Page 34 of Ready or Not
But no matter how much effort I put in, how much I tried to show up as the man they deserved, it always seemed like I fell short.
I stared at the bag of food I’d brought back; it probably wasn’t even warm anymore.
Talk about a fucking metaphor.
“Stop that shit,” Chance said. “You’re doing it again.”
“Doing what?” I bit back, though I knew exactly what he meant.
“That self-blame shit. I was joking about you being the problem earlier but you’re taking that shit to heart.”
“I’m not?—”
“I’m watching you spiral in real time, bro. You do it every-time you think you meet someone you think could be the one and my jokes aren’t hitting because you’re too busy digging a fucking grave for yourself. Listen, Des, every time something doesn’t go your way with a woman, you start pulling out the microscope, looking for ways to blame yourself. You ever think maybe it’s just not about you?”
“Maybe… but it’s hard not to when I watch my friends find their happily-ever-afters while I’m stuck replaying the same damn pattern,” the words slipped out before I could stop them. Sinking further into the couch, I murmured, "I try to do everything right. I can’t help but feel like I’m the common denominator, man. Like maybe I’m just… defective.”
Chance let out a long, exaggerated sigh, the kind he always used when he thought I was being particularly dense. “Bro, you’ve got to stop tying your worth to whether someone else sticks around or not. That’s not how this works. You think everything’s a checklist—do this, say that, show up like this—and then boom, you’re golden. But people? Man, they don’t operate on your timeline or logic. Especially women.”
I squeezed the back of my neck and stared off at the corner of the room, guilt crawling over me. I hated how much his words made sense while still managing to make me feel like utter shit.
“And another thing,” he continued before I could gather myself for a response. “You ever think maybe she left because she’s dealing with her own shit? Like maybe it’s got nothing to do with you? Sometimes folks leave ‘cause that’s how they survive—not ‘cause you fucked up or aren’t good enough.”
“But she could’ve said something,” I argued weakly. “A note… anything.”
“True,” he leaned back in his chair, his face softening as he stared at me through the screen. “She could’ve said something. And yeah, maybe she should’ve. I ain’t giving her a pass forghosting you like that ‘cause its fucked up. But you—” he pointed, his finger nearly poking through the phone’s camera, “you can’t sit here tearing yourself apart over it. Not every storm gotta be your fault.”
I sighed, staring at the untouched coffee on the table in front of me.
“I know you’re right,” I said slowly, forcing myself to meet his gaze. “But let’s just pretend for a second that I missed something. I brought her over to my house?—”
“You what?” His eyes widened. “Woah woah woah, run that back. You did WHAT?”
“She… came over?”
“You brought her over to your house? I thought y’all kicked it at a hotel, but your place??”
“Yeah—”
“You’re joking, right?” he took a dramatic pause, his fingers pressing against his temples. “Des… Bro. Your house? Like, your space-space? Like YOU brought her into your space when you’ve never brought anyone to your spot before? The guy who keeps his crib locked up like it’s a CIA black site suddenly opening doors for some girl you just met??”
I hesitated, my thoughts colliding like bumper cars. “Yeah, I brought her over. We were soaked from the rain last night, so I invited her back to dry off, warm up, you know—the whole shebang. We talked, we… yeaaaaaah… and in the morning, I folded her clean clothes and left them on the chair in my room while she was sleeping—why’s your face like that?”
My friend’s jaw dropped, and for a moment, he just stared at me like I’d confessed to robbing a bank. Then he burst out laughing—a loud, obnoxious guffaw that echoed through the phone speaker.
I frowned. “What?”
“Bro… bro…” he choked out between wheezing laughs. “I can’t believe you’re this stupid. Everything makes fucking sense now!”
“What? What I do?”
“You, oh my God,” he shook his head in disbelief. “You basically told her ass to politely get the fuck out in girl code. You’re over here bitching and self-destructing—the shit my therapist says I be doing sometimes—when you folded her clothes like it was some farewell gift!”
I blinked at him. “Wait… Coño, what are you even talking about? I cleaned up her stuff and went out to get us food. How is that ‘get out’ energy?”
He wiped tears from the corners of his eyes, still grinning like he had caught me in some cosmic joke. “Bro… folding clothes? Leaving them on the chair? You practically said bye.”
“But I put it by my clothes so she wouldn’t think that she was some kind of guest or something temporary. How the hell does that translate to an exit strategy?”
