Chapter 6 #2
But then the thought of me dying alone entered the deep recesses of my mom’s brain, as did the realization that divorce had become a very real possibility for her daughters.
She saw my future, and I think it started to consume her.
She made it her mission to help me find a man.
And I don’t think it helped when I mistakenly agreed the one time she made an offhand statement about me and babies and ticking clocks while huddled around a very exhausted Jade post-birth in her delivery room.
I held on to the dream of having a family of my own, and in her mind, she’s helping facilitate this dream.
All of that turned into this stubborn, staunch cycle.
She’d set me up with someone. A male, age ranging from mid-thirties to late forties.
Preferably with a well-paying job, being a homeowner a plus.
Each setup wouldn’t amount to anything beyond a polite parting and an empty promise to “do this again.” Luckily, the worst of the bunch was Harold the Accountant.
And after I’d voiced my strong desire to find my own dates, she’d reluctantly agree.
Until the matchmaker bug bit her again, putting me right back on the hamster wheel.
It didn’t take me too long to get back out there after my divorce.
I never told my mom about those twenty-something fuckboys or meaningless hookups.
She thought I was spending most nights on my couch eating ice cream straight from the carton, but it was a way for my heart to heal.
My own rehabilitation, though not the healthiest choice, was easier to stomach.
No pressure, just sex, and I enjoyed the thrill of the unknown.
Nothing beyond a first name and whether or not they had protection.
Sometimes, I didn’t even know if the name they told me was really theirs.
It was completely unlike me. Out of character, yet it felt right at the time.
The validation that came with each tryst, especially after living so long under Frankie’s disdainful thumb. I just wish I didn’t feel so empty now.
An emptiness drags behind me as I leave lunch and go home. We say our goodbyes. Jade lets me hold on to Avery longer than a typical embrace. I’m greeted by Buster as soon as I walk through my door as he charges toward me with his leash in his mouth.
“Hey, Busty,” I call, crouching down to him. “You need to go for a walk?”
He drops his leash at my feet and lets out a small yelp.
With my shoes still on, I hook his leash to his collar and go right back outside.
I let him take his time, marking random spots and sniffing away at bushes and poles that catch his attention.
With my attention swaying, I peer down at my phone.
My thumb swipes away at the screen, not too sure what I’m necessarily looking for.
Maybe something to distract myself? Or, more likely, a way to reach Andrew?
To ask him if he’s okay? If he thinks Teeny caught on that something was afoot when she stopped by and he was hiding in my room?
Maybe it’s good I don’t have his number.
I’d probably just fill his inbox with a slew of embarrassing text messages.
Or, at the very least, typed out paragraphs that never leave my phone with the ominous and definitive whoosh of an outgoing text.
Our night was a one-time thing. It can’t happen again, just like I stressed before he walked out of my condo with a downcast look of defeat.
It wasn’t a date. We didn’t even share a meal.
Just a drink. Plus a couple more we definitely should’ve said no to.
A date should be something more quiet and mellow.
Like a dinner over candlelight with a bottle of wine and a shared slice of chocolate cake.
Where he’d do the gentlemanly thing of pulling my chair out for me and picking up the tab.
Except, he did pick up the tab. After a clumsy scuffle of sloppily held credit cards in our hands, he won.
And I barely put up a fight. In fact, I believe I laughed it off with a drunken giggle he may have misconstrued as me being charmed by the very date-like act.
Especially when my real date that night couldn’t even reciprocate in the same manner.
No, it wasn’t a date. I know that. And he has to know that. Right?
Intent on clearing any ambiguity that may still lie between us, I continue scrolling through my phone.
I find the Cash App logo and search my contacts list. I find Teeny’s from when we had dinner a few weeks ago and quickly find Andrew’s.
It’s there under the amount of thirty-six dollars sent from him to Teeny with a very obscure fish emoji.
With shaky, hesitant hands, I send him my very roughly calculated amount for half of the drinks from Friday night.
Though since I lost count of how many we had, I could be off by a few twenty dollars.
If I pay for my half, then it definitely wasn’t a date.
It was just two acquaintances who happened to run into each other, and one did the polite thing of offering a kind ear and company.
Absolutely not a date. And if it wasn’t a date, then our night can be written off as a one-time thing.
A one-night stand. Nothing more. I can forget it ever happened and move on.
If only it were that easy.