Page 90 of That Friendzone Feeling
Igave this toWalkeron the opening night of our first pub inChicago.Itwas the early hours of the morning, everyone else had left, and the two of us were sitting in a corner booth enjoying our first drink of the night.We’dbeen racked with stress, not least becauseI’dsmashed all the pint glasses in a key-throwing incident and had to drive all over the city to find replacements as the clock ticked down to opening time.
Wewere also worried no one would show up.Butit had been packed, everyone had loved it, and it was a roaring success.
Ithought it was important to have a keepsake to mark how far we’d come.SoI’ddug through old photos and put together a book of pictures that marked milestones along our road to that momentous first night.
Iturn the page to see twenty-three-year-oldWalkersmiling as he pours his first glass of home brew in the kitchen of his shitty college apartment.Irun my finger over his face, as ifIcan touch our history that lives in it.
There’sa prickling behind my eyes asIturn the pages.Hiskitchen virtually taken over by a growing home brew kit.Thenwe hold up the keys outside the industrial unit where he started larger-scale brewing—one look at our wide grins andIcan feel the buzzy high we were on as we took that first step into our own business.There’sme cryingwhen we sipped the first beer off the commercial production line andWalkerhanded me the laminated fortune from the fortune cookie.Thenthere’s the first time we saw a six-pack on the liquor store shelf,Walkergrinning with a big thumbs-up.
Thephotos go on and on, the prickling in my eyes becoming more intense and a burning sensation growing in my throat.Lookat us.Lookat what we’ve done.Lookat what an amazing, smart, talented, and incredibly hot man he is.
Thelast photo is oneIsomehow managed to print and slip in amid all the chaos and stress of the opening night inChicago.We’reboth holding the door handle, his hand on top of mine, about to open it to the public for the first time.
We’rebeaming like idiots, butIremember being sick with nerves.Idon’t remember feeling his hand on mine on the door handle, though.
Whaton earth made him dig out this book from wherever it’s been stashed all this time?Christ, not only is he amazing, smart, talented and hot, he’s also incredibly thoughtful, kind and emotional.
Mr.FuckingPerfect.
Mr.FuckingPerfectwho wants me more than life itself.
Irun my fingers under my eyes, trying to push back the tears before they fall, and swallow past the hot lump in my throat.
ButIcan’t give in to that yearning.It’stoo shortsighted.Ihave to look at our relationship the same wayIlook at the business.Wehave to play the long game—short-term hurt for long-term gain.Usgetting involved and it ending would ruin our friendship and our working relationship.So, basically, our whole lives.I’vegot to staystrong and practical and extinguish this goddamn fire he’s lit in me.
Witha dull ache in my chest,Iput the book back on the nightstand and turn off the lamp.Iallow myself one final stroke of the cashmere sweater before leavingWalker’sroom and sliding the door shut behind me.
Ineed to snap out of this whole thing and also stop worrying about him.He’sprobably just atConnor’s.They’relikely chatting over a few beers and lost track of time—it wouldn’t be a first.Mymind’s probably working overtime because of the fatigue and stress of the last couple of days.Afew more hours of sleep should fix that.Andhopefully he’ll be back by then.
AsIhead through the living room and past the kitchen,Inotice a yellow envelope propped up against the salt and pepper grinders on the island.Myheart leaps at the thought he’s left me a note, but it takes only a nanosecond for me to realize it has a stamp and a full address on it.Andit’s in my mom’s writing.
WhywouldMomsend me a letter or a card?Maybeit’s a gift.Maybeshe felt bad for me afterIbroke up withAnthonyand has done something nice and thoughtful to cheer me up.
Irip open the envelope to find a firm glossy card inside.Agift certificate, maybe?Fora stress-relieving day spa?Orperhaps tickets to that escapist off-Broadwayplay that everyone says is hilarious?
Islide it out to findSara’sface smiling up at me.
Myinsides sink like they’re pulled down by a lead weight.Notbecause it’s not a gift, but at disappointment in myself for thinking it might be.
I’msuch an idiot—of course it wouldn’t be about me.Whatpossessed me to consider otherwise for even one second?
Mychest heaves with a full body sigh that reverberates around the huge open space, almost echoing back at me.
Whatthe hell is this thing anyway?
Carnegie Hall is proud to present acclaimed
pianist Sara Lombardo.
You are cordially invited to join an exclusive audience
for the opening night of the award-winning
artist’s weeklong residency.
Ms. Lombardo will be performing…
Myeyes skip over the rest to more ofMom’shandwriting at the bottom. “ForEmilyplus one.Seeyou there!”Followedby three kisses.Ican’t remember the last time my mother actually kissed me.
