Page 18 of The Dixon Rule

Today, I’m staring at this stomach-dropping text from Crystal and finally forcing myself to accept my pathetic reality.

I want a relationship.

CRYSTAL:

This is really embarrassing, but last night was the best date I’ve ever had. It was so low-key, but it was like perfect.

It wasn’t supposed to be a date.

But I accidentally turned it into one when I didn’t have sex with her.

I had her in my lap, her tongue in my mouth, her hands roaming, and I just…couldn’t do it. I wasn’t in it. If I’m honest with myself, I haven’t been in it for a long time now. Sure, it was fun at first. Fresh off a breakup from a long-term relationship, my dick eager and raring to go. It was exciting, those first few encounters, the newness of it all. Kissing someone other than my ex. Seeing a naked body that didn’t belong to her.

But the novelty has worn off. Yesterday with Crystal is proof of that.

CRYSTAL:

I can’t wait to see you again.

I sit at the kitchen counter and drop my head in my hands, my breakfast forgotten, appetite gone. This is my fault. I invited her over because I thought she was hot and because I wanted to get laid. No part of that scenario involved getting into a relationship with her. Crystal’s great, but we don’t click on a deeper level. I’m not interested in taking it any further than a sloppy, aborted make-out session on my couch.

Meanwhile, she left with stars in her eyes, riding the high from “the best date she’s ever had.”

Fuck me.

Feeling like a total shithead, I force myself to craft a response before Crystal decides to tell me she loves me and can’t wait to have my babies. I compose my standard I don’t want anything serious, I thought we were on the same page text.

The chat thread stays dormant, my message still the last one in the scroll. I stare at it for nearly a minute before I see Crystal begin to type. Shit. It was too much to hope that she’d let it be.

I slide off the stool, carry my half-eaten cereal bowl to the sink, and shove the mushy remains down the garbage disposal. When I come back, she’s still typing, so I go take a shower and pray her reply won’t be too bad.

I dunk my head under the spray and bemoan my fate.

I’m not meant for hookups.

Yes, I realize that’s ironic, considering I’ve been indulging in nothing but hookups since my breakup with Lynsey last spring. I’ve slept with more women this month alone than in all the years I’ve been sexually active. There was one girl before Lynsey, and then Lynsey and I were together for four years, dating from junior year of high school until we broke up my sophomore year at Eastwood College.

To my friends, I insist that our parting was mutual.

By mutual, I mean I nodded numbly and said if that’s how you feel, then I can’t stop you.

I drag my hands over my scalp, shampoo suds sliding down my face and over my chest. I rinse off and then proceed to stand under the hot spray for another five minutes.

Wallowing.

I like having a girlfriend. I don’t care if that makes me a total sap. Deep down, I’ve always been a relationship guy. Always had this clear vision for my life, one that really solidified when I started dating Lynsey. There’s a reason I haven’t ragged on Ryder that much about his elopement with Gigi Graham. To me, it’s not an unfathomable move. I always saw myself marrying young. Hell, I wouldn’t even be against having a kid in my early twenties. I can visualize my entire future laid out in front of me. NHL super stardom, a wife, a couple of kids.

I don’t want to fuck random girls anymore. I want to fuck the girl.

I step out of the shower, dry off, and stroll naked into my bedroom. My phone still lies on the patterned bedspread where I’d tossed it. I check it, and sure enough, there’s an essay from Crystal.

As I read it, I alternate between annoyance and guilt. The thesis statement is basically you led me on, you fucking asshole.

I didn’t, though. And I make that clear in my response.

ME:

I’m really sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you. But I told you within five minutes of you getting here that I wasn’t looking for anything serious, and you fully agreed. You said it was cool.

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