“Telling her what?”
“That I want to take her on a date for real.”
He stops and stares at me. “You’re serious.”
“Completely serious. We’re getting lunch at one and I’m just—I’m going to tell her.” My voice sounds steadier than I feel.
“And when she tells you to fuck off?”
“I don’t know. I haven’t thought that far ahead.” I check my phone. 12:15. Forty-five more minutes. “I can’t keep pretending I’m okay with just being friends.”
“That’s actually kind of mature of you.”
“Don’t sound so surprised.”
“I’m always surprised when you do something smart.” He claps me on the shoulder. “Good luck, man. You’ve got this.”
He leaves and I’m alone again with my thoughts and my anxiety.
I run through what I’m going to say. Keep it simple. Keep it honest. “I know we started as friends but I want more. I’ll wait as long as you need but I need you to know.”
The words sound stupid out loud. Everything sounds stupid. My hands won’t stop sweating. I wipe them on my jeans again. This is worse than my first NHL game.
I mean it could work. Or it could completely blow up our friendship and make everything weird forever.
I go to the gym and do a quick workout to burn off the nervous energy. Try not to think about all the ways this could go wrong.
12:50. Ten minutes.
I shower quickly and change into clean clothes. Check my hair in the mirror. Consider texting her that I’m ready early, but I don’t want to seem too eager.
12:58.
I head back to the lobby.
1:00.
She’s not here yet. That’s fine. She’s probably finishing up something with Marnie. I lean against the wall and wait.
1:05.
Still not here. I text her.
hey, still good for lunch?
No response.
1:10.
Maybe she’s in a meeting. Or her phone’s on silent. That happens sometimes.
1:15.
The security guard at the desk is starting to look at me weird. I check my phone again. Pull up our text thread to make sure the messages actually sent. They did.
everything okay?
Still nothing.
