Gina was firmly Team Tamra. “Men. The one thing duct tape can’t fix. I can’t believe he forgot about you. I can understand why you’re insulted. He’s clearly not worthy.”
She offered to take the flowers to another department, and I took her up on it. I didn’t need the reminder.
When I got home that night, there was a cooler on my doorstep. I was immediately wary, but also curious. Peering inside, I got a hardcore hit of chocolate from the tiny ramekins of mousse inside. I moaned when I saw the other dishes he’d packed. The desserts smelled delicious, and it pained me to throw them and the other food away, but I was standing firm on principle. I unblocked his number to make my point.
Tamra: Stop with the food and gifts. No more, please.
I blocked his number again and hoped that would be the end of it.
I didn’t expect to be the first or only thing in my boyfriend’s life, but I expected him to at least show up when we had plans. If he couldn’t follow through on a simple dinner date, how could I trust him with my body or my heart?
Chapter 25 - Chase
WORDS FLOWED FROM MY fingertips, through the keyboard, and bloomed on my monitor. I was in the zone. It felt amazing. The book was practically writing itself. It helped that I had endless inspiration in Tamra. I was trying not to make it too autobiographical, but was failing. Miserably. Every word was a love letter to her. I waxed philosophical on her curls for two whole pages, which would have to be edited down later, but I couldn’t stop myself.
It felt like no time had passed, but I checked my manuscript word count and I’d hit 20,000. I had started the day at around 15,000, so I wasn’t sure where the burst of creativity came from. Liar. I knew exactly where it came from, a certain brunette. A mixture of pride and uncertainty swirled inside me, an inevitable feeling that followed a strong writing day. Maybe it was all total crap?
My main characters were suspiciously familiar, a male romance novelist and a female nurse. The nurse, Tina, was calm in a crisis yet caring. Yeah, I really stretched myself naming her.
Tina had an inner beauty that shone in her hazel eyes. Her kindness was displayed in her smallest actions, like fixing a perfect cup of tea for her coworker. She was pragmatic to a fault and difficult to rattle. But that mouth. Luscious, and when it opened, blunt statements rolled out that could give a man whiplash. Tamra, I mean Tina, was everything.
Clearly, I was thinking about Tamra while writing Tina’s character. I was so used to my own mental jumps that Tamra’s didn’t strike me as odd. If anything, I liked that her mind jumped like mine. I could say what I was thinking, and she seemed to do the same.
It was freeing to be myself. I hadn’t realized how much of my awkwardness was driven by the sense that I was playing a role. Like I’d been wearing a sport coat two sizes too small. Trying to fit a certain mold increased my social anxiety to a point that I couldn’t function or think on my feet, and I gave in to my worst impulses. Not having that pressure when I was with Tamra made all the difference. Conversation flowed. Sometimes it flowed over a cliff, but the destination didn’t matter when we arrived together.
I refocused on my document. Writing a much more satisfying conclusion to our own interrupted kitchen scene was next on my outline. Minus the underwear shenanigans. I’d learned my lesson, and I didn’t want to lead some poor reader astray. This was an homage to Tamra, and I wanted to write the ending I wish we’d had that night. If I hadn’t made a mess of things, I wouldn’t need to make my apology meal tonight. Instead, maybe we’d be cooking together and enjoying naked happy fun time.
My stomach rumbled. Either I forgot lunch, or it had to be time to start getting ready for Tamra’s. One glance at the time and I did a double take. Shit. Somehow, I had a feeling that time wasn’t a.m. but p.m., in which case I was fucked. Sure enough, I double-checked it against my phone and felt my heart crumple in my chest, a husky ash of its former vitality.
I had stood her up. It was nearly 9:30 p.m. That made me three and a half hours late for our date. Ridiculously on brand for me, and utterly disappointing. I should have set an alarm. Or ten. Stupid. Stupid.
I’d started writing roughly eight hours ago, when I had plenty of time to prepare for our dinner. I never imagined I’d lose track to this extent.
With a deep sigh, I opened her text message. It was from hours ago. I couldn’t be a coward and just text her back; even I knew that wouldn’t fly. I groaned but reached for the dial button. Her voice was hesitant when she answered, and I felt like a troll. She deserved better. What had she been thinking? I did my best to reassure her quickly.
“Tamra. I’m glad you’re still awake. I’m so sorry about tonight.”
“What happened to you?” she asked, her voice trembling slightly. I had a feeling it was in anger, that I’d finally shaken that pragmatic core.
“I’m so sorry. I got wrapped up in my writing and lost track of time.”
She didn’t wait to hear more, instead the dial tone from an ended call signaled she had hung up. I dropped my head back, staring at the ceiling. It held no answers for me. I could call Jimmy, but I wanted to try to make things right on my own.
I searched for the best apology meme I could find. Nothing seemed to
