Page 66 of How to Prevent a Fumble

“I like being in control of what people think of me. The expectations from me. My family knows who I am, and although they have gotten a lot from me, they don’t expect it. But everyone else?” I look around. “Everyone expects everything from me. Why not keep those expectations as low as possible?”

“So you lie to everyone?”

“No,” I tell her, shaking my head. “I don’t lie to them exactly. I just put on a mask. And I happen to do it well.”

“So all of this isn’t even necessary?”

I swallow, shifting uncomfortably. “I think that counts as a new question.”

“I don’t,” she says, her voice monotone.

I take a deep breath, wanting the conversation to end. I look in the direction of the kitchen, hoping and praying that the waiter will walk out with our food any second and save me from this.

And then what? We eat in awkward silence?

Why did I ever suggest getting deeper?

“I’ve been told that I tend to spiral out of control when I can’t control something,” I say slowly. “I can’t control what the media says about me. Can’t control what someone thinks of me. I can manage their expectations, sure. But one wrong move, some negative press, and I spiral. I self-sabotage. At least, that’s what my therapist told me.”

She looks surprised at my honesty. “You go to therapy?”

“I went once. Hated it. Haven’t been back.”

Finally, the waiter returns with our food, placing our plates in front of us.

“Do you need anything else?” the waiter asks.

“No thanks,” I reply, not sure if I desperately want him to stay or to leave and not bother us for the rest of the night.

“I think you should go back,” she says suddenly, unfolding her cloth napkin and placing it on her lap.

“I can do that,” I nod. Whether I’ll actually do it, I’m not sure. But it’s the goal.

“Now, I have one last question for you.” I tell her.

She looks at me, nervous. “Yeah?”

“Yeah. Briar, how many times did your ex make you come?”

I expected a big reaction out of her, but her face stays stony, only a small blush creeping up her neck to show me how my words hit her.

“You really want to know that?” she asks.

I nod.

“He didn’t.”

“Not at all?”

“Nope,” she says, popping thep.

“That’s a shame,” is all I can bring myself to say.

Because with those words. With that little answer, something clicked into place for me.

I want to show this woman how it feels to be loved.

And if there’s one thing about me, it’s that once I set my mind on something, I’ll do anything and everything to make it happen.

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