WALKER: I had a great time last night.
The text makes me smile because I had a good time, too. A really good time. A probably should’ve shut the windows so the neighbors didn’t hear kind of good time.
Butterflies flutter in my stomach, and heat flares with the memory of last night. I’m not worried about my body’s reaction to him. It’s chemical. Physical. I’m worried about this tug in my stomach, the one thinking about him, about his eyes, about the softness of his voice, about the way he loves his mom and his sister, about the way he honors his dad with the shop that have me worried.
I’m excited that I’ve found a guy like him, but I’m scared to death. Shaky hands kind of scared. Short panting breaths kind of scared. Never felt like this before kind of scared. I don’t open up to people and there’s going to come a time when he wants to know things about me. The real me. The girl with the real feeling and emotions.
I need a minute and a cup of coffee. It’s way too early in the morning for an epiphany. I can’t facefeelingswithout some Folgers in my cup.
The sun is shining through the curtains in my room, and dust swirls in the thin stream of light, put in motion by a ceiling fan over my bed and the air conditioner vent in the floor. My skin is cool and bare under the blanket and sheets, and just for a second, I think of how I got this way.
Walker.
I haven’t moved from “my side” since he left, and I turn to where he would’ve been lying had his sister not called. The pillow is one of those goose down kinds and the imprint of his head is still pushed into the linen pillow case. Like I’m some sort of crazy sap, I lay my hand in the spot. The fabric is cold and it’s nothing like seeing him beside me, so I stop, climb out of bed, and head to the coffee maker.
I’m a solid and sensible girl. I don’t go around feeling pillow indents. Wishing for the guy who made said indent to appear at my door with flowers and requests for more dates.
While I wait for my one cup maker to brew–it takes almost as long to brew one cup as it does to use a regular coffee maker to make an entire pot–I stare out the window wishing Walker would show up. When he doesn’t appear, I glance at my phone again and consider how I can answer his texts. Of course I’ll tell him I had a good time, too.
He said great time.
Okay. I’ll tell him I had agreattime.
And I want to see him again.
Can’t tell him that.
Although, I don’t know why. This is the twenty-first century. The twenty-twenties. No reason I can’t just tell him I want to spend more time together.Ican askhimout. If I find some courage. Probably it would be easier to ask if he hadn’t seen me naked.
And the thought reminds me that I, also, have seen him naked. And I’d very much like to see him naked again. Although, my mind has a pretty vivid recollection of all things naked Walker.
Don’t tell him that either.
Of course not. I can’t imagine how to bring up such a thing, anyway.
When the brewer is finished, I pour in some flavored creamer and sit at the table with my phone on one side of me and a few open house fliers on the other side. There’s some work to be done this week, but I’ve already arranged for the stagers and the landscaper for one house and a hostess and fresh cookies to be picked up on Sunday morning for the other.
So, I don’t have any pressing reason I need to go into work this early. I have a couple extra hours I can sit and think about Walker. After I answer his text anyway.
ME: I had a great time, too. Maybe we could get together this weekend.
It’s as close to flat out asking as I can get because my doubts have started creeping in. So manywhat ifs and whatwas I thinkingkinds of things that make me cringe when I analyze last night.
I was forward. Maybe he didn’t like it. Or maybe I’m not forward enough. Walker is the kind of guy who has his choice of women. Probablya lotof them. And he certainly knows his way around a clitoris. That’s a skill that comes with practice.
Of course he’s experienced. Look at him.
He probably has a woman in every city, a lover in every port.
Port? Drink the coffee. There are no ports.
Even the voice in my head mocks me. I sip my drink.
WALKER: I’d love to go out with you again. My sister is having a barbecue for the 4th. Be my date?
As if I didn’t like him enough already, he has added an emoji. It’s the little guy who’s chewing his fingers like he’s nervous.
ME: I’d love to be your date.
