Funny Feelings (49)
“You’re sorry?” he frowns, clears his throat a little. “Do you—I mean—are you sorry about earlier?” His tone is limned in careful restraint.
“God—no, not at all. I’m only sorry I didn’t—couldn’t—return the favor.” My cheeks heat, not nearly as confident as I was in those moments after.
“Fee,” he waits until I look at him. “No more apologies, please. Especially since I’ve been thinking about that, imagining it, for a very long time.”
“You have?”
He nods. Once. His hand comes up to cup my jaw and he drags his thumb across each of my lips. “Let’s just say it was more satisfying than you realize,” and then he leans down and kisses me. “Call me later.”
He leaves the room and I watch him through the peephole, waiting until he’s cleared the corner and out of sight before I turn around and slide down the door, melting in a puddle of bliss.
21
NOW
FARLEY
I somehow manage a few hours of sleep, even as I’m counting down the hours and minutes until it’s time to get back home.
I fling a little wink at my own reflection on my way out of the room, “Proud of you, girl.” Proud that I have refrained from texting Meyer all day, proud of my killer impression of an “I’ve-got-my-shit-together-and-don’t-lose-my-cool-over-a-man” woman. No matter how fucking sexy, sweet, intelligent, or impressive that man is. No matter that he is the best friend I’ve ever had and I can’t wait to know how his flight was and who annoyed him on the plane and what he and Hazel had for breakfast. I wonder if he worries about Haze as a teenager, wonder what she would think of us together, if it would change things at all.
Aaannd, there it is. The anxiety. The worry that pulls me under for a second, a wave crashing over me.
A feeling that immediately synchronizes with the realization that Meyer himself has not texted, or called me at all.
The thoughts submerge me further.
By the time I pull into the airport, I’ve worked myself into a knotted wreck, and decide to do my best impression of a mature adult with conflict resolution skills. I call him.
It goes right to voicemail.
I try again and the result is the same.
Try again when I get to my gate.
Storm clouds gather in my mind, hovering over the churning ocean of my thoughts.
It’s astonishing how quickly my brain can go from congratulating myself, proud of how I owned up to some of my feelings, even celebrating how that panned out, to borderline loathing and disgust in the same day.
He absolutely regrets hooking up. It was a result of too much forced affection, too much build up, so of course he’d gotten confused. That’s the only reason he thought he wanted to come back. Watching you come on his lap probably forced reality back into his brain and now he’s going to want some space. You’re no seductress, Farley Jones. That’s probably the impression you could pull off the least. You have farted in front of this man—an accident, but still. Not a lady toot, either, it was a “brussel sprouts are my food hyper-fixation at the moment” kind of rip. You are gross. Remember what your father always told you? Men don’t want girls with foul mouths and bad manners. It’s unbecoming. Men don’t find your cavalier attitude attractive, let alone sexy. Men don’t want a dirty, unorganized woman. Men don’t want a woman who wants to be lazy for an entire day, then immediately wants to take on twelve projects, plus a hike and a new hobby on the following.
Men don’t want a woman who spends a day in bed after having her soul ripped out by a book, or who gets choked up over a song. Stop being so dramatic. Men don’t want women who fill every silence with a joke or a “welp” just because they can’t sit still or quiet for five minutes with people they can barely tolerate.
Meyer has been subjected to all of that, every side of the warped bouncy ball that I am. More than I’ve allowed any other man, really. And even to those other men who I’ve dated— the ones who’ve seen the bits and pieces… to them I’ve always been charming in my quirkiness, in my crassness. I’m a good times gal, the friend, the jester. Not the kind of woman they fantasize about, who gets under their skin.
How could I expect his feelings to be like mine? I can’t expect that of him. I need to give him space, to respect it when he inevitably tells me he’s changed his mind about this and that it’s gotten out of hand. This is why I had reservations.
Look at yourself! This man is doing this for your career, and yesterday only happened because there’s been too much mixing. Maybe it was the football. The collective competitive energy caused a surge in testosterone and you happened to be there, clinging to him.
It’s pathetic, really, how my brain jumped through portals and to a different reality, where we’d both be desperate for each other.
Even if this was going places, who wants this messy girl? The one who already needs constant reassurance. Who collapses this way in a matter of hours. Meyer deserves someone stable, someone who is funny but not in an attention-seeking way. Someone who doesn’t accidentally fart in front of him or verbalize her gastric woes. Someone sexy, organized, and secure.
The plane lands, though I’ve no memory of getting on it. I pull out my phone with trembling hands while I wait for my luggage, and check my calendar, grateful when I see that my therapy appointment is tomorrow.