Jocelyn

“Look, if it’s not that big of a deal, then accept the date for lunch.” Lindsay wipes sweat off of her brow. “Seriously, boss. He’s a great guy. I swear on it.”

It’s barely six a.m. on Saturday, and Lindsay and I are just hopping off bikes at Spin Class. I don’t particularly love sitting in one place and letting my legs pedal a hundred miles an hour to go nowhere, but Lindsay told me I’ve been uptight all week and needed to destress. Everyone knows how ineffective yoga is for my breathing routine, so we settled on bicycles instead.

“I’m not ready to date,” I tell her. “This just happened.”

“What, a kiss with Boxer?”

“More than a kiss. It was a full-on make out session, and almost more.”

“You made out with a guy you found attractive. So what? You’re almost thirty! You’re allowed to do that whenever you like. Seriously, it’s no big deal.”

“It is when he’s supposed to be my ringer client for the year.”

“So what? You don’t need him on your roster.”

“I do.”

“Why?”

“Because.” I shrug, knowing I’ve backed myself into a corner. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Well, I don’t believe you. Prove it to me.”

“How?”

“Accept this lunch date.”

“No.”

“You promised you’d go on one date per month—and if you’re not counting your lunch with Boxer as a date, then you owe me, girlfriend.”

“I don’t owe you, I just—”

“You promised. Don’t break your promise.”

“Speaking of promises, I have to pick up Charli’s cake. I ordered it from Nadia’s.”

“Pulling out all the stops for this six-year-old, eh?”

“Nadia’s is the best. I only buy from the best. It will change their lives.”

“Sure. It’ll also give you an excuse to see Boxer again.”

“That’s not why I’m doing it.”

“Keep lying to yourself, boss.”

“I made a promise, and I keep my promises.”

“That’s just what I wanted to hear.” Lindsay gives me a smug smile as she wipes down her bike. “Keep your promise to me, then. Prove you’re not interested in Boxer by going on a date with another guy. You don’t have to kiss this dude, or bring him home. Just meet him.”

“Fine,” I say, a challenge in my voice. “But after I’m done setting up for the party. Make it a late lunch, we’ll say two p.m.”

“I will let him know,” Lindsay says. “Two p.m. it is. I’ll let him pick the place.”

Despite winning this battle, she doesn’t sound at all elated. It’s almost as if she wanted me to turn her down flat. I’ve lost this sparring war, and I don’t feel good about it, either.

I don’t know why it’s so difficult for me to admit what I want out of all this, but I can’t seem to voice my thoughts. Maybe it’s because they’re not clear. Maybe it’s because I don’t truly know what I want. Maybe it’s because I know exactly what I want, and it’s that which I’m most afraid to admit.

We head toward the showers, rinsing off in near silence. My head is crowded with thoughts for the upcoming day: the cake, the party, the date. Only one part of it seems exciting, and that’s the notion that I’ll be seeing Boxer before the day is over.

My skin tingles with anticipation, my heart skipping beats until I have to shut off the shower and sit on the bench, breathing slowly to calm my nerves. Seeing Boxer. That’s what has me twisted in knots.

“What do I say to him?” I ask Lindsay. The question comes out of the blue, but she must be thinking about it, too, because she fires back an instant response.

“What do you want to tell him?”

“I don’t know.”

“Come on, boss. For once, can you just be honest with me about how you feel?” Lindsay cranks her shower off. “I mean, seriously. It’s obvious you have feelings for the guy. Why lie to me about it?”

“I’m not trying to. I’m still figuring things out.”

“It’s simple. If you don’t want to be with him, fine—I get it. Then tell me that and be honest about it. We’re not teenage girls; we are adult women. Just tell me how you feel. This guessing game is getting exhausting. What do you expect to come from all of this?”

Her tone is wildly out of character. Normally, she has miles of endless patience for me, but I must have used it all up. It makes me sit up a bit and pay attention.

Wrapping myself in a towel, I wait for Lindsay to do the same as we make our way toward the changing area. Where she’s a free spirit in all her nakedness, I’m a bit more reserved, and I turn away as I slip into my undergarments.

“I like him,” I say finally. “Because he makes me feel things I haven’t felt in years.”

