Angie, a live-in-the-now singer-songwriter on the cusp of fame, sweeps Mike, a proper Mama's boy and a structural engineer by day, off his feet the moment they shake hands.
They can't deny the chemistry between them, so they start with a boom. What'...
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▪️Saturday, November 28th, 2017 ▪️
▪️Chicago, IL▪️
The east-facing window spills cool rays of sunshine, last night's tempest forgotten. As if the weather has cried all its tears and, as a consolation prize, is offering us a reminder of what a day of sun is like.
Amelie got home late last night wet from rain and tears and refused to talk to me. Instead of being elated about the opportunities the next five years in the country of her birth will bring her, the degree she was after, spending time with her mom and half-brothers, she hugged me like we'll never see each other again, promised to help my parents pack my leftover stuff, and went to her university classes this morning with a red blotchy face.
Her despair scares the crap out of me. Although I shouldn't compare Ben and Am's months-long relationship to the night Mike and I spent together, the similarity is there. I need to tell Mike my good news. Which also means I need to tell him I'm leaving.
Under normal circumstances, I wouldn't have given a second thought to the guy I spent a night with, no matter how good I felt in the morning. Yet, something is different this time. Beyond great sex. Beyond the cute banter and the mesmerizing way Mike's body moves. I pick up my phone for the umpteenth time and flick to the text I sent myself from his phone.
Nothing.
To get my mind off the lack of messages, I turn the oven on and pull the last pizza out of the freezer. The mug with Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer Dad gifted me the Christmas before I left for New York still sits on the counter. I'm not leaving it in storage even if I have to drink out of the festive cup till April. It's better to have Christmasy stuff all year round than not have any at all. When I buy a house of my own, I'll be one of the weirdos who keeps the Christmas tree all year round and decorates it for every holiday throughout the year.
I tuck the bubble-wrapped mug into my backpack and don't allow myself to check my phone anymore. I made my move by giving Mike my number. By all dating rules, the ball is in his court, and I should not be sending him anything even though it's been over twenty-four hours since he left.
The is-he-or-isn't-he-going-to-text-me-back anxiety is wrecking my day. One call, and I will know which way this goes. Maybe I'm too naive. Maybe he doesn't actually want to see me again. With a four-month break between now and when the tour is over, him not being interested might be the best option. I can focus on the tour and on impressing The Whats. But a miniscule, hopeful, ridiculous note beneath my breastbone hints at the music of possibilities, on melodies different from my usual ones. A new style that sprung to life when I was wrapped in Mike, waiting for sleep to come.
When the pre-heating alarm beeps, I stick the pepperoni stuffed-crust pizza into the oven and pull up the Notes app where my packing and to-do lists have check marks next to most items. I add 'packed the Rudolf mug' to the list. An important thing to notate, not the excuse to throw a glance at the notification bar. A tiny message icon hangs next to the IG notification. I do have a text. I grasp the phone tighter and click.
