“I just came off an epic breakup. One that should go down in the history books as the suckiest relationship ender of all time. So, needless to say, I don’t feel like a repeat.”
I can feel him nodding as his fingers dig ever so gently into the base of my spine. My dress is basically a second skin, but I wonder, without meaning to, what his hands might feel like if there was nothing between us at all.
“How long were you with the jackass?”
The song meanders as Brad Paisley croons. “Who said he was a jackass? What if I was the one who wrecked it?”
“You weren’t,” he says simply, as if he knows the deepest parts of me.
Somehow, the conversations between us always become intensely deep. I don’t know why; I’ve never felt this sort of magnetism to anyone else before. And it honestly scares the shit out of me that Fletcher Nash seems to have my number.
I sigh. “You’re right. This time. We were together for a year and a half.”
“Must have been serious, then,” Fletcher remarks, and I think I hear a bit of surprise in his voice.
My shoulders rise and dip, considering his statement. “Yes, and no. I’ve been in years-long relationships with other people before.”
I don’t say it to brag, it’s just a fact. And one that Fletcher needs to really grasp the whole picture. I am not an innocent party in what happened between Yanis and me.
“Oh, yeah? Tell me about it. Let the recovering addict who’s never been in a long-term relationship, solve your relationship troubles.”
“Well, Yanis and I were together for a year and a half. Before that, I dated a guy in New York, that I met at a SoulCycle class, for a year. I was in the best shape of my life. Before him, was this surfer in California for six months, but I ended it because he kept leaving to go surf shark-infested waters in places like Tahiti or Honolulu. There was the New York City boyfriend who I was with for almost three years when Presley lived with me. And before him, I dated two guys in college for a year each, and then had my high school sweetheart.”
I say it all in a whoosh of breath because I don’t want to leave any spaces between the syllables. It all makes me look so terrible, like the serial monogamist I am, that I don’t want to explain it slowly. Better to rip it off, like a Band-Aid.
“Wow …” Fletcher says, a little breathless.
“Yeah …” I agree, twisting my arms a little tighter around his neck so I can pinch my wrist.
It’s something I do when the nerves kick in so badly, when I feel the mask of confidence I wear begin to slip. Don’t get me wrong, I’m typically the type of person who is confident. I give no warnings about who I am and tend to feel very little guilt about the decisions I make. Only when I find someone who I think can truly wiggle their way under my skin am I an anxious mess.
“Did you love them all?” he asks, and I find the question a little rude.
But I answer, “I thought I did, at the time.”
I feel him nod and wish the song would just end.
“What’s next on your list of projects to construct?” I ask, trying to throw him off this line of questioning.
“The clock tower,” he reminds me, and I curse myself with how forgetful my nerves are making me.
“That’s right. Any leads on a place to live?”
“My sponsor thinks she found me a place, she’s taking me there in a few days. Honestly, I don’t care if it’s a dump … I just need a space of my own. Living with your mom is a total turn off.” Fletcher laughs because we both have already admitted we’re bad with the opposite sex.
But I wouldn’t know what living with your mom is like, at any age. If I had a loving one, I don’t think I’d mind living with her now. Of course, that thought comes from my total abundance of mommy issues.
“Well, I hope it works out.”
The song is coming to an end, and when he begins to loosen his hold on my waist, I feel the breath come back into my lungs. Except when he steps out of my embrace, I feel oddly … empty.
“I’ll let you know. Maybe I’ll throw a housewarming.” Fletcher shuffles his feet.
I smile and turn without