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The boy is making me breakfast not proposing.
For cripes sake, he is just a boy.
A young, Irish-accented boy who probably still shudders when he hears the number forty in reference to ages while I’m in that phase of self-negotiating that forty isn’t gonna be all that bad.
The light turns green again allowing me to propel myself forward once more.
Ugh, I should really fucking cancel.
Text him.
Lie and tell I’m too tired or it’s too late.
Pretend to be disinterested instead of so fucking excited.
I even told Nat all about him on my way to work this afternoon.
Everything I could fucking think of.
I think at one point I even described just how impressively straight his teeth are.
That’s how enamored I already am.
Nat’s my best friend, so of course she’s going to know when I go out on dates or hate dates or need help getting out of a date but telling her about my early morning breakfast adventure with Tate was different. It didn’t come out like it normally does. It was sort of said in such a second nature that you’d think this was an everyday occurrence rather than our first date. I spoke like coming home to him was expected and part of my daily routine – a part I loved and that made the long hours extra-long – and the casualness of it all had her banshee screeching in disbelief given my track record. She was quick to remind me – post my pre-teen fangirling over the pending rendezvous – that I didn’t even talk about Daniel with such ease, and we were together for four years.
Her Daniel point may be what’s haunting me the most.
It’s not that I didn’t love him or wasn’t in love with him.
No.
That definitely happened. We definitely happened. But it was different. It was…how do I put it without sounding like an episode of Vampire Diaries…Oh…fuck it. It wasn’t passion-filled. There wasn’t lust or an undeniable attraction every time we took a breath.
Do I understand relationships often dull a bit after some time?
Of course.
Shouldn’t it be there to begin with though?
And it wasn’t with him.
It was closer to friends with benefits who fucked around and got married but probably never should’ve.
Yet with Tate…
God help me.
Just five fucking minutes on the phone with him, and I know that undeniable desire between us will last a lifetime.
That is if I let it.
Can I let it?
Is there something wrong with letting it happen with someone so much younger than me?
Turning onto my street inspires another large breath to be taken.
Maybe this’ll be okay.
