Page 5 of Ghosted By Texas
“The date didn’t go well?”
“No, it did, right up until we came out of the movies, and he spotted a friend of his.”
My best friend rolled her eyes in solidarity with me. We’d all been there before, when a perfectly datable guy screwed it all up by answering his phone, texting, seeing a friend and forgetting you existed, or in my case, when he saw his BFF-slash-fuck buddy and things got awkward.
“Tell me the bastard didn’t ditch you for his friend.”
I shrugged my shoulders noncommittally and allowed her to assume that was exactly what happened. There was nothing good that could come from telling my bestie that my date for the night had run into his fuck buddy, who was all too quick to tell me how often and how recently they’d fucked. My heart hurt just thinking about it.
“I hate him for you.” Clea announced before her eyes glanced up from where she was focused on painting her toenails. “Unless he comes back with some amazing, grand gesture to show how truly sorry he is,” my best friend tacked on when she saw my downtrodden expression.
“I don’t think he can make up for the epic fail at the end of our date. I expected another kiss that sent me into orbit, or possibly an all-night, orgasm-laden romp in the sack at his place. Our third date had gone so well up to that point, I’d have married him on the spot. Then, instead of my date taking me to his place, I ended up with a ride-share driver who smelled like straight up canned tuna and farted twice on the thankfully short ride back to campus.”
Clea couldn’t hold in her giggles, and honestly, there was no blaming her. If she had come home with the same story, I would have flat out laughed at her. Then again, now I had to wonder if she left off the important details about her dates, too. Not that she had many of them. Clea wasn’t a casual dater, or even into serial monogamy. When she agreed to a date, it was because she saw it going somewhere long-term. That meant her agreeing to one didn’t happen often.
The one time that I thought I was heading in the ‘Clea direction’, and taking things seriously, it blew up in my face. My best friend was precious, but her outlook on men and relationships just wasn’t for me. My phone dinged with an incoming text as the thought sent a wave of depression straight to my chocolate craving center.
Dickhead Scumbag: I’m sorry. Please, let me explain. I fucked up.
Becs: Since I’m the other woman, I don’t think you owe me the explanation or the apology.
Dickhead Scumbag: You were never the other woman. I fucked up by not telling her I was seeing someone, but she knew the score.
Becs: Well, that makes it all better.
I wished he could see the way I rolled my eyes at that comment, so that the sarcasm could really shine through. Texts sometimes sucked that way. Then again, I really didn’t need the asshole to see the hurt in my eyes either. He didn’t deserve to know.
Dickhead Scumbag: Please, Becs! Meet me for coffee, so I can explain everything. I don’t want to lose you. We might have only been out on a few dates, but you are so far under my skin, I can’t think straight. Don’t make us both lose out on that because I messed up when I thought I didn’t need to let Jordan know I was seeing someone. I honestly thought my absence over the past couple weeks spoke for itself, since it has in the past.
Becs: You almost had me, until that last line. I don’t want to be just another reason you’re off again with a woman who clearly worships the ground you walk on. Maybe, you should fix things with her, not me, since you’re such good friends and already intimately acquainted.
Dickhead Scumbag: There’s a reason she and I aren’t anything more than friends who scratch an itch when we’re free. I don’t feel that way about her.
Becs: Then you’re an asshole for stringing her along the way you do. I can’t do this. You said she’s your best friend. That means she’ll always be around. It means I have to smile and be nice to the woman who has already had sex with you, for years, while I’ve never even done more than kiss you. That’s asking a bit much, Austin. Were you even going to tell me, if she hadn’t been there? Or were you just going to let me get to know the woman who is in love with you and has already had you in probably every possible sexual position?
Dickhead Scumbag: Please, can we do this in person? I really need for you to see that I’m sincere in what I have to say to you.
Once again, my eyeballs attempted to roll in their sockets. Not because of anything the dickhead said, but because I was curious and hurt enough to want to hear him out. There was a word for people like me. Masochist.
Becs: Where?
Dickhead Scumbag: Fresh Pot on Main? I can be there in thirty minutes.
Becs: I can be there in an hour.
My counteroffer was about me being difficult. Technically, I could be there in about ten minutes. I just didn’t want him to think I was desperate.
“You’re going to see him?” Clea asked, startling me.
“Jesus!” I yelped as she giggled.
“Forgot I was sitting right here while you had your heated text exchange?”
“Something like that.”
“So? Are you going to see him?”
“Yeah. He wants a chance to explain, in person.” I shrugged my shoulders, as if I were indifferent to what he had to say already. While that couldn’t be further from the truth, I refused to get Clea’s – or my – hopes up.