I'm back in my apartment in seconds, door closing quickly, but softly, behind me, back pressed against it. My chest heaves, each breath burning. God, this is why I don't go on runs. I always feel like I'm about to die.
On second thought, if I do die right now, I wouldn't have to suffer the consequences of my actions.
"You did it, Em! Look at you, being all femme fatale."
"This was a terrible idea. What if he saw me? What if he reads it right now and knocks on my door?"
"Then you invite him in," she says with a wink, gathering her purse. "My work here is done. I should head out. Early shift tomorrow."
"Wait, you're leaving? After making me do this?"
"You'll thank me later." She air-kisses my cheek. "Call me tomorrow. I want all the dirty details if he responds."
And just like that, Selena's gone, leaving me alone with my panic and a cat who's looking at me like I've lost my mind.
"I have lost my mind, haven't I, Croissant? That was the mother of all bad ideas, wasn't it?"
He blinks slowly, which I take as agreement.
The next hour is torture, and I have long since sobered up. Every sound from the hallway makes me jump. I keep expecting a knock, or worse, silence that confirms he read it and is so disturbed he can't even reject me properly.
By midnight, I've convinced myself of every possible negative outcome. He'll report me to the building manager. He'll move out. He'll laugh about it with friends. He'll recognize me in the hallway tomorrow and give me that pitying look men give women who've expressed interest but aren't their type.
Best Valentine's Day ever? Really? More like worst.
I crawl into bed and pull the covers over my head while Croissant settles in the curve behind my knees. My body vibrates with residual adrenaline, making sleep impossible.
The wall between our apartments has never felt so thin. He's over there, possibly reading my card right now. Explicit details of what I want him to do to me. Either he's scandalized or he found it hilarious.
Did I really write that I've touched myself thinking about him? Did I really admit I want his mouth between my thighs?
Yes. Yes, I did.
I groan into my pillow, mortification burning through me. I want to sleep and never wake up. Tomorrow, I'll have to leave for work at 8:30. I'll have to walk down that hallway, ride that elevator, possibly bump into him. I'll have to pretend I didn't just propose extremely graphic sex acts to a man who's never given any indication he knows I'm alive.
What would Andrea and Seve at the flower shop say? Andrea would be supportive for sure, and Seve might say, "Go girl" because they've always been so nice to me.
Maybe I should start camping there until this blows over? Like maybe a month? A year? Until the day I die?
God.
I roll onto my back, staring at the ceiling, my mind replaying everything I wrote. Most parts make me cringe, but there's something else underneath—a tiny flutter of excitement. A whispered what if.
What if he liked it?
What if he's interested?
What if, for once in my life, something completely reckless works out?
As I close my eyes, my body hums with anticipation and dread in equal measure.
Tomorrow, I'll know. Tomorrow, either everything changes … or nothing does.
Either way, I've done something brave. Or completely, irreversibly stupid. Which one is it?
Only time will tell.
2
