Page 40 of Yours Until Forever

Gage:

Are you okay?

Gage:

Olivia is a top crisis management lawyer. I imagine you’ve got things under control, but if you need her, say the word and I’ll put you in touch.

I met Olivia at the wedding in Nashville. I liked her a lot.

But holy god.

How did I get to the point in my life where I need to contemplate hiring a crisis manager?

Me:

Thank you. My agent and lawyer seem to have things under control, but I appreciate the offer.

He comes straight back.

Gage:

You didn’t answer my question.

It’s not the only text of his I haven’t answered. I still haven’t replied to his message from Saturday night. The one where he said he enjoyed himself.

I meant to. But every time I start typing, I overthink it. Too casual? Too serious? Too soon? And now he’s checking in again, which I appreciate. I do. I just don’t know what to do with it.

I like him. Too much, maybe.

My fingers hover over my phone.

I type.

I delete.

I try again.

God.

Why is this so hard?

It’s nine years since I last dated. Really dated. I don’t count the few men I’ve gone to dinner with since my divorce. And I haven’t had sex with anyone since my divorce, so that means it’s nine years since I’ve had sex for the first time with someone. And oh boy, has my body changed since then.

I have no idea what the dating etiquette is anymore. Like, do people even date to get to know each other? Or do they just send each other cryptic texts, trade memes, and trauma dump at 1 a.m.?

And the whole app thing.Apps. Like ordering takeout, but with more disappointment. Sure, they existed when I was dating, but they weren’t everything. I never used them. Now? Theyaredating culture.

Swipe right if they don’t lead with gym selfies and “looking for a partner in crime.” Swipe left if their bio gives you the ick. Hope they don’t ghost you. Pray you don’t get murdered.

Honestly, the whole thing feels like a series of red flags held together by unhealed childhood wounds and curated playlists.

Everyone’s hiding behind vibes and vibes only.

I’ve forgotten how to flirt. I don’t know how to be casual. I mean, I had my first kiss at seventeen and lost my virginity to James when I was twenty. I learned how to have sex in the context of a committed relationship, not one where you have to pretend not to care afterward.

And now I’m trying to text a man who has cheekbones carved by gods, a tuxedo that gave me an actual hormonal imbalance, and probably his very own fan club, while I can’t even type a text without second-guessing my entire personality.

Me:

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