“Aww, thanks. And youcanhandle anything. I’ve never seen you blow up about a problem. You just calmly find a solution. It’s my favorite thing about you.”
“Really?That’syour favorite thing? Problem-solving? I thought for sure it was the Martin acoustic.”
“It’s actually your 4Runner.” I huff out a laugh. “But seriously. Calm problem-solving. I had no idea how hot it was until I experienced it.”
“Oh, I’m sitting up for this. I didn’t know we were discussing what’s hot about each other. Please, go on.”
“Wait, what? That’s not what I meant.” I laugh.
“So, youdon’tthink my calm problem-solving skills are hot?” he prods.
“Oh, that? No, I absolutely do.”
If this isn’t on a universalwhat women wantlist, it needs to be.
“Then which part did you disagree with?”
“The whole discussion part.”
“Why? I think it’s a great idea. It was recently brought to my attention that you’re a words girl, and I need to communicate better. So let’s communicate.”
There’s a lot to unpack in that statement. Who broughtwhatto his attention? What does he need to communicate?
“Awordsgirl? You’re not wrong, but I don’t see a problem with your communication skills. Aren’t you tired? Don’t you need to sleep?”
“Second wind. And I think I can do better.”
“We talked a lot today.”
“I know. I like it,” he says, lowering his voice. “So myproblem-solvingskills are hot. My turn. I get to tell you what’s hot about you now.”
“Umm … why?” Panic rolls down my spine. I hate when I have to decipher real feelings from flirting. Because if he’s real, then I have to be real, and I’m not ready.
Am I?
What if he’s just playing our game? Any attempt to access my carefully protected feelings feels like a security breach until I remind myself who’s at the other end of this conversation. There’s no one safer.
Breathe in. Breathe out.
“Because maybe if I had told you sooner, you wouldn’t have spent the last five months with someone who didn’t know how to love you.”
Game over. He wins.
“Punk? Are you still with me?” he asks gently.
“Mm-hmm,” I squeak.
“He does whatever the opposite of emotional regulation is, and it has never been okay with me. It stops now.”
“Okay,” I barely whisper in reply.
“Do you trust me?”
“Always.”
“I got you.”
“I know you do.”
