Page 4 of Every Step She Takes
“Then I’ll walk you outside,” he says with measured politeness, and that’s how I end up standing awkwardly outside the bar with him forty-six minutes into our date, on an evening that has no business being this cold this far into spring. I shiver.
“So,” he says, sliding his hands into the pockets of his peacoat. “I really like you, Sadie. But I get the impression you’re maybe not into it.”
And damn this man with his emotional maturity and direct communication style. There’s a reason why I prefer to lie and ghost; because otherwise I’ll lie and people-please. “No!” Isqueak. “I’m notnotinto it. It’s just… this meeting! I’m stressed about this meeting! Really!”
He locks his Chris Pine eyes onto mine. “Then, do you think… may I kiss you goodnight?”
And despite everything, I want to kiss Grant and feel the butterflies Vi’s always talking about. I want to kiss him and feel all the things they sing about in love songs. I want this kiss to save me from ever having to find the right words for my mom and sister.
I want this kiss to save me from having to find the right wordsfor myself.
So, I nod.
Grant leans in. He smells like eucalyptus and emotional intelligence, and when his mouth presses against mine, I will myself to feel something, feelanything.
Instead, I feel as empty as my house of ghosts.
“What could youpossiblyhave found wrong with this guy?” my sister demands when she finds me sneaking another glass of pinot from the fridge exactly fifty-nine minutes after my date started.
“There was nothing wrong with him,” I start.
“Then what happened?” My mom is hot on Vi’s trail, and she flies into the kitchen wearing her bathrobe and nothing else. I get an unseemly flash of her crotch before she plants herself on a barstool beside the island. And this is why most grown adults don’t live with their families.
Or allow their families to live with them, as the case may be.
“He looked so handsome in those Instagram photos,” my mom says dreamily.
“He was,” I grumble into my wine.
“He was the perfect fucking man,” Vi snaps.
“But he wasn’t the perfect man for me.” And after seventeen dates, I’m starting to think there really isnoperfect man for me. Because I’m maybe not attracted to men at all.
But if that were the case, wouldn’t I already know this about myself? Why didn’t I figure this shit out in college like every other self-respecting millennial?
Vi slams her chopsticks down onto the quartz countertop, because she’s decided to eat some suspicious leftover grocery store sushi. “Give it to us straight,” she demands, and it’s an interesting choice of words, given the circumstances. “Why didn’t it work with that sexy man? Did you talk about upholstery too much?”
“I talked about upholstery the right amount. It’s just—”
I wasn’t attracted to him.
I don’t think I’ve ever been attracted to a man.
I’m…
I’mwhat? I don’t have the slightest idea how to finish that thought. How do you figure out your sexuality in your thirties? There’s no GSA for grown-ass adults.
In four days, I will be thirty-five, and more than anything, my birthday feels like a horrible reminder of how little I’ve changed since I was twenty-one.
“Grant and I want different things in life,” I lie.And lie and lie and lie.
“Whatdoyou want, sweetheart?” my mom coaxes.
And shit. I walked right into that one. “Oh, you know…”
They don’t know, and I don’t know, and I feel like the walls are closing in. I’m stuck between a Grant and a hard place, with no hope for escape.
“This isn’t over.” My sister hobbles on her crutches to the fridge and pulls out an energy drink. At 8 p.m. “I still have a few more days to find you the perfect man. I’ll just double down on my efforts and—”
