This was bold. My mind flooded with concerning questions—worst of all, did he expect me to drink the coffeewith him?Callhim? Maybe just text.
I plucked the sticky note from the container and added it to the collection growing on my fridge. Turning back to the newest treat, something resembling a frosted donut, I unpackaged it and placed it in the center of the dish. I set the plate on the floor and filled Bill’s water bowl with fresh water.
Grabbing Mr. Beans his tuna pate can from the cabinet, Ikept ruminating over Nash’s question.Mr. Beans let out an obnoxious yowl and bumped my hand as I opened the can. It spilled, pouring out, and Mr. Beans was quick to reap the benefits.“Geez,Mr. Beans. Chill.”
I could ask Cat what to do, but I worried about the repercussions. It almost wasn’t worth telling her. I already knew what she’d say. Cat would urge me to text him an answer, challenge me to do the uncomfortable thing, of course she would.
So maybe Ishould?
I picked up my phone with one hand, my other going to my mouth as I nibbled at my cuticle. But, if I did it right now, would that be too desperate?
I eyed the number, adding it to my phone. That was a step in the right direction, although it made me sweat a little. I now had two phone numbers in my contacts.
What if I just confided in Nash about my anxiety?
Being upfront could ease my fear of getting too friendly with him too fast. If I put it out there, he’d know what he was getting into and could duck out gracefully. I mean, he wasn’t giving up, and by now you’d think he would.
I sighed.“Come on, Sybil.You’re almost thirty. It’s time we grew up,” I chided myself out loud.
I glanced at the clock. Forty-five minutes had passed since he left. I couldn’t wait forever, could I? Would it be strange to text him now, or would that seem like I wasn’t interested? Would he assume I wasn’t interested if I didn’t reply at all? Would he give up? Did I evenwanthim to give up?
I felt a twinge of desperate fear at that thought.
Okay.
If I were going to live up to facing self-doubt—the entire purpose of my last painting—then this would be the time to do it. I should just go for it. Rip the band-aid off and dive right in. The universe was giving me this chance for a reason; don’t be an idiot.
Bill was licking his bowl, letting it clatter against the floor.
Opening my camera app, I took a picture of Bill. I’d break the ice with an image. Before thinking too much into it, I sent the picture to Nash.
Sucking in a sharp breath, I set my phone face down on the counter like a hot potato, crossing my arms as though in defense of what the phone might do next.
“There, I did it,” I announced to the powers that be.
The silence of the room was deafening. After what felt like ten minutes, I snapped out of it, grabbed a bowl, and poured my customary cereal—even though I wasn’t hungry. I forced myself to eat, looking back at the phone every few minutes, frustration growing.
Why hadn’t he replied right away? Was that a sign? Should I let it go? Was I being too forward?
I was being too forward.
Deep down, I’d hoped that he was waiting for me to text him, like Bill waited for his treat. Maybe Nash wasn’t as eager as I’d hoped. Maybe I’d misread this. Maybe he was just being neighborly. Maybe this is just what neighbors did.
My phone dinged, and I all but dove for it, spoon clattering to the counter as Mr. Beans dove in to lick up the milk. Never a missed opportunity.
I couldn’t help the disappointment when I saw it was Cat.
Cat:Just checking in!
I growled at the phone.
Me:All good.
My reply was brief. I was busy—too busy to chat. She was clogging the universal text waves.
“Go away,”I whispered.
Cat:Great! I’ll be swinging by later, okay?
