“Would he? Because from where I’m sitting, it looks like you’re both playing chicken, waiting for the other person to make the first move.”
The observation hits harder than it should. Because maybe she’s right. Maybe I’ve been so focused on protecting myself from getting hurt that I’ve been sending mixed signals, keeping him at arm’s length even while wanting him closer.
“I’m not playing games,” I say, but even as the words come out, I’m not sure they’re true.
“Aren’t you? When’s the last time you two had an actual conversation? Not texting, not drunk phone calls, but a real face-to-face talk?”
I think about it and realize with uncomfortable clarity that we haven’t. We’ve been carefully professional, politely distant, like strangers instead of people who spent five days learning each other’s bodies.
“He called me drunk at midnight to talk about your crab dip,” I say. “That’s not exactly mature relationship behavior.”
She chuckles. “I’ll give you the recipe. It’s easy. But my point is that Bennett once showed up at my apartment at 2 AM with a hockey stick because he thought someone was breaking into my car,” Lucy says dryly. “Turned out to be a raccoon. Men do stupid shit when they’re scared.”
“That’s different.”
“Is it? Or are you looking for reasons to protect yourself from taking a real risk?”
The question hangs in the air between us, loaded with uncomfortable truth. Because maybe that’s exactly what I’m doing. Maybe I’m so scared of being the one who wants more that I’m sabotaging this before it can really begin.
“What if he’s not ready?” I ask quietly. “What if he’s still hung up on his ex, or what if I’m just a rebound?”
“Then you’ll figure it out together. That’s what people who give a damn do.” She pauses, studying my face. “But Clare? The way Bennett described him talking about you? That’s not rebound behavior. That’s ‘I’m terrified because this matters’ behavior.”
“How can you be sure?”
“Because I’ve seen Mitchell with other women. Casual, charming, but always with this distance, you know? Hookupsthat were fun, but didn’t matter. Easy come, easy go.” Lucy’s voice goes soft. “Bennett says he’s never seen him like this.”
“Like what?”
She pulls out her phone, scrolling until she finds what she’s looking for. “Bennett took these while they were playing. Look.”
The photo she shows me is candid—Mitchell holding baby Emilia, laughing at something someone said, completely unguarded. But what makes my breath catch is the next one, where he’s looking at his phone with this expression I’ve never seen before. Soft, almost vulnerable.
“He was texting you,” Lucy says quietly. “Right after he said he wanted to ask you out properly. That’s not the face of someone who’s just looking for a convenient hookup.”
I stare at the photo, trying to process what I’m seeing. Because she’s right. There’s something in his expression that looks like hope mixed with terror, like he’s holding something precious and fragile.
“Maybe I’ve been overthinking this,” I admit.
“Maybe you both have.” Lucy puts her phone away, fixing me with that direct stare. “Question is, what are you going to do about it?”
“I don’t know. Wait for him to figure his shit out, I guess.”
“Or you could stop waiting and do something about it yourself.”
The suggestion sends a thrill of possibility mixed with terror through my chest. Because Lucy’s right. I’ve been sitting here waiting for him to be brave enough to make a move, when maybe what he needs is to see that I’m willing to meet him halfway.
“Like what?”
“Like having an actual conversation with the man. Tell him what you want instead of expecting him to be a mind reader.”
She makes it sound so simple. So obvious. So grown up.Ugh.
But the thought of putting myself out there again, of being that vulnerable with someone who’s already hurt me once—even if it wasn’t intentional—makes my stomach clench with anxiety.
“What if he says no?”
“Then at least you’ll know where you stand instead of driving yourself crazy with maybes.”