The Dating Proposal(48)
She takes off, and I spread the napkin in my lap. Yup. Fries and a salad. I’m all good. I’m not crazy. I’m completely not freaking out over all the strings.
I’m fine.
I can handle strings.
I just didn’t think our relationship would have them so soon.
Now that he’s admitted them, there are more leaks in the dam of my feelings than I have fingers to plug them with. But I have to try to dig my nails in and hold on.
“Oh, hey, McKenna.”
I look up to see the girl-child, Amber, decked out in her pink sweat suit, smiling and waving.
The woman my ex-fiancé picked over me.
The living, breathing manifestation of all that I never was to the man I thought I’d marry.
My throat tightens, and the walls of the diner close in. They constrict the way I expected them to when I saw her here before.
I was supposed to be married to her husband. A little more than a year ago, I was ready to walk down the aisle to him. I thought I’d be done with dating forever. I thought Todd and I would be a family.
Now, he’s her family, and I’m here, trying to figure out what to do with this colossal onslaught of monster-size feelings.
Oh shit.
These feelings for Chris are way bigger than the ones I had for Todd. Deeper than what I felt for him. Bigger, crazier, wilder. And so unexpected. So much more than fun. More than games. More than no strings.
These feelings have all the strings, and the last time I felt even close to this way, I was blindsided, bitch-slapped, and left with two KitchenAid mixers I didn’t need.
I don’t even know what to do with one.
“Hi, Amber.” The greeting comes out stilted.
“You were so right about this place. It’s wonderful. I’ve started coming here since that first time I saw you, and I love, love, love it.”
“That’s great, great, great,” I say, then I want to slap myself. I don’t mock people, even people who steal grooms.
But she’s not the one I was mad at a little more than a year ago.
Todd was.
Only, I got over him.
I’ve 100 percent moved on from him.
But I haven’t moved on from being human.
I can’t move on from that. And because I’m human, I’m not immune to falling, after all. I’ve fallen hard and big and recklessly.
Now all I can think is—what if the same thing happens again? What if Chris finds someone funnier, smarter, more interesting? Someone who loves deeper, better, more?
What if I’m left behind again?
Fear reopens the wound inside me that had healed but not scarred over, and it’s raw, like insecurity is rubbing salt in it.
Somehow I swallow past the hurt in my throat. “Glad you like it,” I choke out, walking back my snitty reply so I don’t have to add one more thing to feel awful about today.
Amber flashes a cordial smile and walks away.
I eat, and the salad tastes like cardboard, the Diet Coke seems flat, and the fries are anti-orgasmic.
When I leave, I go to the bakery and decide the only thing that could make me feel better is a cupcake. I order a chocolate buttercream and stuff it in my mouth.
But it doesn’t remove the self-doubt that’s formed an ulcer in my heart.
30
Chris
The interview is locked in for later this week.
The surf report for this afternoon appears top-notch.
And karaoke night is always a good time. Plus, I get to introduce my girl to my friends.
There’s only one little hiccup.
The girl has gone radio silent.
I text her after lunch with the good news regarding Zander.
No reply.
I text her that afternoon telling her the ratings are strong for the segments.
Nada.
I tap out a third text then decide I’m a wuss. Something is wrong, and I need to man up and call her.
It rings five times.
She answers with a muffled hey.
“Hey,” I say sympathetically, because she must be sick. “Are you okay? Do you have a cold or something?”
“No.”
“What's wrong, babe?”
“Nothing. Just napping.”
I arch a brow. Don’t get me wrong—naps are awesome. But I have a hard time reconciling the bright and effervescent McKenna with someone who sleeps during the daytime. “I didn't know you were into afternoon naps.”
“I’m not.”
My Spidey-sense goes on full alert, and I sit up straight in my desk chair. “What’s wrong?”
She heaves a sigh. “I don’t think I can go to karaoke tonight.”
“Okay, that’s fine. But is something else wrong?”
“I just . . . Everything is happening so fast. I think I need a night to . . . figure it out.”
I freeze.
Brace like I’m about to get pounded by a killer wave.
She’s breaking up with me.
I swallow hard and try to form words. “What do you need to figure out?”
“This. Us. Everything. Why fries taste bad, and Diet Coke is flat, and cupcakes made me sick.”
Ah, maybe she is ill. “So you are sick? Do you need something? Some soup? I can bring you food or crackers or anything you need.”