Page 34 of The Heartbreaker Next Door

Which made this infinitely worse. Casual was easy when I didn’t give a shit. But I already cared about her more than I wanted to admit. Whenever I walked into a room, my eyes automatically scanned, trying to find her. I noticed small shifts in her personality, how she got quiet when she was upset or embarrassed. I’d learned her coffee order. She’d never explicitly given it to me, so I must have just learned it by osmosis. If this goes to hell, which where else could it go, I wouldn’t just lose someone I’m dating. I would lose her.

In risk assessment, you always have to weigh the worst-case scenario as a viable factor before making a decision, giving in to the feelings I had for her. The risk/reward wasn’t worth it. She meant too much to me, I respected her too much to start something I had no idea what the outcome would be. That was a bad bet, one I wasn’t ready to gamble.

Reason Four: I’m terrible at communication.

Ask me about work, and I can talk for hours. Ask me how I’m feeling, and suddenly the English language becomes an unsolvable fucking mystery. She deserved a man who could tell her what he’s thinking without requiring three beers, an interrogation lamp, and forty-eight hours’ notice.

Reason Five: I don’t know how to give her what she needs.

I can show up. I can fix things. I can take care of problems. I can make sure she gets home safely and remember that she hates pickles on her burger. But saying the important shit? Telling someone I need them? Letting them see the parts of me I keep locked down? I don’t know how to do that.

Reason Six: I already know how this ends.

We have a few incredible months. She starts wanting more. I start pulling away. She asks what’s wrong. I say “nothing” when there’s obviously something. Eventually, she gets tired of trying to pry emotions out of me with a fucking crowbar, and I hurt her. Then we have to see each other at work every damn day.

Reason Seven: Dating me could fuck with her career.

It doesn’t matter how good she is at her job. The second people find out she’s sleeping with her boss, there’ll be whispers. Every promotion becomes suspicious. Every opportunity gets questioned. She worked too hard for me to become an asterisk beside everything she’s earned.

Reason Eight: I’ve done this before.

I don’t cheat. I don’t lie. I don’t make promises I know I can’t keep. Somehow, I still hurt people. I let women believe that if they wait long enough, eventually I’ll let them all the way in. Then they realize there’s a locked door I have absolutely no intention of opening.

Cold. Distant. Emotionally unavailable. Those were not the attributes of someone who anyone, would want to be with, much less a woman who deserves the world.

Reason Nine: She makes me want things I don’t want to want.

I like my life, I like my space and plans. I like knowing exactly what tomorrow looks like. Then she smiles at me, and suddenly I’m thinking about dinners that have nothing to do with work. Sunday mornings. Her toothbrush next to mine. Waking up with her stealing half the fucking bed. I don’t do forever, so I sure as hell shouldn’t be imagining it.

Reason Ten: Maverick. Enough said. He was a four year old, innocent boy who, for some reason, seems to like me. I didn’t know a lot about his dad, but the little bit I did told me he wasn’t a reliable guy. That little boy deserved a guy who would be there forever, a man who was equipped to step up to the plate. I was not that man. (See reasons: 2, 4, 5, 6, 8 & 9)

I’d just finished when there was a knock at my door. Not a polite tap—an assertive, slightly impatient knock.

“Come in,” I called, already knowing who it would be mainly because she was the only person who respected my closed-door boundary, everyone else, aka my family, just walked in.

Felicity strode in with her signature brisk walk, holding a color-coded binder in one hand and a rainbow collection of sticky notes in the other. She smiled, an expression that always seemed to be at least partly for her own amusement.

“I need five minutes,” she said, already moving towards the chair across from me. “And I promise not to bring up the rodeo clown incident, even though I’m absolutely dying to.”

“Who told you—?” I was halfway through the question when I realized it was either Damon or my mom. Damon because he wanted me to look bad, my mom because she thought the “rodeo clown incident” was adorable.

It wasn’t, it was humiliating. At four years old, Maverick’s age, I went to a rodeo and tried to save the rodeo clown. The bull charged, the clown did his job and dramatically dove into a barrel. I thought it was a genuine emergency. I wriggled away from my mom, climbed halfway over the fence, and screamed, “Don’t worry, clown! I’m coming!” Security had to retrieve me. The rodeo clown came over afterward to thank me for his “backup.”

I ignored the fact she was now aware of the story and said, “You’re on the clock,” prompting her to get to the point.

She smiled. “I’m an exempt employee. Plus, I come bearing gifts.” She slid the binder across the desk. “Your favorite, cost projections.”

I exhaled, only a little relieved. “What’s the project?”

She opened the binder and pointed to a tab marked Family Programming. “We have solid wedding bookings through September, but there’s an empty weekend in July due to a cancellation, instead of filling it with another wedding, I want to try a family event, Cowboys and Campfires. We’re leaving revenue on the table if we don’t.”

I flipped through the pages. Her math was solid. Maybe too solid, she’d highlighted every potential risk and return, annotated with Post-it notes that broke down even the non-tangibles.

Kids’ excitement level: 9/10

Parental stress: SpongeBob anxiety meme

Possible insurance headache: Moderate.