Page 62 of Lavender and Linebackers

I know it has to do with what I overheard in that conversation between him and Sully. There were pieces of the story that I didn’t know, and now I do. It makes it harder for me to hold a grudge against him, but at the same time, I still know what he’s capable of. When things got uncomfortable, he left me. Easily. Without a second thought, and that’s the part that I’m trying to remind myself of and hang on to.

I feel torn. Like I’m split down the middle.

I want to forgive him. I want to set the record straight. I want to move on from the horrible place we were at, but then there’s the logical part of me that’s holding back, telling me not to, and for good reason.

During another conversation I once had with my therapist, we discussed the neurological sides of the brain. She talked me through my confusion about him in terms of science. Depending on whether you are right- or left-handed, one side of the brain handles emotions that deal with engaging with the world, whereas the other side deals with emotions of avoidance. Our brain can be at war with both sides trying to persuade us to do one thing or another, but when you toss in love, it becomes murky. Love engages both sides, both hemispheres, and deactivates the different parts needed to sometimes make rational decisions. That’s where the expression “love is blind” comes from.

Am I swaying myself toward the good sides of him and the good times and being blind?

Is my judgment being clouded by my emotions? The good ones that make the scales tip toward forgiveness?

Earlier today, he asked if I wanted to ride with him to the gala, and I couldn’t. I need the separation to keep my head on straight. But when he asked if I wanted a ride home, there was nothing that I wanted more.

Spending time with him, talking to him, dancing with him—it’s like the best dopamine hit on the planet.

I hate that I’m drawn to him.

I hate that even after what he did to me, I still want to be near him.

I hate that he still affects me positively.

I hate that I’m willing to let the scales tip just so I can soak up more hits.

“Do you own this tuxedo?” I ask him as we’re driving back to my apartment.

His brows pop up, and he quickly glances at me and then back at the road.

“I do. I bought it for tonight. Figured I would need it again soon enough for something else. Why? Does it look okay?”

“Yes. It fits you nicely.”

I let my gaze travel over him. He’s laid the coat and the tie across the back seat, so he’s wearing just the white shirt with the black vest, and then the black pants. He’s opened the top button. There’s no belt, and his shoes are shiny black. I reach over to take his arm. He goes willingly, and I look at his cuff links. They are silver footballs, and I laugh.

“I shouldn’t be surprised, but I am.”

His hand falls to my lap, and he keeps it there, tangling his fingers with mine.

“I couldn’t help it. I was going through the options in the store, and when I saw them, I had to have them. What about you? Buy this dress?”

I look down at the beautiful fabric and then back over at him. “No. I rented it.”

He looks at me. “Shame.”

My cheeks heat at the compliment.

The rest of the ride home, neither of us speaks. He’s put on some music, he holds my hand, and I push away all the warning flags to live in the moment.

A moment that is content. A moment that reminds me of our past, but also a moment of something new.

Too soon, we reach my apartment, and he parks the truck. Silence falls over us, as well as something else. Instead of thinking too hard about it, or questioning it, when he slides out of his side of the truck and comes around to open my door, I let him. He takes my hand, laces our fingers together, and walks me to my front door.

I turn to face him, and a thousand butterflies take flight.

What is it about a boy standing in front of a girl in a setting like this that is so . . . sensual? All of my physical senses are lit up. He’s handsome that it almost hurts me to look at him. I can still smell the modern, fresh scent of his cologne. His hand is warm against mine, and I know if I leaned into him, his body would be too, a body that I’m craving to touch. Don’t get me started on taste. He has perfect lips. He always has. I’ve spent more time thinking about what it would be like for him to press them against mine again that I ache for the contact.

“Thank you for bringing me home. I appreciate it.” I squeeze his hand instead of letting it go.

“Anytime,” he says, his gaze lovingly scanning my face. And yes, I said lovingly.