“My workspace and my living space are two very different things.”
I’m not sure where to take the conversation from here, and Dexter seems to sense my anxiety. Thankfully, he takes the reins.
“I don’t want to beat around the bush, and I don’t want you to feel uncomfortable if I can help it.” Diving right in, then.
“I appreciate that,” I say, looking over at him. He looks so handsome right now. So confident. I’ve never understood how he can be so comfortable engaging with me in a non-student/professor relationship, but from the day we ‘met’ in his office he’s never been anyone other than the same man I met at the bar a few days before — albeit the professional version.
“I’m not going to put you on the spot and ask why you agreed to have lunch with me today, knowing full well it isn’t for our weekly meeting. You aren’t ignorant about my attraction to you, and I’ve given a solid effort to maintaining a professional relationship with you these past few months.”
I nod in agreement, giving him the words I know he wants as affirmation. “You have.” I feel like I should offer more in the way of encouragement, but I’m too curious about his obviously planned monologue to interrupt.
“Last week, in my office, am I wrong to think something shifted between us? You let me touch you, didn’t pull away. You didn’t even flinch but instead seemed to relax more as I held your hand.”
I can’t deny what he’s saying is true, but I also don’t want to sound like a child offering single and double-word answers to his questions. Instead of verbalizing my affirmation, I rest my forearm up against his on the center console. Dexter takes my cue and continues.
“The more time I spend with you, the more confident I am thatwe could be great together — not just as colleagues or as friends. You’re smart, funny, witty — not to mention fucking beautiful.” Dexter glances my way and smiles as he says this, clearly anticipating the blush that creeps onto my face at his compliments. “I haven’t been attracted to anyone so fully in my entire life, and I’d be an idiot not to tell you exactly how I feel. I’m not trying to pressure you, and I wouldn’t have even brought this up if I didn’t sense a natural progression toward more in our relationship. But, Alis, I want to be with you. And I honestly believe you want to be with me, as well.”
We’re at a stop light now and he doesn’t end on a question, rather, a statement. As if he sees my walls for the bullshit they are and refuses to let me hide behind them a moment longer. Some could argue his insistence is the opposite of respecting my boundaries, but I don’t feel that way. I know he respects me as a person, as a professional, as a friend. He’s simply less willing to hide and pretend the pull between us doesn’t exist.
Am I ready to stop pretending? Not necessarily. But why? Why am I so afraid of this? Why can’t I simply give in to how I feel, free of worry?
Simply put, I don’t like surprises. Good or bad. I like to see what’s ahead, to plan my steps in advance. I like to analyze every possible outcome and make decisions based on what best aligns with my goals and priorities and Sunny. Could I analyze my relationship with Dexter and a potential future between us? Sure. But I haven’t yet let myself venture down that path because I’m terrified I will get my hopes up, feel alive for the first time in nearly a decade, and then have it all ripped away from me once again.
God, I miss my sister. She knew how to live, to love. She knew how to let loose and encouraged me to do the same. I didn’t just lose my best friend the day she died — I lost a piece of myself. The piece that felt safe enough to step out of bounds and try new things. The piece that threw caution to the wind because I knew if I stumbled or fell, Belle would be there to help me back up again.
I don’t notice I’m crying, or that I’ve been lost in my thoughts forwho knows how long, until I feel Dexter’s thumb swipe away a tear from my cheek. “Are you okay?” he asks.
I didn’t realize I was crying. This isn’t the first time it’s happened. I’m often sucked into my thoughts, my memories, my emotions, only resurfacing when someone or something intentionally forces my attention back to reality.
I wipe underneath my eyes, careful not to smear my mascara. “I’m fine. I’m sorry. I was just… just… remembering,” I say.
“Remembering? What? Who?” Dexter sounds genuinely curious and interested in what I have to say, not defensive or jealous as if he assumes I’m thinking about another man, someone from my past.Only one is worth remembering, and those memories are contained to a week in the Caribbean.
I let out a breath, resolving to be honest with him about my fears. “I was trying to figure out why I’m so afraid of this. Of you.” I bat my hands in the air, waving about as if they can erase the words I just said. “Not ofyou. But ofthis. Of us. Of… more.”
I turn to look at him and realize we’re in the restaurant parking lot. I don’t even remember moving on from the red light. How long was I lost in my thoughts?
“We’re here?” I ask, looking around as if we've been transported into another dimension rather than having arrived at our intended destination.
“We’re here,” he replies. “But we don’t have to go inside if you don’t want to. We can stay here and talk. I should have considered how uncomfortable this conversation would make you feel, and it was a dick move to assume you’d be obliged to have this conversation in public.”
I wave him off. Even I couldn’t have foreseen this level of emotional reaction to him speaking the truth of our situation. It’s not like I’ve been oblivious to what’s happening between us. In denial? Definitely. But not oblivious.
“You didn’t do anything wrong. I’m fine, truly. And I need to have this conversation with you. Burying and ignoring my feelings for you isn’t getting any easier — believe me, I’ve tried for months and allthey do is grow stronger. Assholes.” I grumble that last part and Dexter laughs at my irritation.
“So you like me, eh?” He’s wielding that sexy, cocky smirk of his and I can’t help but melt. I want to slap his arm, to play off my feelings as nothing more than a crush, but I’ve already decided to be honest. I decide not to quip back, and offer him the truth.
“I really do.”Well, that came out much more breathy than I anticipated.I cough and continue, “I do. And I have since the night we met. It’s never been about whether or not I like you. My hesitations are just … complicated.” I shrug as if to convey,what can you do?
“Complicated,” Dexter states. Again, not a question, not an affirmation. A statement. I nod, not sure where to go from here. Considering I cracked open Pandora’s box of unresolved feelings not five minutes ago and started crying, I don’t know that I can offer him any more truths right now. I need space to process them on my own, privately.
“I…” I begin, but pause, looking down at my lap and picking at my nails. “I don’t know how to do this.”
“Do what?” he asks. He’s not annoyed. He’s gentle, calmly prompting me to expound further without pushing too hard.
“Us. I don’t know how to do ‘us’ or be an ‘us’ or even begin to think through what my life looks like with a man in it.” I can feel the words welling up in my chest, and before I can regain any semblance of self-control, the word vomit begins. “I told you, before that night at the bar I hadn’t even made out with a man since before my sister died. I went on a few dates, but they didn’t mean anything. I literally only went on dates when Skye’s nagging about revirginizing myself got too annoying and I wanted to shut her up. I’d acquiesce, she’d set me up with someone, we’d go out once or twice, and then I’d tell Skye I wasn’t interested in the guy and she’d leave me alone for a while. Before that, when I was in school, I had a boyfriend for about a year? Maybe longer? I honestly don’t remember. We were together, but it never felt deep or serious. I never felt drawn to him. He was nice. NICE. That’s literally the only word I can think to describe him. I didn’t fantasize about him in class. I didn’t touch myself tothoughts of him. I didn’t crave him. I didn’t neglect work because I was too busy watching him lecture and wondering if I could undo the buttons on his vest with my teeth. I…”Well, fuck.
My eyes are wide as saucers. I did not just say that. Please, God, tell me I did not just confess to masturbating to thoughts of Dexter and neglecting work to fantasize about undressing him with my teeth.Fuck my life.
