I’ve never wanted to act on that though, because for me, there’s no spark. It sounds silly, but I believe that sometimes two people have a physical chemistry that pulls them together. I’ve seen it in other couples.
And now I’ve felt it for myself with Nate. Tommy can stare at me all he wants, his gaze will never make my stomach roll in somersaults the way Nate’s eyes can. And I can’t even imagine calling Tommy “daddy” or surrendering myself completely to him in a sexual matter.
That’s the thing about Tommy. He’s dropped hints and looked at me in a longing way, but he’s never made a move. He’s never gone all Alpha male and just told me that he wants me. Nate did. Nate looked me right in the eye and told me exactly what he wanted from me. And it was so sexy. It was more than a spark, it was a burning crackle of flames.
I shake myself out of that line of thought before I start to fantasize about Nate right under the fluorescent lights of the coffeeshop.
I check the time. I haven’t even been sitting down an hour, but already I’m antsy. I want to go back to my apartment. And I don’t want to go back to rest or watch TV or cook a meal. I want to go back so I can walk casually by Nate’s house and see if anything happens.
It’s pathetic. I have sex with one guy, and all of a sudden, I’m pining after him endlessly.
This isn’t me. I’m usually practical and focused and on top of my emotions. I don’t like that Nate has taken something away from me.
Sure, he gave me plenty, but I don’t want to lose myself in the process. I’ve seen too many women and girls throw away crucial parts of themselves when they get with a guy.
I don’t want to be that girl.
I don’t think Nate is some villain trying to compromise me and my future, but even so, I need to use some common sense about this whole thing. I have to stop daydreaming and figure out the best way to move forward.
I manage to stay at the coffee shop for another hour. I don’t get any work done, but I do put on a convincing act. Or at least, Tommy and Becca stop asking me if I’m ok.
Afterwards, Tommy and Becca both have to get to a class, so I meander around campus, trying to put off going back to my place.
I desperately long to return to my apartment and see if i can catch a glimpse of Nate, but I know it’s best to keep my distance. I need to sort out my head.
He hasn’t even texted or called me. If he had, maybe things would be different. Maybe I would have more clarity on what he wanted or how he thinks we should proceed.
The fact that he isn’t reaching out speaks volumes. I’m not a priority. He’s an older guy who doesn’t feel the need to communicate with the girl he just slept with.
That’s alright. He made me no promises. We’re not in a relationship. Not even close.
When I’m tired of walking in circles, I get on my bike and ride home.
I don’t see any sign of Nate in the driveway. I tell myself it’s ok, but I can’t fully suppress the throb of sadness in my chest.
Chapter Twelve
Nate
I pick up my phone to text Cynthia at least twenty times throughout the morning.
She’s had an evening and a night to mull over what happened between us. Now I want to reach out and let her know where I stand.
But somehow a text feels inadequate. It almost seems cold-hearted and callous to text her. She deserves a phone call or an in-person conversation.
I don’t think young people even do phone calls anymore though. And I’m not going to loiter outside her apartment all day in the hopes of running into her. Nor am I going to post up by the window and watch for her bike so I can run out and demand she talk to me. It’s tempting, but I’m not going to do it.
Instead, I sequester myself in my home office and try to work. I have a big project due for my company. I’ll need to head down to the city in a few weeks to present it.
I’ve always been good at separating my emotions from my work. In the software world, it’s all about results. You can’t charm your way into creating a good algorithm. So I’ve learned to put the work in and come up with effective conclusions.
I never liked the networking scene anyway. Before I started at my current company, I worked at a start-up. The actual product was a bust, but the company thought they could turn a profit by looking the part. They threw parties every week and rented out glossy offices.
I hated it. Every morning, I was grumpy as I headed into work. I felt like a cliche, sitting miserably on the subway as I joined the rat race with everyone else, working away at an unsatisfying 9 to 5.
Lianne was the one who wanted me to get that start-up job. She thought it was the perfect opportunity, and she wanted a husband who dressed up in a suit and went to an office. It didn’t matter if the actual product was a total bust. It didn’t matter if I was a cog in a defunct machine.
During and immediately after the divorce, I kept the job. I needed a consistent paycheck as I moved out of the apartment I had shared with my wife and into a grimy studio in Brooklyn. The borough wasn’t as trendy as it is now. No one fashionable really lived in Brooklyn back then.
I sunk into a deep depression. I hated my job,
