what might have happened between us? By the time I came to my senses, Buckley was involved with Sonja. When they broke up, I was involved with Jack.
So pretty much, Buckley and I have never been simultaneously romantically available.
But I’ve got this terminal case of wondering what if.
What if I’d met Buckley after I fell out of infatuation with Will?
What if I’d been on time meeting him the night he met Sonja, who started chatting with him in some bar while he was waiting for me?
What if, when I found myself in Buckley’s arms the December after Will dumped me—and right after I met Jack—I hadn’t decided that I was kissing Buckley by default, and we were meant to be platonic?
Who knows what might have happened?
We probably would have hooked up, the relationship would have run its course because it wasn’t meant to be, and we would have gone our separate ways.
Or maybe we would have hooked up and stayed together. Who knows?
I don’t like to think about it, and I usually don’t let myself.
So why now?
Mental note: JACK. Remember Jack? Do not forget about Jack. Your fiancé.
I take a fortifying look at my engagement ring, then find myself swept into Buckley’s familiar, platonic embrace. His face is cold against mine.
“Hey!” he says, smelling like cold air and Big Red. “Sorry I’m late. You could have sat down.”
“I didn’t want to sit alone. You know I hate that.”
“I know you do.”
Jack knows, too, that I’m self-conscious about being alone in a restaurant even if someone is meeting me. It’s one of my little quirks.
Jack knows pretty much everything there is to know about me, just as Buckley does. And I know pretty much everything there is to know about Buckley, too.
Except, of course, for the intimate stuff.
Of course.
Anyway…
We sit down and tell the waiter we’re going to order right away. I have to because I’ve got to get back to work. Adrian has been treating me differently ever since he caught me showing off my new engagement ring to Brenda and Carol the other day. I can’t help but sense an undercurrent of disdain whenever I have contact with him.
And I’ve had a lot of it because we’re working on the new presentation.
“Hungry?” Buckley asks as we open our menus.
“Starved.”
“Me, too. Want to share an app?”
We do that a lot, me and Buckley—especially when we go out for Japanese. We’ll order a maki appetizer to split, and eat it with chopsticks off a platter between us.
We’ve done that dozens of times.
But suddenly, there’s something unnervingly intimate about the idea of it.
“No, thanks,” I say quickly. “I’m not that hungry.”
“You just said you were starved.”
“Did I? I meant for soup. What I really want is soup. And sashimi. No appetizer.”
I shift my weight and find myself involuntarily playing footsie with Buckley under the table.
“Sorry,” I say.
“It’s okay. I don’t need an appetizer, either, I guess.”
I open my mouth to tell him I meant that I was sorry about my foot rubbing against his shin, but that seems awkward, so I close my mouth again and pretend to study the menu, but of course I’ve already told him what I’m ordering: soup and sashimi.
Sneaking a peak around the room, I’ve noticed that they’ve reconfigured the dining room since we were last here, to get more tables in. So that’s it. We’re at a newly installed table for two by the window. It’s close quarters, which is why my stocking-clad legs keep bumping up against Buckley’s jean-clad knees no matter how I position myself.
“Oops, sorry,” I say again as I try to change position only to find myself all but intertwined with him under the table.
“It’s okay,” he murmurs, focused on the menu, which is good.
That way, he can’t see the alpine zit on my nose.
Or how rattled I am, for no good reason.
Normally, this physical contact with Buckley wouldn’t faze me…much less make me acutely aware of how
So pretty much, Buckley and I have never been simultaneously romantically available.
But I’ve got this terminal case of wondering what if.
What if I’d met Buckley after I fell out of infatuation with Will?
What if I’d been on time meeting him the night he met Sonja, who started chatting with him in some bar while he was waiting for me?
What if, when I found myself in Buckley’s arms the December after Will dumped me—and right after I met Jack—I hadn’t decided that I was kissing Buckley by default, and we were meant to be platonic?
Who knows what might have happened?
We probably would have hooked up, the relationship would have run its course because it wasn’t meant to be, and we would have gone our separate ways.
Or maybe we would have hooked up and stayed together. Who knows?
I don’t like to think about it, and I usually don’t let myself.
So why now?
Mental note: JACK. Remember Jack? Do not forget about Jack. Your fiancé.
I take a fortifying look at my engagement ring, then find myself swept into Buckley’s familiar, platonic embrace. His face is cold against mine.
“Hey!” he says, smelling like cold air and Big Red. “Sorry I’m late. You could have sat down.”
“I didn’t want to sit alone. You know I hate that.”
“I know you do.”
Jack knows, too, that I’m self-conscious about being alone in a restaurant even if someone is meeting me. It’s one of my little quirks.
Jack knows pretty much everything there is to know about me, just as Buckley does. And I know pretty much everything there is to know about Buckley, too.
Except, of course, for the intimate stuff.
Of course.
Anyway…
We sit down and tell the waiter we’re going to order right away. I have to because I’ve got to get back to work. Adrian has been treating me differently ever since he caught me showing off my new engagement ring to Brenda and Carol the other day. I can’t help but sense an undercurrent of disdain whenever I have contact with him.
And I’ve had a lot of it because we’re working on the new presentation.
“Hungry?” Buckley asks as we open our menus.
“Starved.”
“Me, too. Want to share an app?”
We do that a lot, me and Buckley—especially when we go out for Japanese. We’ll order a maki appetizer to split, and eat it with chopsticks off a platter between us.
We’ve done that dozens of times.
But suddenly, there’s something unnervingly intimate about the idea of it.
“No, thanks,” I say quickly. “I’m not that hungry.”
“You just said you were starved.”
“Did I? I meant for soup. What I really want is soup. And sashimi. No appetizer.”
I shift my weight and find myself involuntarily playing footsie with Buckley under the table.
“Sorry,” I say.
“It’s okay. I don’t need an appetizer, either, I guess.”
I open my mouth to tell him I meant that I was sorry about my foot rubbing against his shin, but that seems awkward, so I close my mouth again and pretend to study the menu, but of course I’ve already told him what I’m ordering: soup and sashimi.
Sneaking a peak around the room, I’ve noticed that they’ve reconfigured the dining room since we were last here, to get more tables in. So that’s it. We’re at a newly installed table for two by the window. It’s close quarters, which is why my stocking-clad legs keep bumping up against Buckley’s jean-clad knees no matter how I position myself.
“Oops, sorry,” I say again as I try to change position only to find myself all but intertwined with him under the table.
“It’s okay,” he murmurs, focused on the menu, which is good.
That way, he can’t see the alpine zit on my nose.
Or how rattled I am, for no good reason.
Normally, this physical contact with Buckley wouldn’t faze me…much less make me acutely aware of how
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