Page 5 of A Game Plan for Love

I don’t chat with her the way Deon does, but I’ve learned to read emotions, to decipher facial expressions, and with Addie, she expresses it all. There are times I wish I could do it, too; display every emotion rioting in my chest.

There’s been a handful of times where it becomes too much, where the emotions drown me and I crack, allowing someone to peek behind the curtains and see the disaster, but most days it’s easier to smile and pretend I’m okay. It’s why I found Sharon, my therapist. She’s the only person who’s seen it all.

“You needed some real food, anyway,” I continue, plastering on a smile, “that plate of lettuce was sad to look at.”

Addie’s lip quirks upward. “He took off the croutons and cheese when he ordered.”

“Shit,” I mutter, rubbing a hand over my jaw. “It’s going down in the book as the world's worst first date.”

“Says who?” she counters, nose scrunching.

“Me.” I stretch out my legs, leaning against the base of the tree. “I’ve been on a lot of first dates. Yours is the worst I’ve ever encountered.”

She huffs, biting down on a fry.

“I know,” she mutters between bites. I lift a brow, hoping she’ll elaborate. Knows I’ve been on a lot of dates, or knows hers was the worst date ever? “You’re a serial dater. It’s common knowledge.”

“Oh?”

“The social media girls love to talk about you.” She pauses, contemplating her next sentence. “They all have a crush on you.” A rogue, cocky smile graces my lips, but quickly falls when she adds, “You’re a playboy. A new girl every other week.”

My stomach drops.

“Is that what you think?” I ask, surprised by how much I fear the answer.

I don’t want her to believe that about me, because it’s not the truth. Sure, I go on dates, but it’s not to sleep with women, and it’s not a new one every other week. Maybe it was that way once, when I was a rookie, but I was lost and it took a long time to find myself.

I’m intentional about dating—about putting myself out there and opening myself up to the opportunity to find love.

Addie scans my face, head cocking slightly before she says, “I don’t know you well enough to make that judgement.”

Her response is truthful, and there’s no judgment, which is not what I expected.

I’ve seen the tabloids with my photo beside the woman I date. They all speculate on who I’m sleeping with and what girl I’m going to jump to next. They paint me as the playboy, jumping into the sheets with whomever I can.

It’s been easier to allow them to push that persona rather than uncover the truth, which is I go on all those dates in hopes someone will spark the zing inside my chest and I won’t be alone any longer.

I’m so tired of being alone.

The hollowness in my chest has only worsened since Alan died.

I grunt a response, pushing the pasta around the to-go container, when Addie pokes my shoulder.

“Is it true?”

“What?”

“Do you sleep with a new woman every other week?”

“No.”

“Alright, then.” She ends the conversation by ripping into a rib. “God, these are good.”

I snatch the container from her. She blinks at the container, stunned, but I need the distraction from how impacted I am by how she took my word at face value—no follow-up questions or wariness, just trust.

Not that I’ve earned that from her.

“Sharing is caring, Addie.” She rolls her eyes and steals another rib. We silently dig in until we’re covered in barbeque sauce, and my stomach is so full that one wrong move and the elastic in my pants might snap.

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