Page 191 of Love Me Stalk Me
Yeah.
That's kind of the terrifying part.
I am serious about him. More serious than I've been about anyone in a long time. Maybe ever. And that's terrifying, because it means he has the power to hurt me, to disappoint me, to leave.
But it also means he has the power to surprise me, to stand by me, to be exactly what I need when I need it.
Before I can talk myself out of it, before the rational, sober part of my brain can intervene and remind me of all the ways this could go wrong, I grab my phone and start typing out a message to Cal. My fingers move across the screen with the slight clumsiness of someone who's had too much to drink but is determined to complete a task.
Hey, I know this is super last minute but… would you maybe want to come to Easter dinner with me tomorrow? I have mass early in the morning. I'd never try and subject you to that, but you could meet me at the house for dinner, which for my family starts at 1pm and is hours long. Maybe this is a bad idea. I have been drinking a bit...
I press send before I can stop myself. My thumb hovers over the unsend button, tempted to erase the evidence of this moment of vulnerability, of hope.
But then my phone vibrates with an incoming message.
Cal
Absolutely. I'd be honored to meet your family. And, I'll accompany you to mass. I'll be by first thing in the morning to pick you up.
His response is immediate.
Not just immediate, but enthusiastic. Not reluctant, not hesitant, not full of qualifiers or conditions. Just a simple, straightforward acceptance that makes my heart skip a beat.
Immediate and so fucking perfect that I grin like a lovesick idiotat my phone.
Amanda leans over, peering at my screen with all the subtlety of a toddler trying to sneak cookies. "Oh my God, he actually said yes?"
I laugh, setting my phone down on the coffee table, the warmth in my chest expanding, settling deep in my bones. "Yeah. He actually said yes. Not just to dinner, but to mass, too."
Amanda pumps her fist in the air like she's just won a sporting event, nearly spilling her wine in the process. "Fucking Catholic guilt dinner, here we come! This is going to be amazing. I need hourly updates. Detailed texts. Pictures if possible."
And for the first time ever, I actually don't feel nervous about bringing someone home.
Not because I think it will go perfectly, or because I think my family will immediately love him, or because I'm naïve enough to believe they won't try to interrogate him as if he's a suspected criminal.
But because for once, I'm bringing someone home who I'm genuinely proud to be with. Someone who feels like a choice I made for myself, not a compromise, not a settlement, not someone I'm with because I think I can't do better.
Someone who makes me feel like myself, only better, stronger, and more capable.
Amanda suddenly clutches her chest, dramatically collapsing against the armrest like she's been mortally wounded, like she's auditioning for a community theater production of Romeo and Juliet. Her hair falls from its bun, cascading around her face in a golden curtain that only adds to the theatricality of the moment.
"I just don't understand," she sighs, shaking her head with exaggerated sorrow. "Why are you here, drinking shitty wine with me, when you could be riding him all night long? Like, what went wrong in your life to lead you to this moment?"
I choke on my drink—again—wine searing up my nose and nearly decorating my shirt in the process. "Jesus Christ, Amanda."
She sits up, eyes bright with mischief. Her lipstick is smudged now, giving her a slightly disheveled appearance that somehow only enhances her natural charisma.
"I'm serious. That man is sex on legs. Sex with a capital S. Sex that walks and talks and looks at you like you're the answer to every question he's ever had." She gestures wildly at me, her wine now actually sloshing over the side of her glass, droplets landing on the velvet couch. Neither of us moves to clean it up. "And you—" The gesture becomes more emphatic, more accusatory. "Are voluntarily choosing to sit here with me instead of climbing him like a tree.Explain yourself."
I roll my eyes, setting my glass down on the coffee table before I really do spill it.
"Because you're my friend. And I'm supposed to want to spend quality time with you. It's called being a good person, Amanda. Look it up."
Amanda scoffs, waving a dismissive hand like she's shooing away an annoying fly. "Yeah, yeah, friendship, bonding, blah blah blah, but listen—" She leans forward, eyes serious, voice dropping to an intense whisper like she's about to share state secrets. "If you ditched me for that? I wouldn't even be mad."
I stare at her, waiting for the punchline, for the "just kidding" that doesn't come.
She lifts a shoulder in a careless shrug, her expression completely sincere despite the alcohol flushing her cheeks. "I'd actually be proud. Like, 'wow, my best friend is getting absolutely wrecked by the hottest man alive. Good for her. Living her best life. Ten out of ten, no notes.'"
