To add sprinkles to the shit sundae I’m now eating, further neural pathways have broken off to discuss my choice of outfit, reminding me that I’m wearing yoga leggings that haven’t seen a yoga pose since they were downward dog proofed during quality control before being shipped to stores, and a T-shirt that has a stain on it I only noticed when I got out of the car at the café. Also, yesterday was the absolute last day I could physically get away with using dry shampoo as a replacement for washing my hair.
Normally, I wouldn’t give a flying fuck about any of this, but with the embarrassment compounding rapidly since Wankergateand subsequently getting caught red-handed chanting “Fuck Xander,” forgive me for being a little sensitive.
Em follows my line of sight and studies Xander for a moment before turning back around, her face beaming. “Holy shit, that photo does not do him justice,” she says, her voice booming with permission. “Xander’shot.”
Yeah, I know. “Shhh!” I hiss, whacking Em in the arm for being so loud. In turn, Em yells out for being hit. That sound carries toward Xander, further pulling his attention to the sound tsunami we’ve created. The waitress leaves, and Xander looks at me over his coffee cup that he’s slowly taking a sip from. Is he mad? Oh, no doubt he’s mad. It also happens to be sexy somehow. Smoldering, one might even say. Like a predator stalking his prey.
I put my hand to my mouth, pretending to chew on my thumb.
I can’t believe the way Emily’s smiling at me right now. Rude.
“Put that smile away. Now isnotthe time to smile. Now is the time to strategize. What the fucking fuck do I do?” My eyes flash back and forth between Em and Xander.
“Go over and say hello?” Em suggests, like we weren’t just caught chanting about objectifying him.
I give her my best “are you kidding?” look. “I can’t just go over there,” I say.
“Well, awkward chitchat is better than staring at him from across the room pretending you didn’t just scream excitedly about screwing him,” Em says, like it isn’t her fault I was doing it in the first place.
Also, damn it. She’s right. I can’t not get up and say something.
“Okay,” I say, taking a deep breath. “Okay. Okay. Okay.” Maybe if I repeat it enough times, I’ll believe everything’s okay. “Icando this.”
“That’s the spirit,” Em says, taking a swig of her coffee and sounding not at all sincere. “You can reminisce about yourSleepless in the Saddleincident.” She waves her mug in the air and then giggles.
“Really?” I say, not giving her the satisfaction of her decent wordplay as I push back my chair. The coffee machine whirls. A dog barks in the distance. It appears I’ve unlocked superpowers in which I can hear all sounds, near and far.
I drag my body slowly over to Xander, every muscle willing me to turn around, but I’ve made it halfway across the warehouse now and there’s no turning back. He hasn’t taken his eyes off me. I resist the urge to run my fingers through my hair as a makeshift comb. To try and pick the unidentifiable stain off my top. And yep, that’s the feeling of my leggings riding up my crotch and giving me camel toe.
I breathe out and clasp my hands together to appear put together.
When I finally reach Xander’s table, a Cuban sandwich is halfway to his mouth. I stop in front of him, and he pauses midbite, then looks me up and down. His gaze stops on my stain. And then my hair. And finally lands on my face. Ugh.
“The Cuban sandwich is good here,” I say, initiating the chitchat Em told me was supposed to be better than staring from a safe distance. Xander takes a bite and chews. This is getting more awkward by the second. I take a deep breath, ready to apologize.
I can’t believe he caught me playing the penis game with his name.In all the cafés in all the Valley, he had to eat a Cuban sandwich in mine. I am internally screaming.
“So, about what you heard—” I say just as his phone rings.
Xander looks down and studies the incoming call with brows furrowed, all serious. “I have to take this,” he says, then wipes his mouth with his napkin. He stands and I step to the side, giving him space to walk past me.
“Yeah, of course. Okay. So, um, see you tonight?” I stammer.
Not answering me, he swipes his phone and walks straight past me, leaving a trail of his signature fresh scent, which short-circuits my brain. I’ve been dismissed.
Awesome. Now I’ve got five hours and forty-five minutes to think—also known as worry, stress, catastrophize, and have an ongoing anxiety attack—about how I’m going to handle WankgateandFuckgate.
How did my drama-free life turn into a scandal worthy of a reality show?
The first thing I questioned over the following five hours and forty-five minutes was:Will I see him tonight? Will he show up?
That’s spiral number one. It’s the most important spiral because if he doesn’t show, then we’re not in the sleep study, and if we’re not in the sleep study then I don’t have a job, and if I don’t have a job, then I have no money. Money that’s supposed to pay the rent.
The good news here is that I was able to pull myself out of this spiral by constantly reminding myself that Xander is an insomniac and needs this study more than the money. Which is saying something.
I concluded that I would see him tonight.
This made way for my second spiral: the confrontation spiral. Also known as, what the actual fuck is he going to say tome? And what am I going to say to him in response? This spiral required the most spiraling. Do you know how productive the brain can get when its only job is to conjure up fifty different scenarios in which Xander could confront me, and me coming up with fifty different responses where I don’t come off as some depraved sexual deviant?
