Yeah. I said “in love with.” I’ve known for a while, probably since the day Marina tossed me out of her flat. I know I should tell her, but that’s not something I want to say to a woman in a text or over the phone. That’s an in-person discussion, and Marina clearly never wants to be in the same room with me again.
I swallow my sigh because Jessie’s in the midst of a story about her very strange doom prepping neighbor, and I don’t want her to think I’m bored. I’m not. Just caught up in my own thoughts. My own crappy, self-sabotaging thoughts. As usual.
They say when you break up with somebody, you need one month for every year you were together. So, if you were together for ten years, you need a good, solid ten months of recovery.
Marina and I were together for, like, a month. I should’ve been over her in what? About a day?
But I’m not.
“You know what?” I say to Jessie suddenly, totally interrupting her. “Set it up. Do it.”
“Set what up?”
“The date with your friend at the agency.”
The way her entire face lights up like she’s a little kid and I just told her she could choose any toy she wants from the toy store is almost comical, and I can’t help but grin. Her story totally left behind us in a cloud of dust in the middle of the road as we drive on to something else, she asks, “Seriously? You’re in?”
“I’m in.”
“Amazing! She’s gonna be so psyched.”
We talk about the date—two weeks from now—and I put it in my calendar. This time, she gets off her stool and gives me a real hug, using both arms and squeezing me tight.
“I’m so proud of you, Lils,” she whispers in my ear.
“I’m proud of me, too, a little bit,” I say, as she climbs back onto her stool. And I am. I just have to do that one teeny, tiny other thing that I haven’t been able to yet.
I have to let Marina go.
Completely.
I shouldn’t be this nervous. Should I?
“It’s just a date,” I whisper to my reflection. “Just a date. Nothing more. You’re not going home with her. You’re not proposing.She’snot proposing. It’s just a date.”
Her name is Kya, and like Jessie told me a couple weeks ago, she works for Jessie’s agent as his assistant. She’s from North Carolina, lives in Brooklyn, has two cats, and loves to cook. Jessie texted me a photo, and Kya is quite attractive. Jessie used the wordhot, and her dark eyes, mahogany skin, and seemingly confident posture in the photo seem to support Jessie’s words, but I’m reserving that assessment for when I meet her in person.
There’s an emotional war going on in my head that’s pissing me off. Part of me is very much looking forward to this date, and despite my nerves, I’m excited. The other part of me?
Yeah.
The other part of me feels like I’m cheating on Marina. Which is absolutely fucking ridiculous, and I know it. I promise you, I know it. But knowing it and being able to crawl out from under it are two very different things.
I give my head a hard shake. “Stop it.”
I breathe in slowly through my nose, let it out through my mouth, and take in my reflection. I tried to walk the line between casually comfortable and comfortably dressed up. I toyed withthe idea of a dress, but it’s a bit chilly, so pants it is. Black ones with a light blue sweater that buttons in the front and leaves quite a bit of skin showing. It’s not scandalous, but it’s awfully sexy. I bought it a couple weeks ago when I was trying to cheer myself up, and the salesgirl said it made the blue of my eyes pop. I was sure she was just trying to make a sale, but damn if she wasn’t right. I don’t wear a ton of makeup, but the dark mascara with my blue eyes and sweater looks damn good, if I do say so myself. And a little blast of confidence is exactly what I need right now.
My phone rings, and it’s my mom. I answer it on the way to the kitchen. “Hi, Mom. Putting you on speaker. I’ve gotta feed Reggie.”
“Are you ready for your big date?”
I grin and shake my head, glad she can’t see me roll my eyes. I think she’s more excited about tonight than I am. “Just about.”
“What did you decide to wear?”
“Black pants. Blue sweater. Low heels.” I scoop Reggie’s kibble into his dish, then pull out the shredded chicken I made for him last night. “And no, I’m not sending you a picture.”
“I wasn’t going to ask you to.”
