Page 21 of Make Me Dream of You

That’s a lot of pressure for 9am on a Saturday morning, but shoot

I like that she’s coming to me for this, whatever it is. It feels like I’m her person. Or, at least, one of them. I want to be her person.

ANG3L:

There’s this guy I like and I want to get his attention without being obvious I’m trying to get his attention. If you know what I mean

I take it back. I don’t like that she’s coming to me for this. I don’t like it at all. And I don’t know who “this guy” is but I already hate him. Irrational? Sure. It’s not like she and I are dating. She’s not mine. But in some ways, she’s more mine than anyone else in my life is. And I’m hers.

I’m, pathetically, all hers.

2Horned:

You want my real advice?

ANG3L:

Duh

2Horned:

The best way to get his attention is to stop trying to get his attention. Forget about him. Move on. Be yourself. Be happy. Hang out with friends. Go out with guys who do give you attention.

ANG3L:

Forget about him? That’s easier said than done. It’s been years and I can’t shake this crush

2Horned:

It’s not your job to make someone want you. He’ll either take notice or he won’t. And if he doesn't, he’s not the right guy.

And, I hate to be this guy, but you said you wanted brutal honesty. Guys are generally straightforward. If it’s been years and he hasn’t shown interest, it’s probably because he’s not interested

ANG3L:

Oh

2Horned:

I’m sorry

ANG3L:

It’s okay. That’s what I needed. Thank you

Was telling her to move on from the guy she likes a little self-serving? Maybe. But it was still good advice. It’s advice I should probably take myself. Move on.

I’ve been focused on my career and growing my shop the last five years. I haven’t had a girlfriend in about that amount of time, too—fuck, I haven’t even had sex in over a year. And being enamored with a conveniently unavailable stranger on the internet definitely hasn’t helped motivate me to want to go out and meet someone.

I want to meet someone. In theory.

I also don’t want to at all.

And yet, when I close up the shop a little after eleven—a bit early for a Saturday night—I find myself wandering over to the bar next door. Wood would be proud. I’m putting myself out there.

I stand back against the wall, away from all the people.

Baby steps.

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