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The Three-Day Rule
Claudia
“I feel like a fool,” I said to Britney as she drove us to work Monday morning.
“Why? Because Frank hasn’t called?”
It had been almost three days since I’d given him my phone number, and he still hadn’t called or texted, hadn’t done anything with it. Maybe I’d misread the signs. I probably should have taken my own advice, the wisdom I’d shared with Britney when she first talked to me about liking Ryan—bartenders were supposed to be flirty and make you feel special.
It didn’t seem like Frank’s MO to behave that way, but I didn’t really know him. It could have all been an act, yet my gut instinct told me that wasn’t true.
But if it was all real like my heart wanted to believe, then why hadn’t he contacted me? My mind raced, trying to make sense of things that there was no making sense of.
“Maybe he’s just busy. He does own and run one of the busiest bars in Santa Monica, you know,” Britney said, turning down the volume on the radio. “He probably doesn’t have a lot of downtime.”
I scowled and crossed my arms. “Excuses.”
It didn’t matter how busy someone was. If they were interested in you, they made time. Plus, it took all of two seconds to type out a quick message, so I refused to believe that he was too busy to text. I refused to believe that anyone was too busy to text. Hell, if the president of the United States found the time to tweet, Frank Fisher could certainly type out a damn text message to me.
Britney gave me a quick glance before she returned her attention to the road. “I’m just saying. Maybe he didn’t want to initiate conversation
with you when he wasn’t able to actually have one.”
I shook my head as I tried to interpret her babble. “What are you trying to say?”
“He works all weekend, I assume. He probably doesn’t have time to talk to you, so why text or call when he’d just have to end it after two seconds, or be constantly interrupted? I feel like that would piss Frank off, having to tell you to hold on all the time, or BRB,” she said with a laugh. “I can’t see Frank ever typing out ‘BRB,’ by the way.”
“No,” I said, refusing to accept that.
“No, what?”
“He can make time. It takes a second to text me hello. Text me and tell me work sucks. But text me something! I don’t need some drawn-out hour-long conversation. I understand that we both have lives and are busy, but at least let me know you’re thinking about me. It’s not that hard.” As I raised my voice, my accent came to life. Whenever I got riled up, it came out thicker, and Britney always found that amusing.
“Ooh, I love it when you get all feisty Colombian on me.”
“I’m just saying—” I sucked in a deep breath, trying to calm down, but I was already too agitated. “I don’t care how good-looking Frank Fisher is, I’m not giving him a pass to treat me like crap.”
Britney slammed her fist on the steering wheel. “Girl power! I like it. Setting a precedent.”
Was that what I was doing? Subconsciously, I probably was. My whole life had been spent making excuses for guys who didn’t do things or treat me the way I expected them to. We women let them off way too easily, time and time again, and then we were the ones who ended up getting hurt in the end. I wanted a man who wasn’t afraid to show me he liked me. I was tired of guessing how men felt, what they wanted, and where our relationship was headed. I was sick of the games. I craved authenticity, something real.
“What are you thinking about?” she asked.
“Just how much we settle when it comes to guys. I don’t want to settle anymore. I want the kind of love I’m willing to give, and I don’t want to feel bad about expecting that. I’m tired of lowering my expectations because guys can’t seem to meet them.” Frustrated, I stared unseeing out the passenger window as the world passed by in a blur. “I think we let men treat us like crap. We don’t hold them accountable, almost like we’re afraid they’ll leave us if they don’t like what we have to say.”
Britney nodded. “It’s a little deep for this time of the morning, but I smell what you’re cooking.”
“I really thought he’d call,” I admitted, feeling more than a little vulnerable.
“So did I. I would have put money on it,” she said, and it made me feel marginally better, like I hadn’t made up the connection entirely in my mind.
“And now I’ve ruined our favorite bar for us. Because we can’t go back there.” My mind was racing again. “You can, but I’m never stepping foot in there again. I can’t face Frank after that rejection.” I moaned and rubbed the heels of my hands into my eyes.
“It’s only been a couple of days. Don’t write him off yet,” she said with a small shrug.
“I think if he was going to do something, he would have already.”
I truly believed that. When a man wanted a woman, there was no sense in waiting. What would be the point?
