I'm so happy!
And miserable.
And confused.
Tell me what to do!
Love, Camille
I smiled at her closing request, shaking my head. I had no advice to give her.
I know it's popular to tell people in these situations to follow their heart. Presently, I found that advice to be irresponsible. Your heart doesn't pay the bills. Plus, hearts had death-wish proclivities, throwing themselves into situations that would ultimately lead to their destruction.
Take me and my stupid hopes for instance.
It might feel good in the short term to follow one's heart, but in the long-term it meant finding a broom and dustpan big enough to sweep up all the shattered pieces.
"How's your friend?" Matt asked, startling me, just before he bent and placed a kiss on my cheek. He slid into the seat across from mine.
I looked up, not surprised by his affectionate gesture-he often kissed me on the cheek as a greeting-but I was surprised by his sudden appearance. I hadn't noticed him arrive.
"Who? Camille?" I asked, irritated at the unsteadiness in my tone.
An image from Friday night flashed in my mind's eye, of Matt and the woman, his Battlestar Galactica shirt, her Star Wars shirt. Kissing. I'd never wished more for the affliction and subsequent relief of short-term memory loss.
In truth, I'd been too open with him. I knew that now. I'd been too willing to throw myself into this relationship, hoping for more because I liked him so much.
That ended on Friday. We were friends-just friends-and I was grateful for this lesson. I needed to stop confusing myself with hopes. Hadn't I been the one who wanted to explore paid services as a replacement for traditional romantic relationships? Clearly, this was a sign from the universe that my time was better spent looking for a life coach and a professional dry humper in Chicago rather than the one I'd identified in New York City.
"Who's Camille?" he asked, glancing between the letter and me.
"Oh, no one. Just a friend." I cleared my throat and held up her note. "She's on vacation in Germany and sent me a letter."
"A real letter? Don't see many of those these days."
"No. I guess you don't." I folded it up and slipped it into my bag, trying not to notice how handsome Matt looked when he smiled. As was typical, he was dressed in jeans and a nerdy T-shirt. He'd also added a lightweight black rain jacket, which he was in the process of removing. His hair was wet, but I could tell he'd recently run his fingers through it as it stuck up and out at odd angles.
I didn't want to smooth it. I liked it when his hair was all crazy. It made him look like a mad scientist, which he sorta was.
Calibrating my smile to polite, I asked, "Are you hungry?" already knowing the answer. Matt was always hungry.
"Ha! Funny. I already ordered, they should bring it over soon." Matt's eyes narrowed infinitesimally. "Is there anything wrong?"
I shook my head, widening my polite smile. "No. Not at all."
His gaze seemed to sharpen. "Are you sure? You seem different."
"Just tired." It was true. I was tired. I'd spent entirely too much time obsessing about what to do with my hopes that had interfered with my ability to write. "I'm behind on a deadline. I was up late, working."
"Oh." His eyes lowered to my cup of tea. "Are you hungry? Can I grab you anything?"
"No. Thanks. I ate breakfast before I came."
"Why'd you do that? Is the food here terrible?" He looked worried.
"No, not at all. The food here is great. As you know, I'm on a budget and eating out is expensive."
I'd been forthright with Matt about my lack of inclination to splurge on non-essentials weeks ago. I wasn't willing to go into debt in order to go out for fancy meals, or buy the latest gadgets. Dinners had always been at my place. My refurbished second-generation iPhone worked just fine, as did my thrift-store Coach bag. I slept better knowing I had a nest egg for emergencies as well as the beginnings of a robust retirement account.
"I would've paid for breakfast. I'm the one who asked you out. Go on, order something."
"Like I said, I'm not hungry. You know I don't let my friends pay my way. So, yes, that means sometimes I'm that stick-in-the-mud who won't go out, or orders just tea, but-as you also know-I'll happily cook dinner at my place anytime."
"I still maintain that you making dinner is not fair either. That's just the same as you taking me out; you're paying for the labor and the food, just like I would be."
I crossed my arms. "Moving on, what's this proposition you mentioned?"