If all this fails, see therapist. NOT NATALIE.
I sit back and study the list, pretty satisfied with it. This can’t fail. And if it does, I’ll try something more drastic. Sometimes Dan works as a palm reader. Maybe I’ll take him up on his offer of services if worse comes to worst.
Right now, I’m optimistic. I’m underliningNot Nataliewhen I get a text and glance down at my phone.
I don’t recognize the number, but when I open it, it’s from the very man I’m making a detailed plan to forget.
SAWYER:Get home okay?
Well, what do I do now? I’d forgotten about this variable when I was making my list. Sawyer not only has permission but pretty much an invitation to reach out. It feels weird and petty to revoke it now.
Do I count any messages from him as thinking of him? How does this factor into my recovery plan?
I study the list again, then decide on a solution: contacts from Sawyer don’t count against me as long as I say my affirmation five times after each one. Yes, that’s good.
TABITHA:Yes, safe and sound. You back in Chicago?
SAWYER:Not until tomorrow. It’s a busy weekend to fly. Letting the crowds thin.
I send him a thumbs up emoji and start my affirmations.I am happy with my life as it is. It would be better if he were already in Chicago though. It’s way too easy to picture him in Oak Crest, water sluicing off his body after a lake swim, or dip in the hot tub, or…
I sit up straighter.I AM HAPPY WITH MY LIFE AS IT IS.
This will work. This will be fine.
***
It’s not fine.
Sawyer checks in every two to three days, always with something non-threatening. Messages with a picture of a street cart captioned, “Chicago hot dogs are better,” then another one a few days later with a piece of thick Chicago-style pizza reading, “But New York has better slices. TELL NO ONE.”
I say my affirmations every time. I still end up running an earworm on an endless loop. Unfortunately, it’s the “Hamster Dance” song, a high-pitched series of notes that are sort of square-dance sounding? You’d think if anything could kill someone’s lov—
Whoa. I mean, if anything could distract someone, it’s a hamster square dance song on repeat.
Nope.
This list will take practice, that’s all. I have to be consistent.
I am. I consistently think about Sawyer and wonder what he’s up to.
When I’m sitting on Lookout Hill exactly one week later reviewing my list, I have to accept I’ve made zero progress. It’s time to work farther down the list.
I google craft classes and find someone teaching macrame at a near-ish community center. I register online. The class starts in two weeks, and I can’t take two more weeks of this.
I’ve been doing Number Four (Every tenth time I think about Sawyer, find a match on a dating app). A few times a day, in fact, because the rules are the rules, even if I wildly underestimated how often I’d find myself thinking about him.
Now I have a backlog of more matches than I can ever get through, and some of them have been messaging me. But a week into this, if I’m going to be honest in following the list, I need to go out on at least…I check my Notes app to tally the Xs I’ve been using to keep myself honest.
Eighteen dates.
I swallow hard. Well, those should at least be useful distractions.
Several of these guys have already messaged me, so I open the messages and read through them. I dismiss eleven of them immediately for the following reasons:
Three start their messages with: Sup. No punctuation, even.
One starts with: Sup? Still not enough.
