“What? No! No. She has no idea. No one knows. You’re the first person I’ve told.”
He leans back in his chair, folding his hands in his lap. “So why are you telling me?”
“Because I think I’m fucking it up. With her. With this whole—” I gesture vaguely, encapsulating the project, my life, the entire city of Chicago. “She tried to—months ago, before she left. She tried to kiss me and I just—” I mime a stop motion, hand up awkwardly, as if I’m directing traffic. “I blocked it. With my hand. Like a reflex. Like she was attacking me instead of?—”
“Instead of kissing you.”
“Yes.”
“And considering how things are between you right now, I’m guessing she didn’t take that well.”
“She screamed at me to get out. Then she moved to Sweden.” I open my eyes. “So no. She didn’t take it well.”
David exhales slowly. “I see how this has become a problem.”
“It’s the giant elephant in the room.”
“Have you tried to explain why you reacted that way?”
“I have. But every time I get close to the truth, I—” I shake my head. “How do you explain to someone that you’ve never done the thing that everyone else figured out at sixteen? How do you say, ‘I’m not rejecting you, I’m just broken in a way that’s going to make everything awkward and terrible’?”
“You’re not broken.”
“I’m a thirty-four-year-old outlier on every chart that matters.”
“You’re inexperienced,” David corrects. “That’s not the same thing.”
“It feels the same.”
He leans forward. “Let me ask you something. When she tried to kiss you—did you want her to?”
“Yes,” I say immediately. “More than I’ve ever wanted anything.”
“Then you’re not broken. You’re scared.” He holds up a hand before I can argue. “Which is normal, by the way. Fear of intimacy, fear of vulnerability, fear of being seen and found wanting—those are universal human experiences. You’re not special for having them.”
“I’m special for having them at thirty-four with zero practical experience to fall back on.”
“Fair point.” He almost smiles. “But here’s the thing—experience isn’t a fixed variable. You can get it. At any age. The only requirement is being willing to try.”
“What if I try and I’m terrible at it?”
“You will be.” He says it matter-of-factly. “Everyone is the first time. That’s how learning works.” He shrugs. “Michaela didn’t come out of the womb knowing how to ride a bike. She fell down approximately ten thousand times before she figured it out. But she kept trying, and now she doesn’t even need training wheels.”
“You’re comparing my romantic life to an eight-year-old learning to ride a bike?”
“I’m comparing learning curves. The principle is the same.” He fixes me with a look. “You want Audrey?”
“Yes.”
“Then tell her the truth. All of it. And let her decide what to do with that information.”
“What if she?—”
His phone rings, cutting me off.
David frowns at the screen. “It’s Michaela’s school. Hold on.” He answers. “This is David Kingsley.”
His expression shifts as he listens. The calm professionalism gives way to something sharper—concern, then anger, then a controlled fury I’ve only seen a handful of times.
