Page 76 of Maid of Dishonor

I apologize again for calling so late, tell him I love him, and hang up. Then I stare at my ceiling as thoughts chase themselves around my brain, all vying for attention, until I’ve made my decision.

One week. I’ll give her space for one week. But I’m not letting her get away in the meantime.

Twenty-One

Sam

Once upon a time,there was a girl who was crazy in love with her best friend. Her heart exploded, so she told him how she felt, and then she went slowly insane from overthinking every interaction they’d ever had. The end.

As you can see, I am well aware how my story is going to end: with me going slowly insane. Or, you know, rapidly insane. That’s feeling like a distinct possibility too.

In a truly cliché move, I spend most of the next day forgoing responsibility—aka baseball practice—and watching movies in bed, eating chocolate chips straight from the bag. At one point a few chocolate chips fall out of the bag, and I find them thirty minutes later, squashed and melted between my arm and my side. I pull my arm up and lick all the chocolate off. I am the hottest of messes, and I am not ashamed.

Because I have no idea what’s going on right now. I have no idea how I feel or what I want. Do I want space? Yes. But do I also want Carter to swoop in right now and proclaim his undying love for me? Yes.

And what’s that all about, anyway? Since when does Carter have feelings for me? And what kind of feelings are they? He didn’t really clarify, and I feel like maybe he should have. Because my mind has been running wild with thoughts and feelings and options since I shut the door in his face yesterday, and that insanity gig is actually starting to sound pretty good.

I jump when I hear a knock on the door, and I freeze, wrist-deep into the bag of chocolate chips. I withdraw my hand slowly, trying not to crinkle the bag—as though whoever’s outside will somehow hear the chocolate chips, deduce that someone is home, and judge me for not answering the door.

There are a few seconds of silence, followed by another knock and a muffled, “Delivery!” I shrink under the covers and wait, like a coward, until I hear a closing car door and then an engine starting and driving away.

But look. People screen calls all the time, right? So that’s basically what I’m doing, just…with answering the door. I don’t feel like talking to anyone, and goodness knows I’m not presentable.

I clamber out of bed and grumble all the way to the bathroom, checking my reflection when I get there. There’s a smudge of chocolate on my chin, and my hair in its messy bun needs to be washed.

Yeah. Good call on not answering the door.

I sigh. I need to get my act together, and bodily hygiene is probably a good place to start. I’m not usually the kind to wallow; I’m more a repress-it-until-it-becomes-unhealthy type of girl. But sometimes you just need to let go, and that’s what I’ve given myself today. Time to let everything stew. Now, though, it’s time to get back on that proverbial horse and try to sort out the veritable mess that is my brain.

I do feel better after a hot shower, but my peach shampoo and body wash just make me think of Carter. Still, I make it through, and once I’m done, I feel ready to conquer my demons.

I mean, probably not all of them. Maybe just one or two of them. Or, you know, maybe notconquerthem. I might just look them in the eye, acknowledge their existence—that kind of thing.

First, though, I check the front door for the delivery, opening it and frowning when I see a bouquet of sunflowers, cheerful and yellow—my favorite. Interspersed between the yellow is some greenery and something else dainty and white, and the whole bundle is wrapped with a burlap ribbon tied in a bow. I swallow the lump that’s suddenly hanging out in the back of my throat, because these have to be from Carter. I just don’t know why he’s sending me flowers. To apologize? To tell me he’s not angry at me? I have no clue. And maybe this is part of an elaborate plan to get me to talk to him, because of course now I want to know what he means by these, but I don’t pick up the phone. Let’s be honest: Carter isn’t good at this wholegive me spacething. Frankly, I’m pretty proud of him for not calling or texting thus far. So I’ll let the flowers slide.

I make them at home in the center of my little dining table, smiling at them, and then I stare around my apartment aimlessly, trying to figure out what to do. To my surprise, I find myself returning to my bedroom and grabbing my journal. I’ve been trying to meditate every day, and while it’s not a magical cure, I can say that it’s helping. It doesn’t remove my feelings about the past; it’s more that it helps me focus on the present, on the things I actually have control over rather than the things I can’t control. It’s a start, I think.

I mean, I don’t know. Maybe I’m doing it all wrong. But I feel good about it.

With that in mind, I take my journal back out to the couch and open to a fresh page. It’s a plain yellow notebook, the kind they sell for a dollar, but it meets my needs just fine. Without stopping to think about my words, I begin to write.

I’m confused. I’m so confused. Carter says he has feelings for me? What even does that mean? CARTER COULD YOU PLEASE TELL ME WHAT THAT MEANS? Every time I think about that I wonder why I asked for space when I could just be kissing him, but then I remember that my brain is a mess and his probably is too. And if he has feelings for me but doesn’t WANT to have feelings for me, I can’t work with that. Because he’ll have one foot out the door before anything even starts.

So this is good. Space is good. Good.

Either way, our friendship has changed. Things will never go back to the way they were, and that’s kind of really scary.

My pen pauses its scribble over the page, and I tap it mindlessly as I think. Then I sigh. Because it’s true: things have changed, and theywon’tever be the same. They could get much better—or much more painful.

“I am a strong woman,” I tell myself firmly. “I do not need a man to make me happy.”

I should probably keep repeating that until it sounds even sort of convincing.

So I keep saying it to myself throughout the rest of the day. And the next day, when another bouquet of flowers comes, I say it a little louder, mostly to counter the fact that it’s feeling a little less true. The day after that, when a goldfish shows up on my doorstep, I forget to say it altogether.

He comes in a box like he’s actually been mailed to me—which I fully did not know was an option for fish—along with a bowl, some of those colorful pebbles, a box of fish food, and an instruction booklet. I get his little home set up pronto, and then I just sit and stare at him.

He’s tiny and perfect, and I love him immediately—I know it’s a boy because I google how to tell the difference. I name him Moby Dick, Moby for short. He is my best friend now, and Carter has been demoted. It doesn’t escape me that my now-second-best-friend is doing all the things he said he’d do if he were trying to woo me, and even though I’m trying not to get my hopes up, my lips still have that natural smile to them. The ball is in his court, and he seems to be playing.

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