At first, you weren’t sure what it was.
Heck, you never felt this way. The symptoms – your stomach in knots, hands clammy, words caught in your throat, the inability to look at her straight in the eye.
You spent hours on Reddit trying to figure out what this girl has done to you, tossing, turning, tossing and turning. You could never sleep. (Well, not in your own bed at least. It’s a different story when she calls you up in the middle of the night.) It finally dawned upon you at 1am on one of your many sleepless nights. My god, you were infatuated and you knew it. You stupid dumb-dumb, you weren’t even friends but here you are, catching feelings like the fuc-
“Oops, guess I’m late.” She apologized as she slipped into the seat opposite you, jolting you from whatever daydream you were having. Well, it seemed like an apology but you know she didn’t mean it. Maybe it’s the way her lips quirked upwards into a semblance of a smile. Or maybe it’s because you know she never means her word. Like the time she told you that this was a no strings attached arrangement, but called you the next night anyway.
And now, here both of you are, sitting in the middle of Hartfeld’s coffee shop. What was this, if not a date?
“Hey, love.” You replied coolly, teasingly. You feel your heart thump a little louder when you see a faint shade of pink across her features. Though, she hid it well, rolling her eyes and turning away to take a sip of her coffee.
Of course, y’all weren’t lovers or anything. Pshh, you were not even friends. Not even friends with benefits. Just…benefits. You think. You weren’t sure. She never told you how she felt, and so you kept your mouth shut too.
“Brave of you to ask me out to a coffee shop.”
“Whatever, Becca. Try me.”
“Wouldn’t want your shirt covered in coffee stains…again, would we?”
“I could always lose these old things.”
You exchange lines, back and forth, throughout the duration of your “date”. Flirting, like a second language, is one that she’d mastered –invented, even– and you’re just a bumbling apprentice, fumbling over lines, over words. You try to keep up, but it’s obvious she has you wrapped around her little finger. Flirting, like a game of chess, demands you to anticipate, demands you to retaliate. Yet, you’re always 5 steps behind, thinking you’re 3 steps ahead.
She always has the upper hand.
So when both of you step out of the coffee shop, you think – I have to make a fucking move – You’re losing, and you’re losing badly. You need to turn the tides, reverse your fortune. You need to do it now. You gave yourself a small pep talk. You’re going to do it. You’re going to kiss her – tell her you like her and that you want to be more than friends. You’re going to do it. You’re going to win her over. You’re going to win this game of chess. You’re going to win.
But, you should have known. The number one, fundamental principle in the Constitution of Rebecca Davenport was that she always has the upper hand.
Before you could lean in and give her the kiss of a lifetime, she leans in first. Your heart palpitating, your hands clammy, you have no control. You stand there, eyes shut. Anticipating.
It almost hurts to wait.
But the kiss never came, nor does the proclamation of love.
Instead, you hear her whisper in your ear. “No strings attached…love.”
Your heart would have shattered into a few million pieces, if not for the fact that that was so damn good.
You watched as she sashayed away.
Checkmate.
And now, you know, you’re definitely in love.