the correct signals. But I’m also right in thinking she should avoid me. She doesn’t deserve another mess.
“Six years.” She glances down at where my fingers are still grazing her knee, and I pull my hand away, pretending I want to take a sip of my cider. “I’ll never make that mistake again.”
“Marriage?” I ask.
She huffs a laugh. “Dating. Love. Any of it. I don’t know.”
“That’s sad,” I say before I can think better of it.
Thankfully, she laughs again and doesn’t seem offended. “Maybe. Or maybe it’s smart. I really don’t see myself being able to get close to someone that way again and trusting they won’t fuck me over.”
I can understand that. Being in the music industry, I always need to be wary of who I can trust and who’s only looking out for their own interests instead of mine. But when it comes to relationships, I’m more unguarded.Some might say naïve, even.
“I’ve had my heart broken plenty of times,” I tell her. “Granted, never by someone who promised me ‘until death do us part,’ but still. No matter how many relationships don’t work out for me, I can’t imagine I’ll ever stop trying. The right person has to be out there.”
Did I say person?
Was I supposed to say man?
“Oh, so you’re a hopeless romantic,” Addison comments, thankfully ignoring my ambiguity.
That’s something I’ve been called my entire life. Some people treat it like a positive personality trait, while others make it sound like a negative. I’d expect her to fall in the latter camp, but her tone surprisingly didn’t indicate that. If anything, she sounded completely neutral.
“It’s hard to deny it when I’ve written dozens of love songs,” I admit. “And even more breakup ones.”
“I’ll be honest,” she says, “I haven’t listened to much of your music.”
That makes me laugh. “Luckily, it’s not a requirement for talking to me.”
“Oh, good. I thought there’d be a quiz.”
I laugh again, and it feels really good. I haven’t had much to laugh about recently. All I’ve done is mess around on my guitar, trying to write music while wondering if it’s pointless. If my career is over.
“So that was my sad story,” she says. “Now it’s your turn.”
And just like that, any lingering traces of laughter are sucked right out of me.
This was our deal, though. So I shift uncomfortably in my seat, averting my gaze to my half-empty glass as I work out what to tell her.
It’s hard to believe she truly doesn’t know anything about me or the recent scandals that have sent me into hiding. I’m fully aware that the world doesn’t revolve around me, yes. But when you’ve spent almost a decade living your life under a giant media spotlight, it can sure feel like that sometimes. And not in a good way.
Every time you make a mistake, for example, and the critics, both professional and amateur, come out in droves trying to cancel you.
