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This is her move.
And it’s a good one.
I cringe inwardly as I watch them hug.
Now I can’t hear what they’re saying. She giggles. He motions to the banister he’s working on, then runs his hand down it.
She follows the motion, feeling the wood he’s sanded into submission.
They talk some more.
I feel like I want to die.
He won’t want my dinner company, now that he has Hana’s. I intruded on their first date, and I can’t put him through that a second time. Didn’t I just go on and on about how great Hana would be for him this morning in the clinic’s cafeteria?
I tried to convince him that she was a good potential partner.
I’ve been trying to convince myself of the same thing: That Hana’s right for him, and that I’m not.
Heck, maybe Hana really knows something that Nick and I don’t. She’s clever. Unbiased by old emotions that might be better left in the past. She knows both of us. Maybe she’s right. She’d make Nick happy—I would not.
I bite my lip and fight off the urge to cry. Standing stock-still, barely breathing, I perk my ears and try to listen.
A few phrases float my way: “…carpentry, but I’m giving it a go,” Nick says.
“…these houses. My aunt… and I’ve always loved Victorian architecture.”
“Want a tour?” he asks her.
Of course, she agrees.
I remain motionless as they hike up his front steps. Nick pauses to grab the pizza and wine. I catch sight of his profile, but he doesn’t see me. This time around, he won’t be able to tease me about my spying.
Once I hear his front door thud closed, I exhale.
I step back inside and fight off a tirade of inner angst as I swap my sandals for walking sneakers.
This is my fault. I set them up.
This is good. She’s better for him than I am.
I am in no position to go after Nick.
To fight for him.
I’m getting over a breakup.
Everyone knows it takes time.
I can’t tell him I want to be friends, then muck up his love life because I’m indulging in old feelings.
Dumb, Maddison. This is dumb.
Thank goodness for dogs. I’m starting to feel like Outlaw has mind-reading powers. He’s always in tune with my inner dialogue. He cozies in next to me and swipes his tongue up my cheek. It’s like he’s telling me to go easy on myself.
He’s right.
This beating myself up thing doesn’t feel good, and it’s not productive, either.
