Greg:
did you leave?
I swipe it away without replying. He really pissed me off tonight—bringing up Owen, second-guessing my choices, gaslighting me about what happened in high school! And I’m even angrier at myself for not being able to accept reality as it is. It’s my own fault I haven’t moved on. I just need to try harder.
“Relationships can be dissolved in person (see clause nine, subsection two) by either party at will at any time, but clauses one, four, and five remain binding,” I read out loud.
Mom always told me todefine the relationship early,but this is ridiculous.
I jiggle my leg, full of nervous energy. Part of me wants to run screaming into the night.
When I’m agitated, it’s soothing to review the evidence:
This might be the key to freeing Mom from Slack.
This could help me move past my immature fixation on Greg, so I can actually ease into our friendship again.
I can’t deny I’m attracted to Mark Winterson.
Maybe I’m resistant to itbecausehe’s the kind of guy Mom would want me to date, and I’m contrary like that. Because I think that means he can’t really like me, by definition. But he’s only given me signs that he does—and shouldn’t that feel good?
This is the best thing for everyone.Win-win-win-win-win.
I tap through all the fields and sign. And then I call him.
“Okay, well,” I say when he picks up on the third ring. “Guess you can explain rugby to me now.”
Mark Winterson’s booming laugh feels like the biggest compliment. “Best phone call I’ve gotten in ages.”
His voice sounds lower on the phone than in person, raspier. I wonder what he’s doing—if he’s sitting on the couch in sweats, or lying in bed talking to me. The mental image makes my internal temperature rise.
“How are you spending the rest of your evening?” he asks.
I glance around my living room, at the dark TV and faded floral wallpaper and excessive amount of TKMART throw pillows on the couch. “No particular plans.”
“Come over,” he says, voice deep and smooth, and it sends a ripple of anticipation through me.
For a second, I try to weigh the consequences—but it’s so quiet and lonely in this house, and the spontaneity excites me.
“I’ll send a car for you,” he adds. So I tell him the address.
The car glides through the night along the freeway, near-full moon hanging over the buildings of the West Side. It deposits me in front of a condo by the beach, a shiny modernist box in concrete and glass.
Mark Winterson opens the door, leaning one arm casually against the frame, and a smile spreads over his face.
“Come in,” he says, taking a few steps back.
