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“You left her a heartfelt note thanking her for a beautiful night and telling her you can’t wait to see her again?” Tikki hopes.
“You left to buy her coffee and pick her flowers from the neighbor’s yard?” Maria tries.
“Nope, I just left. I got out of her way—let her get on with her morning.”
And they still look confused.
“What was in your mind when you made that decision?” Dr. Laura asks.
“Well . . . I’m into Violet in a big way—so I have to play this just right. I can’t be stupid. I don’t want to scare her away. And she’s young.”
“How young?” Karen asks.
“Thirty.”
Lou shakes his head, “Thirty ain’t that young.”
“It’s young enough to have a whole different outlook. Girls like her don’t want some old dude who’s clingy. They want freedom, they want to do their own thing with a man who’s capable of doing his own thing. Sex is the first step. I read that in a dating book—compatibility is huge. If you’re not good together on the screwing front, there’s no point in going forward. That’s how thirty-year-olds think. And our sex was fucking earthshattering, so we’ve passed the first hurdle. Now I need to back off and show her I’m not going to smother her. That’s how this works.”
They still seem concerned.
Dr. Laura adjusts her glasses and seems to choose her words with care.
“Connor, are you sure this is the way you want to handle this? Best-case scenario, it’s very presumptuous. Are you certain this isn’t an excuse to keep Violet at arm’s length? To protect yourself from forming an emotional attachment to another woman, and possibly being hurt again?”
I think about all those careful words. For five seconds.
“Yes, I’m sure. It’s not any of that.”
The D.U.H. posse is unconvinced.
Delilah raises her hands to the sky and prays.
“Jesus, take the wheel. And make it a convertible, Lord, so you can smack Connor upside his stupid man head with a low-lying branch.”
There’s a few muttered amens around the circle. Lou makes the sign of the cross.
“Connor,” Dr. Laura tries again. “What you’re talking about sounds dangerously close to playing mind games. Acting in a way that doesn’t reflect what you truly feel, but as a manipulation to achieve a desired outcome. Those maneuvers tend to end badly for everyone involved.”
I shake my head. “I’m not playing mind games. This is how committed relationships get started now. This is the foundation. Honesty comes later; right now I just have to keep her interested. It’s like the Mandalorian says: this is the way.”
“Fuckin’ Mandalorian again,” Carl snarls.
And everyone groans. Because ever since the new crop of movies came out, he’s deeply resentful of anything Star Wars related. Don’t even get him started on the Jar Jar Binks conspiracy.
“That helmeted bastard could be leading you all off a cliff and you’d follow him saying, This is the way, this is the way. Like zombies.”
“Let’s not digress, Carl. We’ve talked about this.” Laura says.
“Disney is the Empire, Dr. Laura! Mickey is Palpatine. It’s been there in front of us the whole time!”
Tikki covers her eyes. “Oh my God.”
“Shut up, Carl!” Maria yells.
“We’re supposed to be helping Connor,” Stewart says. “And he, like, really needs it.”
“Look, guys.” I hold up my hands. “I appreciate your concern, honestly. But I’ve got this. I’m awesome! I know exactly what I’m doing—everything’s going to be fine.”
If this were a movie, now would be the time when the narrator’s voiceover comes on and informs the audience that I did not, in fact, know what I was doing and nothing—nothing—was going to be fucking fine.
* * *
Violet
Maybe I snore.
Or talk in my sleep.
Maybe I kicked him and thrashed around. No one’s ever told me that I’m a restless sleeper, but it’s possible.
Oh God—what if I farted in my sleep? It’s a normal bodily function and Connor’s not the prissy type, but maybe it’s too early in the relationship for nocturnal gassing?
These are the thoughts that run through my mind all day Sunday as I obsessively check my phone, waiting for a text or a call.
That doesn’t arrive.
I go over every moment in my head searching for the reason Connor bailed and is now ghosting me. But nothing stands out. No hint of hesitation on his part, or indication that he was anything but supremely into everything we did.
That he liked it, liked me . . . every bit as much as I did him.
I don’t understand.
And that’s the hardest part. The not knowing. If I was clear on what I did wrong, I could deal with it, and figure out a way not to do it again. But not having any clue about where it all went wrong is torture. Making me replay the day and night on repeat, again and again.
Reliving every look and touch and kiss, every pant and breath and blissful orgasm in slow motion until I’m in a perpetual state of horniness and depression.
