Chapter 12 Madison
Madison
I’m a bit impulsive when I’m mad.
“No, that’s the wrong color, m’hijita. It doesn’t fit, see?” Abuela says sharply, taking the puzzle piece from me with a chiding cluck of her tongue. “Where is your head today?”
In a Mexican restaurant. Well, more specifically, on the sidewalk just in front of a Mexican restaurant—replaying that moment and wishing it had ended differently.
“Lo siento, Abuela,” I reply dutifully, refocusing on the color sorting task she parsed out.
Compulsively, I check my texts for the thousandth time to see if Peter has sent me anything.
He hasn’t. I deflate back into my chair.
Is this normal? I suppose it’s been less than 48 hours since we talked, but all I want to do is talk to him again.
If I had girlfriends, I would go to them to ask how long you’re supposed to wait after a date to text someone.
Am I supposed to text him, or am I supposed to wait for him to text me?
Ugh this is why I hate dating. I’m not used to self-doubt, and I hate it. The what if’s are exhausting.
What if he didn’t like me that much? What if I offended him and he was too polite to tell me? I do that sometimes. I know I’m not the easiest person to be around.
Or… What if he got hit by a bus?
Logically, I know the most likely scenario is that he’s just waiting to reach out to me, as per the normal, regular, socially acceptable customs.
I hate the socially acceptable customs. I just want to know if he likes me as much as I like him.
I want to skip right to the sex so I can find out firsthand if his wiener is boyfriend material, but I also want to explore this connection with him before we do that.
When you’re a depression/anxiety girlie and it’s hard to cross the finish line, it turns something that should be fun into a bit of an ego minefield.
Or do I rip the Band-Aid off? Get the first time over with so I can write him off if he’s selfish, or he’s got a tiny pecker?
Yeah… I could feel it against my stomach, poking me when I pressed into him. And it was… sizeable. Definitely not tiny.
Aaaand now I’m right back to overeager, wanting to text him real bad. But I don’t have friends to ask this shit. I’ve only got Abuela. I glance up, finding her muttering to herself in Spanish, cursing how many shades of green there are.
Yeah, I can’t tell Abuela about someone I’m seeing before I know if I like him—she’d have the wedding planned before our third date. So there’s only one option left…
“You know I hate it when you’re on your phone,” she instantly scolds.
“I’m just messaging Tío. He told me he had another job for me,” I lie. Since it’s maybe the only excuse that gets her off my back and doesn’t prompt a follow-up, she hmmphs and nods, allowing the phone usage in her presence.
mermaidav: You’re a guy, right?
SpyderMan: Part spider, part man.
I tamp down on a giggle, eyes flicking up guiltily to Abuela, and my mind swings back to Peter. I swear I can hear him saying that in his sarcastic tone. Wait… That’s kind of a funny coincidence—the superhero Spiderman’s secret identity is Peter Parker.
mermaidav: A one-stop-shop for advice on dating and catching flies? Sold.
SpyderMan: Wait. You want dating advice?
mermaidav: Don’t look at me like that
SpyderMan: lol you heard me spit out my drink from all the way over there, eh? I’ll admit I’m surprised—both that you’d come to me and that you’re dating. For as long as I’ve known you, you’ve always claimed to “hate people”
Yeah, he’s got me there.
It’s an odd sensation to feel like someone you’ve never seen “sees” you.
It’s weird how you can know a person without knowing them.
Because even though we’ve talked almost every day for two years, there are so many things we don’t know about each other—things you don’t share when you’re trying to protect an identity.
It’s created a strange, imbalanced situation of knowing who someone is without the context to understand how they got to be that way.
I know what kind of music he listens to when he codes, but I don’t know where he was born. I know the definitive ranking of his favorite desserts, but I don’t know if he has siblings. I know how he feels about right and wrong, but not what he looks like.
And he apparently knows that dating—opening up, considering letting someone else in—is out of character for me. And he’s right.
In some ways, he knows me better than anyone else—even Abuela. I’ve always felt free to speak my mind and be myself with him in a way I never could with Abuela, strict and judgmental as she can be. I’ve told him so many deeply personal things, and he’s never judged me.
Maybe he is the right person to talk to about this after all.
mermaidav: I’m not dating; it was one date. It was a good date. But to your point, I’m rusty—I’m not sure what to do next or what the rules are in this situation.
SpyderMan: Wait, you’re doubting yourself? You?? One moment, let me check the forecast… yes, it does appear that Hell has frozen over. How odd.
A smile tugs at my lips. Sometimes even a bad bitch needs a reminder of who she is.
mermaidav: You’ve clearly never met someone so fine they made feminism leave your body. The things I’d let this man do to me would get me kicked out of a women’s studies class.
SpyderMan: I take it you liked him, then?
Biting into my lower lip, I barely manage to contain the grin.
mermaidav: yeah. A lot.
SpyderMan: Wow. A lot? You know this after one date?
mermaidav: Was the part about feminism leaving my body somehow unclear? You want me to be a bit more descriptive? lol
SpyderMan: No. You just don’t normally act like a little girl with a crush.
I feel my brows shoot towards my hairline. Excuse the fuck outta me? It’s hard to interpret tone online, but that almost sounded disapproving.
Wait a minute, is SpyderMan jealous?
The thought sends a thrill through me that makes me shake my head at myself. Yeah, I’m not dealing with that. I don’t want him to be jealous—or, rather, I don’t want to want him to be jealous. I’m trying to get over him.
This was a mistake. I’ll browse dating subreddits for advice before I entangle myself back in my SpyderMan feelings.
mermaidav: Forget it.
SpyderMan: All I’m saying is, you’re usually so rational and circumspect. I expected you to be a bit more wary of new people.
mermaidav: I shouldn’t have said anything. Let’s drop it.
SpyderMan: Who is this bloke, really?
mermaidav: Hold please, I’m looking for my glasses…
SpyderMan: ?
mermaidav: So I can see if I give a fuck about what you think… Oh, yeah, no I definitely don’t.
SpyderMan: Fuck. That’s not what I meant. I just want you to be careful. To be safe
I’m so over this conversation. While he types out his next message—sure to be another hard backpedal—I log off without saying goodbye.
Who the fuck does he think he is? Is he threatened that there’s someone real in my life that caught my interest? What, he just wants me to stay hung up on him?
Okay, that doesn’t really fit with what I know about him. But, then again, we’ve never really talked about any of this stuff… For all I know, he’s married with 2.5 kids and a dog!
Was it so much to hope that my only friend would be happy for me? Was it so much to hope that my emotions about it wouldn’t be this ridiculously complex?
We can’t be together. It’s a line we’ve both drawn. It’s dumb to dwell on it or be upset, because we both know it’s for the best. And yet, there’s a small part of me that thrills in his jealousy. Part of me wishes he would push back harder.
And that’s exactly the problem.
A voice in the back of my head warns me that texting Peter just because I’m pissed off at SpyderMan is exactly the kind of childish behavior he was just accusing me of—and I fucking hate proving a man right—but I swipe to my texts and start tapping out a message anyway.
Yes, I’m making the first move after a date. Gender conventions be damned.
And I’m a bit impulsive when I’m mad.
I can’t stop thinking about that kiss.
Just like last time, his response is so quick it’s like he had his phone in his hand when he got mine.
Me either. When are you going to let me take you out again?
The urge to type back “right now” is strong, but I don’t need to consult anyone to know just how desperate that sounds. I mean, I am desperate, but I don’t want to sound like I am… Time to dial it back.
Tomorrow?
It’s a date.