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“Would you want to hang out sometime?” The words leave my lips in a rush. Then I mentally smack myself as they replay.What the hell are you doing?But it is too late. The offer has already been extended. Perhaps I should amend it. “As friends,” I clarify.
Her eyes dart between mine, searching for unspoken clues.
Good question. If you find answers, let me know.
“Uh…” Her teeth nibble at her bottom lip. In the periphery, her fingers tug at her waist apron. “Sure, I guess. Sounds nice.”
God, how does she make apprehension look adorable? Her hesitation makes my heart beat faster and breath come in bursts. Spreads warmth in my veins and stirs me to life. Gives me an inkling of hope for something more. Something I swore off years ago.
But it shouldn’t give me hope. It can’t.
Shelly is a friend. Only a friend. Plenty of men and women have strictly platonic friendships, and so can we.
Keep telling yourself that. Maybe if you repeat it enough, you’ll believe it.
“Before I leave, we should exchange numbers,” I say, then add with too much enthusiasm, “To coordinate.”Take a fucking pill already. Jeez.“What do you think about lunch and a museum?”
Seriously, this feels like more than friendship. Asking her to lunch and the museum sounds more like adate. But what do I know? I haven’t had many female friends since high school. That is what happens when you keep to yourself. So what do adult, opposite-sex friends do?
The museum sounds like a safe atmosphere to visit with a friend. Lots of people. Plenty of distractions.
At least it isn’t my house, on my couch, with the bedroom in close proximity. Or worse, my studio. Although my desire to be intimate with a woman is minuscule, I fear the temptation of having Shelly in my space. Near my bed. Near my creations. Her scent in the air and on fabrics. The image of her permanently etched in each room she enters. God, it would make my home my own personal torture chamber.
“I haven’t been to a museum since I was a kid. I’d love that.”
Her smile is worth every questionable thought. Worth the agony of where we go—as friends—from here. If a day at the museum excites her, I wonder what other places will?
“Great.” I almost slip and addit’s a date.
For a moment, we stand there, unsure what to do next. The corner of her mouth twitches, and I drop my gaze. Before temptation gets the better of me, I face forward and start cleaning up my mess. This snaps Shelly into action and she goes back to her workspace and cleans up the table. As I gather the last of my brushes, she fills the low-stocked flower pails with more blooms and tidies up the shop.
When she locks the front door and flips the welcome sign to closed, I wilt like a thirsty flower. She does a few last-minute tasks and then we exit through the back door.
After I stow my supplies in the back of my SUV, we stand unmoving, unspeaking, between our cars. I barely know Shelly, but today feels like goodbye. Like letting go of someone important. And I don’t like the pang beneath my diaphragm. The ever-increasing twinge between my ribs.
“Talk to you later,” I say as I reach for the door handle. “Drive safe.”
“You too. Talk to you later.”
We get in our cars and I wait for her to leave first. When her car is out of sight, I drop my head on the steering wheel and close my eyes. Take a deep breath. Then another as I wrap my fists around the wheel.
“Whatareyou doing?”
Of course, I don’t answer myself. What the hell would I say? I have no legitimate answer. Wish I had an idea of what happens next. Wish someone would give me advice on where I go from here. I don’t need step-by-step instructions, but a look in the crystal ball wouldn’t hurt.
If I keep the boundaries clear, keep us both on the same page, everything should be fine.
Shelly and I are friends.
Only friends.
* * *
I stareat my phone screen, waiting for a response like a needy teenager. Like a boy desperate for attention or affection or both. No matter how hard I stare, no matter how long I keep the screen awake, a response doesn’t come.
And I hate how much this bothers me. I hate how I can’t look away or put the phone down.
Three hours have passed since we left Petal and Vine. Three hours is both too long and not long enough.
