Calliope’s Column
It’s Not Him, It’s You (Kind Of)
Rule Number 6: Don’t Sync Your Ovulation Calendars Before the First Date.
It’s official.I’ve developed an impossible crush on Camden Snow.
I suppose it’s not really a revelation so much as it is an acknowledgment of feelings that grow stronger by the day.
I can’t even blame the texts he’s sent over the last thirty-six hours, though I will admit that they’re just over the line enough for me to be concerned.
Daddy: I still can’t believe you sent me home with Snow by myself.
Me: LOL. You better take good care of our baby.He’s our love bear.
Daddy: Why don’t you come over and help me take care of him? See what a good daddy I am?
He sent pictures of himself and the bear in bed. Followed by another, assuring me he wouldn’t roll over on our love bear. This morning he sent me an image of them having breakfast together and watching SportsCenter.
The smile that hits me every time I think about it shows just how far gone I am already. Which is a problem.
But honestly, it hasn’t scared me away the way it should. The guy likes me. It’s nice. If I was any other person, a woman without enough daddy and mommy issues to fill a library, maybe I’d see where this goes.
Though a late-night phone call from my father followed by an early-morning one from my mother remind me that I still need years of therapy to deal with the trauma they caused before I can actually consider entering a real relationship.
What did my parents say in those calls to send me back to that way of thinking so quickly? Just the run of the mill shit they always spout. My father, in so many words, reiterated his opinion that I’m a spoiled bitch who ruined his life. Every so often, he feels the need to remind me. I should block him, yet I can’t. Why is it that I feel this familial obligation to a man who literally tells me I’m the worst thing to ever happen to him? He was drunk, obviously. A month from now, on a night he’s sober, he’ll call and ask how things are, having no clue the devastation he’s wrought, because he’ll have no memory of spewing the hateful words that play repeatedly in my head.
My mother’s call was far less dramatic but equally disappointing. She wanted me to know that she can’t come for Christmas—which is no surprise and actually appreciated, since I didn’t invite her—but that she’d be sure to visit for my birthday.
My birthday was a month ago. It came and went without a word from either of my parents. Which is fine, really. I spent it with Josie, Addie, and Sutton. We took our first pole dancing class, and it was a blast.
The point is that my own mother doesn’t even remember my birthday, and that type of hit leaves a mark.
With all of that on my mind, it’s clear that seeing Camden again is a bad idea. I entertained the arrangement to prove I could push him away, and tonight, that’s what I’ll do. Then I’ll focus on my article. I’ll bust my ass to keep my job and my apartment, to remain where I am, surrounded by the people who actually feel like family.
My plan for tonight is diabolical. Heart thumping, I open our text thread and send Camden a link to my ovulation calendar. No man in his right mind wants to be with a woman who links her ovulation calendar before the first date.
“Savannah, sweetheart,” Rosalie asks from the stove. “Do you want extra red sauce with that?”
I survey the heaping plate of food I had no intention of eating before I entered this apartment and shake my head. “This is more than enough. Thanks.”
She watches me over her shoulder, waiting for me to take a bite, and I indulge her, because that’s what good girls do.
I’m supposed to meet Camden for dinner in a half hour, but now that he’s received the text, I expect him to come up with an excuse to cancel. It’s actually a relief knowing that this is almost over.
Though I can’t figure out how to stifle that part of me that wishes I could have a normal relationship with a man as incredible as Camden Snow. It would take years of therapy to get there, so pushing him away now is for the best. And far less scary than showing him the real me, then watching him walk away.
Because no one chooses me.
But I’ll choose myself and that’s good enough.
“It’s Saturday. Why aren’t you going out?” Rosalie takes a seat in the chair opposite me, the plastic cover beneath her squeaking.
“She’s not dating,” Nick calls from the other room. Though his volume is closer to a yell, since he’s got the six-o’clock news blaring.
“Turn down the television,” Rosalie hollers. “We can’t hear you.”
He hits mute and repeats himself without lowering his volume. “I said she’s not dating.”
