Do You Like Me?

When I was seventeen I had a bad case of puppy love for a friend I went to school with. One beautiful night we lie naked, kissing and entwined, innocently stroking each other’s skin. It was magical and sweet…weeks later he broke my heart when told me during a phone call how great that night was because “it didn’t mean anything”.

Then, three years ago, I stand shivering under a weak stream of hot water, anxiety building into what feels like the urge to vomit. I imagine toweling myself dry, painting on makeup, combing through knots and choosing weather-appropriate clothes to get me a mile to his doorstep, warm and dry, to ask him whether there was anything real between us. I step out into the chill of my bathroom and settled for a phone call.

“I want to ask you a question.” I mentally inhale and trudge on, “Am I someone you’re interested in pursuing, or were we just fucking around?” I have rehearsed this talk a thousand times, and the words fly off my lips a little harsher than I practiced. I want to say, “were YOU just fucking around,” but I don’t have the nerve.

He takes a deep, begrudging breath, as though annoyed at being forced to play the bad guy, and tells me, “Just fucking around, I guess.” He could have simply said, “I don’t give a shit about you,” and had the same effect.

My track record with the “are we just fucking” conversation is not terrific, as you can see. I dread having to utter those words, and this time, across from “Might Be A Fling” guy, is no different.

He surprises me. 

“No, I really like you,” is his response. And he likes me for the right reason: because I have a big heart. I like him because he’s a good man. Suddenly I feel light and warm. It seems he’s not just a fling, after all.