Page 44 of Relationship Goals

Michelle pauses, tilting her head as she considers me. “We don’t have to talk about this if it makes you uncomfortable. Even if you did bring it up. Very dramatically, I might add. But if you’re going to get all weird, please, don’t keep talking on my account.”

I blow out a breath, my cheeks inflating from the ridiculousness of it all. A few wisps of hair tickle my temple, and I push them back, frustrated.

“This isn’t why we set up this lunch. You didn’t meet with me to hear all the dirty details of my personal life,” I say, aiming for sweet but missing and landing somewhere around disgruntled.

“If these are dirty details, then you lead a very boring life,” she says, sipping her water. “And, yes, we absolutely did meet up because I think we should be friends.” It comes out crisply, all business efficiency, and part of me wonders if I met some criterion she has logged in a spreadsheet somewhere. “We can talk about soccer and work whenever. We’re going to be spending lots of time together over the next few weeks.”

She pauses, twisting the napkin in her hands, threading it through her fingers.

“Okay—”

“Besides,” she blurts out, an earnest expression in her brown eyes, “I could use a new friend. Working in a male-dominated sport isn’t always a walk in the park. Or the soccer field.” She grimaces at her attempt at a joke, and I snort, feeling slightly mollified.

I drink the rest of my water just for something to do, trying to sort out my scattered thoughts and then refilling the cup.

“What is it that’s bothering you, then, if you like him?” she prods gently.

“I’m mad at myself for kissing him in front of the paparazzi.” It comes out in a rush of words, surprising both of us with the immediacy of the statement. “I knew I liked him, and I knew I wanted a second date, and then we kissed again, and I realized…I blew my chance at privacy with him. I put us on display for the whole world on an impulsive decision.” I take a drink.Thanks, ADHD.

“Ah,” she says, refilling my glass for me, then her own.

A waiter appears with a fresh pitcher, and we both manage to pick something off the barely touched menus in front of us.

When he leaves, she twines her fingers together and sets her chin on top of them, watching me. “Does this have to be a bad thing? Can’t you make it private now?”

“I mean,” I hedge, tracing my fingertip through the water puddling on the table beside the glass. “Yes. Of course I could be more private, but…”

“The cat’s out of the bag.” Her mouth twitches to the side as she considers it.

I nod. “Right. Now other people are invested. Now I’m going to have a microscope on me when I go to games, when we’re out together. If he even wants to see me again.”

“You don’t know if he wants to see you again?”

“I think he does…” I tell her, then am immediately plagued with doubt. My fingers twist the napkin in my lap, a napkin I don’t even remember putting there. “Maybe he kissed me a second time to make sure it was as bad as he remembered the first time, and then he decided to leave.”

Michelle laughs, and even that sound is put together and musical. “That is not true. At all.”

“We don’t know!” I tell her, shoving sourdough in my mouth, beyond even attempting manners. Carb therapy. “Maybe I am a terrible kisser.”

“How was his body language? Did he seem grossed out?”

I flush even redder. “He had his hand around my throat.”

“He what?!” she squeals, and the people at the table next to us turn to look.

“I am going to make my agent send you an NDA,” I mutter darkly, pressing my hand against my eyes.

She laughs, but this time, it’s not musical, there’s a inelegant snort in there, and she looks slightly startled afterward.

“I’m not going to tell anyone. Like I said, I need friends, and you’re fun.”

“I’m a mess,” I groan, but I smile at her from under the shield of my hand.

“A hot mess, especially if he had his hand around”—her voice drops to a whisper—“your throat.” Her own palm goes to her collar, and she fans her face with her other hand. “That’s quite something.”

“Right?” I nod enthusiastically, then steeple my hands together. “So why did he leave?”

“Maybeeee…” Michelle draws the word out long, clearly searching for answers. “Maybe he’s a gentleman.”

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