Chapter Five
LIZ
I tell myself I will not think about it.
I tell myself this while lying in bed Sunday night, staring at the ceiling, replaying the exact moment Ethan’s fingers laced with mine in the coffee shop.
Actually, he just put his hand on top of mine.
I’m the one who grabbed his hand. As much as I’d like to pretend it was an accident instead of a choice, that isn’t possible.
He’s bound to know how I feel about him now.
It was cold. Maybe he’ll think I just needed to warm my hand.
Yeah, no.
That will not fly. I initiated that intimate little hand flirting. There’s no stepping back from that. And it’s so silly to sit here, obsessing about holding a guy’s hand.
I mean, dream-Ethan had his cock inside me.
But that’s how my mind works, overthinking everything. Making every situation as stressful as it possibly can be.
I think about the way his thumb brushed over my knuckles, soft, grounding, like he knew exactly how fast my heart was beating and was trying to slow it down.
I think about how he leaned in slightly, voice low, telling me it was okay to hate Christmas parties, that his college roommate had social anxiety.
Maybe he was holding my hand only to comfort me.
The way you touch a sad child to show them you’re there and that you understand.
Maybe it wasn’t flirting as much as him feeling sorry for me.
But he’s been paying so much attention to me at work.
Or was he just being kind? The way he’s kind to everyone?
I roll onto my side and groan into my pillow.
This is bad.
This is terrible.
By Monday morning, I’m exhausted from my own thoughts. My brain is so tired I can’t even obsess about what to say to Ethan the next time I see him. Besides, Ethan isn’t in the office.
I know this because I checked his calendar even though I absolutely did not need to. Work trip. Out of state. Back Tuesday night.
I pretend I don’t feel the hollow drop in my chest when I realize I won’t see him. Even though I most likely will make a complete fool out of myself when I do.
Sara clocks my haggard appearance immediately. “You look like someone stole your emotional support iced coffee,” she says, sliding into the chair next to my desk.
“I’m fine,” I lie.
She squints at me. “Did something happen?”
“No.”
She waits.
“Maybe,” I admit.
Her grin is instantaneous. “I knew it.”
I bury my face in my hands. “How do you know?”
“You’re glowing and miserable,” she says. “That’s your tell.”
I shake my head, but tell her everything. The holding hands. The flirting. The way he listened, really listened, when I talked about crowds and noise and how my brain short-circuits when I’m the center of attention.
“He said his roommate used to get panic attacks,” I mumble. “He didn’t make it weird. He didn’t pity me. He just… understood.”
Sara sighs dreamily. “Liz. That man has it bad for you.”
“He’s my boss,” I remind her weakly. “And he probably just felt bad for me. He’s kind to everyone.”
“He held your hand,” she counters. “Outside of work. In a coffee shop, with snow swirling outside the window. That’s a rom-com moment.” She sighs happily and returns to her desk.
I spend the rest of Monday oscillating between productivity and absolute distraction. Every email notification makes my heart jump. Every footstep down the hall sounds like it could be him.
It never is. Because he’s not in the office. My brain knows this, but my heart keeps yearning for him.
Tuesday is worse.
I reread his emails like they’re personal letters. They’re not.
They’re professional. Polite. Efficient. Like Ethan himself.
Like he was in the coffeeshop. Well, he was polite. But he wasn’t efficient or professional. Unless he thinks it’s professionally efficient to comfort a coworker. I ask Sara what she thinks about that, and she just rolls her eyes as an answer.
I know I’m obsessing, and yet, I can’t make myself stop.
I imagine his voice saying my name. I imagine him at the party. I imagine how he might look in something dark and tailored, how his smile might soften when he sees me.
By Tuesday afternoon, Sara has banned me from saying his name.
“You’re spiraling,” she says gently.
“I know,” I whisper.
After work, I stand in front of my closet and feel actual dread.
The Christmas party is tomorrow.
Wednesday. A weekday. Because, apparently, joy is cheaper when scheduled midweek.
I pull out a dress. Too red. Too festive. I’ll look like I’m trying too hard.
I pull out another. Green. My eyes will pop, but what if it clashes with my hair?
Auburn hair, green eyes, pale skin. I’ve Googled this before. The recommendation is to wear jewel tones, soft blues, or creams.
But creams show everything. Blues make me feel washed out. Black feels safe but boring. I sit on the bed, surrounded by rejected outfits, and press my palms to my eyes.
Why do I care so much?
Because he’ll be there.
Because he might look at me.
Because he might not.
I change three times. Then a fourth.
I stare at myself in the mirror, heart racing, imagining his eyes on me and immediately wanting to hide.
“Get it together,” I whisper. “He’s just a guy you have a crush on.” But it no longer feels like a crush. It feels like something more. Something deeper. Something serious…and dangerous.
Dangerous because I don’t know how to handle relationships. Friendships are no problem, at least not with genuine friends like Sara. But how I act when I’m with her doesn’t reflect on her. People don’t judge Sara because she has a flustered, awkward friend who can’t speak without stuttering.
People do judge you if you have a girlfriend who behaves like that. What does he see in her? They wonder. Why is someone like him, with someone like her?
I don’t know if I’m dressing for a party.
Or for Ethan.
And that realization scares me more than anything else. Because Ethan is definitely someone. He’s a catch who could date anyone he wants. Why would he be with someone like me?
He went to business school and has a graduate degree. He needs a partner who can advance his career. Someone who can schmooze and make small talk at networking events disguised as social occasions. Someone who knows how to dress and how to act.
I look at the dresses covering my bed.
I will never be that person. I should stop dreaming about a future with Ethan now, because that will never happen.