“You already said that,” I point out, unable to move, the high of the moment only starting to dissipate slowly.
“Right, I did, that’s true.” He nods. And then grimaces. How did we both get soawkwardso fast. “Okay, well, next time a regular walk. George would like that better anyway.”
I notice George staring at both of us. His expression is a version ofDon’t bring me into your nonsense, please. Which is fair enough. I don’t want to be in this conversation either.
“That sounds great,” I say, so breezy, so casual, so ignoring that my entire body was tingling a few moments ago from him blowing on my boo-boos like a pathetic, lusty, completely bewildered person.
He runs his hands through his hair, tousling his curls and not helping my situation at all. “Okay. Great. That’s great. I’ll see you soon, Nora,” he bumbles.
And within a moment he’s out the door, like a cartoon character who leaves so fast there’s a hole in the wall.
And I’m left with some cuts and scrapes along with an equally inconvenient feeling of total confusion.
Chapter 20
I like now how sometimes when I check my phone after work on Tuesdays, I get even more of J’s thoughts on the column. Instead of containing everything to our document, it’s now a continuing conversation throughout the day.
Although I wasn’t quite prepared for this many texts to be waiting for me when I left the office, all sent a few hours ago.
J: I’ve been thinking all day about this week’s column. It’s left a kind of gloomy cloud hanging over my week, if I must be honest (although to be fair, I was already primed to be gloomy this week for other reasons).
J: I keep thinking about the guy who wrote in, and his feeling of just never being the one picked. I get how it would sort of eat away at him. I guess it makes me wonder if I’ve consciously tried to put myself in a position where no one wouldhaveto pick me.
J: But of course, then if you try to have any intimate relationship—even one where you think you’re the person more in control—that can always be upended. There’s no way to guarantee you’ll be picked, unless you only allow a life where you don’t enter the game at all.
J: But then, as always with your writing, your advice to him upended my viewpoint. There’s power in not viewing it as “being picked,” and more about being compatible for the right person. And so I guess the fear is in deciding who that is and choosing wisely.
J: Anyway, that’s a somber text to send, sorry. It was just on my mind. Your columns are always so insightful, so I can’t be blamed for thinking about them beyond just editing! And also your fault for allowing these discussions to now exist outside the confines of our edits.
There was a break in texting, and then ten minutes after that group was another.
J: Blimey, just re-read that, and it sounds like a man saying “You asked for it,” so please forgive me as I go crawl into a hole and consider deleting my number. This is whyYouare the writer and I am but a grammarian and editor. My words are all in there, but they seem to be much more jumbled when I try and write them out.
I smile at the rambling nature of his stream of consciousness. I used to only get the typed and curated version of J. Now, with texting, it feels even more honest and less polished.
I like it, even if I don’t love whenever he doubts himself.
??I think your words are pretty great,??I reply, wanting to give him encouragement after all that.
Nora: They’re a gift I’m grateful to be on the receiving end of.
I start to put my phone away as I approach my building, but I don’t look up soon enough and run straight into Eli, who was also apparently too engrossed in his phone to see me coming.
“Shit, Nora, I’m so sorry!” He grips my shoulders to steady both of us. It achieves the main outcome of not having either of us falling down, but having his strong hands holding me again instantly reminds me of those same hands on my legs, and I inhale a sharp breath.
I think the memory comes back to him, too, because he immediately takes a step back.
That frisson with Eli has been looming over me for the past two days. Mostly because, after the mental gymnastics of convincing myself that I made it all up, he’s skipped the walks with George the last two mornings, texting me some vague bullshit about busy days.
I suspect what he really wanted was a moment away from me. I sort of can’t blame him—nothing happened, and yet that palpability felt loaded.
But since I don’twantanything to happen, maybe it’s for the best that we’re running into each other so I can nip in the bud whatever awkwardness exists.
“It’s okay, no harm done,” I say with a smile, finally looking him in the eye. Although now, looking at him more directly, I can see how distracted and unlike himself he seems. He’s dressed up in a suit—something I’veneverseen him wear—yet his hair looks like he’s been pulling at it from every direction. “Where are you going?”
“I have this thing for my nan.” He’s fidgeting, so unlike his usual bravado. “I had to run back here because I forgot something.”
“Whatthingfor your nan?” I ask softly, curious but also wondering if I’m wading into something sensitive.
