Page 55 of You're The One
I liked all of it. The walking. The talking. His attempt at caffeine.
Him.
And I’m not totally sure what to do with that.
He must’ve sensed I wasn’t exactly savoring his creation, because this morning he suggested we try a local coffee shop instead.
I’m a little taken aback that:
1. He cares enough about my caffeine addiction to go to this much effort.
2. He found and planned it without access to the internet.
He told me he used 411 (I didn’t even know that was still a thing) and got directions from the shop owner. It’s still hard to believe he managed it.
When we get there, the place is mostly empty, just a barista behind the counter who must’ve opened. She’s still setting up but calls out a cheerful “Good morning, early birds,” without turning around.
I waste precious minutes, according to Dominic, debating what to order before settling on an iced French toast latte. He gets a frozen hot chocolate, because apparently, he has no vices, caffeine included.
We slide into a corner booth, sitting catty-corner with a round table between us.
“So,” I say, glancing over at Dominic, “do you know who you’re sending home this week?”
He had a one-on-one yesterday with Ashley. Not that I expected him to check in with me first—he doesn’t owe me that. But I’d be lying if I said I hadn’t noticed I’m one of only two girls who haven’t had a solo date with him. And now Ashley hasbeen on two? The first, thanks to me messing with him, and the second, he says, was at the insistence of production. But still, maybe he does like her?
Not that it bothers me.
Or at least, it shouldn’t.
We’re not really dating. We’ve only just started to tolerate each other. Maybe even like each other, as friends.
Really, it’s less about the date and more about cabin fever. Our early morning walks help, but being out during actual daylight would be even better. Or at night. I’m not picky.
I tune back in as he’s rattling off names, giving a brief reason for each. “Do you agree?”
None of them are girls I’m especially close with, so I say, “Sure. Follow your heart and all that crap.”
He lets out a breath. “Everything okay?”
“Sorry. I’m just in a shit mood.”
He turns toward me, brow furrowed. “Why? What’s going on?”
“Like I told you the other day. Just feeling a little claustrophobic.”
He nods, slow and thoughtful, then picks up my crumpled straw wrapper and begins folding it, pulling the paper between his fingers.
When he looks up and meets my eyes, there’s concern in them. “What can I do to help?”
It catches me off guard. It’s not just another hollow offer or something said just to fill the silence. He means it.
And that makes guilt prick behind my sternum. I hadn’t meant to drag him into my bad mood.
I’ve always tried to keep this part of me tucked away. The parts that are too heavy. Too much. We’re taught to be easy, especially as women.
Smile through it. Swallow it down.
I usually push people away before they get close enough to feel burdened. Before they get the chance to walk away.
