Jamison wiggled into his jeans - an act that looked extremely uncomfortable given how tight those things were - and buttoned them without looking at me. “So I, uh…” he began, then stopped. “You can keep the vodka,” he picked up again after a moment, to my utter confusion. Vodka? Huh?
“Wha?” I managed.
“The vodka.” He gestured toward the kitchen. “It was an extra bottle, so just…you know, hold onto it for the next time you need a drink.”
“But you -” I started, not entirely sure where I was going with that sentence but pretty sure it would be more on topic thankeep the vodkahad been.
He offered me a quick smile and reached for his shoes. “Maybe we can have more next time I come over.” He stopped short there, one shoe halfway on, and shook his head. “I mean, notthat I’m inviting myself…that is…” He clamped his lips together and went back to applying his shoe with a singular focus.
What the hell was going on? Jamison was acting like me on an anxious day, all sputtered utterances and random pauses for self-recrimination.
Was that it? Was he feeling sorry for what had just happened? I hid a wince and rubbed at the pain that brought to my chest. I hoped he hadn’t felt pressured just because I had my pants off. But then, he’d been the one to order my pants off in the first place, so surely not…?
God, I was confused. There was only room for one of us to be an awkward mess in this relationship at a time, and he was stealing my thunder.
Not that this was a relationship.Fuck, get it together, Hen.Say something before he runs out of here. “You’re welcome here any time,” I managed to get out, sounding more solemn than the playful tone I’d aimed for. “With or without vodka.” There, I’d gotten my point across. Maybe a little awkwardly, but still, I’d said he was welcome back. “I’m sorry if I…”
Nope, stop there, Henry Rodriguez, before you make it any more awkward. I clamped my mouth shut.
Jamison finally had both shoes on. He patted his pockets, probably checking for his phone and his keys, and turned for the door. “I had fun today,” he told me over his shoulder in a voice that completely failed to convince me he’d had anything of the sort. “Thanks for the braiding lesson.” And with that, he was out my front door.
What the fuck had just happened?
12
Jamison
Week 7 - Friday
Iwas still kicking myself over the events of last weekend. First I invited myself over to Henry’s house and demanded he give me braiding lessons, then I practically yanked his pants off under false - well, sort of false - pretenses, and then I demanded sex, came, and ran out of there like my ass was on fire.
What thefuck, Jamie?
I mean, I was impulsive. I’d had spur-of-the-moment sex before. I could be sexually demanding. But poor Hen was practically bulldozed by me and then, instead of apologizing, I escaped. It was badly done. He probably didn’t ever want to speak to me again at this point, and we still had at least one HIV test to go before we could fully drop out of contact.
Way to make things awkward, self.
I was at my desk, trying to pretend I was concentrating on the new policy my team was developing that centered around how to implement online codes of conduct for our users, but really I just kept going in mental circles about last Saturday.Me:The community should be given some level of opportunity to indicate their buy-in to the Code of Conduct before implementation.Me in the next moment:…but he came hard and didn’t start yelling at me or hiding or anything, so surely he couldn’t have felt I treated him that badly?
Needless to say, this policy was going to come out veryinterestingif I couldn’t get my mind back on track.
I reached for my phone, not for the first time this week, and opened my text thread with Hen. Should I text him again? If so, what should I say? Apologize? Pretend everything was fine? Just say “hi” and see where it went from there?
As if it heard my thoughts, my phone buzzed, making me fumble and nearly drop it as I startled. I looked down at the screen and was disappointed to see that no new messages had popped up in the me-Hen thread. That meant the notification had been for something else. I flipped back to my main text list and checked it. Ah, Charlie. I tapped her name.
Charlie:Are you ok?
Oh, here we went again. Charlie’s anxiety could be enough of a pain when nothing was wrong, it could be nothing short of agony when somethingwaswrong, especially when I didn’t want to tell her about whatever it was. The girl had a sixth sense.
Me:Fine, why?
Keep it short. Keep it sweet. No hints.
Charlie:Uh-huh. Everything’s fine, which is why you’ve texted me exactly once this week when usually we talk every day. Either you’re sick and for some reason are not taking the opportunity to bitch to me about how awful you feel…or something’s going on.
Ok, so “short and sweet” hadn’t worked. I tried a new tack.
Me:I’m fine, I swear, Not sick, nothing’s wrong. Work has just been really busy this week. New policy in the works.
