July 25, 2010
“I don’t really know what I’m doing,” I tell her, nervous, trying my best not to look at my feet while I say this. My chest clenches. It is difficult to breathe.
She just waits, and I can’t tell if she’s being patient or if she’s uninterested.
“I like you,” I say. My face is flushing. “I like you a lot, and I think you like me too. I dumped Peter, and he asked me if there was someone else, and I told him there could be, and I want there to be. I dumped him for you, and if you don’t like me, I get it, but I like you, and I want this to work.” I feel like passing out.
But she smiles, and everything is better.
In the summer, we stay in town for Canada Day, and then spend a day nursing hangovers before coming home. My mother will kill me when I come home for Independence Day on a motorcycle, but as she weaves us south, my arms clutching around her waist, it’s worth it.