“There’s a start.” Lindsay turns to face me, her towel resting on the bench. She fiddles around for her clothes, and not for the first time, I wish for half of her confidence. “Now keep going. Why do you like him? What things does he make you feel?”

“I don’t know.”

“Think about it.”

“Safe,” I say automatically. “Like he’d never say a word to hurt my feelings.”

“That’s good. A healthy thing for a relationship.”

“I know, and I’m not used to it.”

She makes a clucking sound under her breath, sliding a shirt over her head. “I know, and that’s sad. But you have a type, and frankly, it’s not a nice type.”

“But it fits me. I’m not particularly nice.”

“Sure you are!”

“No, I’m not. Look what I did to Andi and Ryan. Look how I run my business.”

“That’s business. You’re smart and strong, and that’s different than being mean.”

“Andi and Ryan?”

“A mistake, and if you’ll let me set you up with a stupid phone call, you can apologize. A mistake doesn’t define you, just learn from it and move along. Ryan and Andi made it through, and I don’t think they’re sitting there thinking about it right this very second. Get back to the question. What does Boxer make you feel besides safe?”

“Happy.” It’s another automatic response, but as soon as it’s out there on the table, I realize it’s true. “He makes me laugh, makes me slow down and appreciate things like ice cream cones and cakes and sandwiches.”

“That’s all food, but it’s a good start. And when you kissed? Was it good?”

I can’t help the sigh. It comes out in a whoosh, so I just let it happen, my head falling back as I lean into the lockers. “So good. It’s like he enjoys everything. Every little touch, every kiss. The whole thing was special. Like it wasn’t some routine or checklist, or... I don’t know.”

“Boss, that’s—” Lindsay shakes her head, wiggling into her jeans. “That’s how it should be. If men are doing sex like a checklist, you run away just as fast as you can. Got it? That’s not right.”

“I just hadn’t realized what I was missing.”

“Now that you know you’re missing it...”

“I want more of it,” I whisper softly.

Lindsay nods, a look of sympathy scrawled on her face. “Yes, and it’s impossible not to blame you for it. Sounds like you’ve finally got a man who likes you for the right reasons, and you’re pushing him away just as hard as you can.”

“Shit.”

“Yep.”

“What can I do? How can I fix it?”

“Well, are you willing to let business take a backseat in this relationship? Because it’s probably a must.”

I hesitate, knowing the answer on the inside, but finding it more difficult to admit than I should.

“Well, I can see the answer in your eyes, so I’ll give you a pass on that. You’re going to see him today, right?”

I nod.

“Make it clear how you feel.”

“Clear how I feel,” I echo. “I think I understand.”

“Do you?”

“Yes.”

“Great.” Lindsay smiles. “Then don’t be shy. Tell him how you feel. I’m guessing he’s dying to hear it.”

“I don’t know how to do that.”

“When the time is right, you’ll just know.”

We walk down the hallway, each lost in our own thoughts. Someone Lindsay knows waves to her, and she tells me goodbye before heading in the opposite direction to chat with her girlfriend.

“Remember what we talked about,” she says. “Be honest.”

I wave goodbye, and it’s not until I’m halfway to Nadia’s Cakes that I realize I’ve forgotten to cancel the date with Lindsay’s friend. I make a note to text her later once I arrive.

But when I step into the cake shop, I find a series of errors waiting for me.

First, the cake features a horse instead of a unicorn.

Second, they’ve spelled her name wrong. I know, I asked Boxer to double check.

“Sorry, but where is the rainbow tail?” I ask the guy behind the counter. “And the sparkles? We need sprinkles that shine—glitter or whatever. And Charli is spelled with an i, no e. I hate to be rude, but I wrote it quite clearly on the form.”

The poor kid behind the counter is barely sixteen years old, but I can’t bring Charli a cake with a horse and her name spelled wrong. So, when he offers to redo it correctly, I agree and tell him I’ll wait.

Thirty minutes later, the cake comes back as bright as a pile of unicorn vomit. I smile, tell him it looks very nice, and pay.

An hour later, I’m showered, changed, and on my way with the cake in hand—fresh out of the freezer—to see Boxer.

Charli. Charli, I correct myself. I’m going to see Charli.