Page 33 of The Art of Catching Feelings

She wished she’d picked a different analogy. Suddenly this felt like walking a tightrope.

D: So I just love finding books I’d spend a lifetime with, I guess. If that makes sense.

C: It does. Thank you.

She wondered what he was doing right then. Layla told her that the players often arrived at the stadium hours before the game started, getting in their batting practice and stretches and other drills before playing. She’d never realized before how all-consuming baseball could be, and now she felt like she understood more about why he’d be feeling so out of it if this one thing that took up his time no longer felt like a safe place to land.

C: You won’t be surprised to learn that most of my reading choices were made based on page count. If I had to write a paper on a book, I was going to pick the shortest one possible.

D: I don’t know, Catch-22 is pretty thick.

C: Well, that one had a badass cover. I also wasn’t above judging a book by its cover (which I seem to recall is something you’re not supposed to do?)

That parenthetical was impossibly cute. She would really need to be careful, if she was expected to see him later that day and act like a normal, professional person. She had no idea how she was going to get through it without embarrassing herself.

D: It’s human nature. We all do it.

C: True. I do feel at a disadvantage, though.

Daphne took a sip of her water. There were cucumbers in it, which was a nice touch and something she’d only ever seen in movies. She was trying to remember the last time she’d had her hair professionally cut anywhere that wasn’t a Fantastic Sams.

D: How so?

C: You know exactly what I look like. Meanwhile, I have no idea about you.

Some of the water went down the wrong tube, the rest of it dribbling down her front as Daphne started coughing from the sip. Her hairstylist poked her head in to check if she was okay, and Daphne was too embarrassed to do anything but give a weak thumbs-up.

“Great!” the stylist chirped. “Let’s give it a few more minutes.”

D: Right now, my hair is wrapped in a giant towel on top of my head. Very Brigitte Bardot, but terry cloth.

C: Sounds chic. You know what I mean, though.

Yes, she did know what he meant. And suddenly, she went from being a little freaked out—he knew exactly what she looked like, after all, even if he didn’t know it yet—to being irritated. Over and over on those dating apps she’d had to fill in this kind of pointless information, sometimes getting into such nitty-gritty details she felt like she was describing someone else, crafting a composite sketch of a person she’d seen once in passing rather than revealing anything meaningful about herself.

D: What does it matter? If I told you I had blond hair and blue eyes and a 36DD chest, would you like me more?

C: No.

C: To be honest, I would think it was a little strange that you’d included your bra size as one of three details to respond to that question. But I wouldn’t like you any less for that, either.

Daphne bit her lower lip, trying not to smile. She was still annoyed, damn it.

C: I’m sorry, I wasn’t trying to make it weird. It doesn’t matter.

This wasn’t fair, and she knew it. She constantly tried to picture him as they were texting back and forth, wondering if a joke had made him smile, if he was alone or surrounded by people, if he was casually checking his phone every once in a while or gluedto the screen like she was when she thought a new text might come in. And that was all when she had a frame of reference to work from, a very clear idea of what he looked like.

D: No, I’m sorry. I’m being disingenuous. I just don’t really like pictures of myself.

C: I get it. If you’d rather, I’d take a picture of Milo, too. Or a particularly nice sunset if you happen to see one. The book you’re reading. Whatever.

So, basically, an Instagram feed. Daphne almost texted that to him, as a little joke, but then thought better of it. There was something different about sending a picture to one recipient rather than sharing it in a public post. It said,Here, this is something I wanted to share with you. It said,I’m dying to know what you think of this.It said,This reminded me of you.

She scrolled through her photos on her phone. She didn’t have to go back very far, since seventy-five percent of her pictures were of her cat, twenty percent of books, and the remaining five percent were screenshots of memes she thought were funny. She found a picture of Milo she thought was particularly distinguished, where he was loafed up on the windowsill, framed by the bedraggled houseplant he loved to chew on and a sliver of sunlight coming through the blinds. She’d tried making a clicking noise at him to get him to look at her, but he’d kept his eyes in little slits, unbothered by the silly human disturbing his peace.

D: Here’s Milo.

C: Oh. I thought he was going to be an orange striped cat, like the one in the movie. You’re right; sometimes it’s best to leave a little mystery.

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