J: Absolutely. That’s one dog more than I’m doing every day.
J: ... I realise it sounds really bad to say I’m doing a dog every day.
J: This is what I get for trying to be clever and for typing before I think—implying that I’m attracted to canines. Well done, me.
I cackle, and Dane shoots me a look. I wave her off and go back to my phone, unable to stop grinning.
Nora: I would point out that we’ve gotten off track of the original question, but that seems obvious at this point.
J: Yes, I’d say so.
J: Right. Gyms. Before I was so mortifyingly embarrassed by my own words, I wasgoingto ask if you thought I could still mock gym people even if my back has started to feel fifty years older whenever I sleep even mildly funny?
Nora: I think a key tenet of mocking people is being a little self-loathing, so I say mock away?
J: I knew you were the right conspirator on this.
“Are you ... giggling?” I hear Dane ask from the other room.
I wander back in as she sets down my perfectly buttered toast along with a steaming cup of tea. I nestle back into my chair and take a bite, slower now that I’m not completely famished.
“I’m texting with J,” I explain, as though that should cover everything. I look up and see she’s watching me with a soft smile. “What?” I ask.
She shrugs and sits back across from me, leaning over the table as though she’s trying to detail the lines of my expression. “It’s cute. You like him.”
“Yes ...,” I say, feeling my face heat up a bit at the observation. “I think we’ve covered that, though.”
“Yeah, but ... it’s real now. It’s not just like you projecting on someone’s writing.”
I understand why she feels that way. I’m too embarrassed to try and verbalize that it’salwaysfelt real. And I’m not sure how I even would explain it—texting seems more immediate, more real, as she pointed out. But the substance and weight of our conversations haven’t deepened. They’re just more instantaneous. Texting has been easy because talking to J has always been easy. This is simply a new, faster medium.
“So now what?” she continues.
I take another large bite of toast to give myself a moment to answer. “Well, we agreed we’d meet up when I’m in London.”
“And when’s that going to be?” she asks.
I frown. “Oh, well, we haven’t like set a particular time yet or anything. He’ll be going to the event for the new boss, too, but we’ve just generally said we’d have coffee or something as well when I’m in town.”
“Don’t you want a more concrete plan?” she asks.
I squirm in my seat. In all our texting, I haven’t actually brought up the original point of getting his number again since we started. “It’s still like a month away.” I shrug.
“So you’re just going to keep texting this dude every day but then wing it when it comes to actually seeing him in person?”
“I’m seeing him in person either way at the event,” I remind her.
“But you don’t even know what he looks like, so you could see him but notsee himunless you actually make a plan,” she lobs back.
I know she sees that small piece of me that’s still hesitant. Meeting J in person is going to have an effect on me, even if it doesn’t on him. And that potential for unwanted friction is making me tentative. After all, I’ve been fine—my life is good. Is it worth potentially blowing up my serenity for a man? A man who may not even want me?
But thepossibilityof it being worth it—that little piece in the back of my brain that says it doesn’t hurt to hope your life could dial up from a nine to a full-on ten—makes me know I’m not actually backing out now.
“I’ll make a plan,” I say firmly, as much to myself as to her.
My phone rings, and I look down. My mother is video calling me. Wonderful. But unavoidable.
I swipe to answer, and she immediately starts talking when her face pops up on the screen. “What time do you want to go to the market? I don’t want to leave it to too late, or you’ll be with patients and all the good tomatoes will already be gone.”
