He treats me like a queen! Oh, Marie. I wish you could meet him. We met on my first day. I was a mess, coming straight from the airport to the hotel and my room wasn’t ready. So I checked my bags and decided to wander the city. I stopped into a bakery and he came out of the back. He’s so beautiful, inside and out. His father’s people emigrated from Somalia twenty years ago and his mother’s side is Bavarian. He speaks Somali, Arabic, German, French, and English. He owns a bakery! Isn’t that crazy?
Anyway, I forgot my wallet in my bags and he gave me lunch on the house, joking I would have to wash dishes to pay for it. Then he sat with me and asked me all about myself. He’s amazing. I left, feeling like I was walking on a cloud. The next day I brought him the money to pay for my lunch and he wouldn’t take it, instead saying that I should let him take me out to dinner. So I did. And we’ve spent every day together since. Instead of sightseeing every day, I’ve been helping in the bakery and he’s teaching me how to bake. I’M MAKING BREAD!!! His parents live in Bavaria and I spoke to his mother on the phone last night. We’re going down there this weekend to meet his family. I only have two weeks left here and I don’t know what I’m going to do. I think I’m falling in love with this guy. How crazy is that? What am I going to do? I’ve spent my whole life building a career, a career I’m proud of, accomplishments that are meaningful. Am I going to give all that up to move to Germany and . . . do what? Date a guy? Who am I? I don’t even recognize myself.
I’m so happy!
And miserable.
And confused.
Tell me what to do!
Love, Camille
I smiled at her closing request, shaking my head. I had no advice to give her.
I know it’s popular to tell people in these situations to follow their heart. Presently, I found that advice to be irresponsible. Your heart doesn’t pay the bills. Plus, hearts had death-wish proclivities, throwing themselves into situations that would ultimately lead to their destruction.
Take me and my stupid hopes for instance.
It might feel good in the short term to follow one’s heart, but in the long-term it meant finding a broom and dustpan big enough to sweep up all the shattered pieces.
“How’s your friend?” Matt asked, startling me, just before he bent and placed a kiss on my cheek. He slid into the seat across from mine.
I looked up, not surprised by his affectionate gesture—he often kissed me on the cheek as a greeting—but I was surprised by his sudden appearance. I hadn’t noticed him arrive.
“Who? Camille?” I asked, irritated at the unsteadiness in my tone.
An image from Friday night flashed in my mind’s eye, of Matt and the woman, his Battlestar Galactica shirt, her Star Wars shirt. Kissing. I’d never wished more for the affliction and subsequent relief of short-term memory loss.
In truth, I’d been too open with him. I knew that now. I’d been too willing to throw myself into this relationship, hoping for more because I liked him so much.
That ended on Friday. We were friends—just friends—and I was grateful for this lesson. I needed to stop confusing myself with hopes. Hadn’t I been the one who wanted to explore paid services as a replacement for traditional romantic relationships? Clearly, this was a sign from the universe that my time was better spent looking for a life coach and a professional dry humper in Chicago rather than the one I’d identified in New York City.
“Who’s Camille?” he asked, glancing between the letter and me.
“Oh, no one. Just a friend.” I cleared my throat and held up her note. “She’s on vacation in Germany and sent me a letter.”
“A real letter? Don’t see many of those these days.”
“No. I guess you don’t.” I folded it up and slipped it into my bag, trying not to notice how handsome Matt looked when he smiled. As was typical, he was dressed in jeans and a nerdy T-shirt. He’d also added a lightweight black rain jacket, which he was in the process of removing. His hair was wet, but I could tell he’d recently run his fingers through it as it stuck up and out at odd angles.
I didn’t want to smooth it. I liked it when his hair was all crazy. It made him look like a mad scientist, which he sorta was.
Calibrating my smile to polite, I asked, “Are you hungry?” already knowing the answer. Matt was always hungry.
“Ha! Funny. I already ordered, they should bring it over soon.” Matt’s eyes narrowed infinitesimally. “Is there anything wrong?”
I shook my head, widening my polite smile. “No. Not at all.”
His gaze seemed to sharpen. “Are you sure? You seem different.”
“Just tired.” It was true. I was tired. I’d spent entirely too much time obsessing about what to do with my hopes that had interfered with my ability to write. “I’m behind on a deadline. I was up late, working.”
“Oh.” His eyes lowered to my cup of tea. “Are you hungry? Can I grab you anything?”
“No. Thanks. I ate breakfast before I came.”
“Why’d you do that? Is the food here terrible?” He looked worried.
“No, not at all. The food here is great. As you know, I’m on a budget and eating out is expensive.”
I’d been forthright with Matt about my lack of inclination to splurge on non-essentials weeks ago. I wasn’t willing to go into debt in order to go out for fancy meals, or buy the latest gadgets. Dinners had always been at my place. My refurbished second-generation iPhone worked just fine, as did my thrift-store Coach bag. I slept better knowing I had a nest egg for emergencies as well as the beginnings of a robust retirement account.
“I would’ve paid for breakfast. I’m the one who asked you out. Go on, order something.”
“Like I said, I’m not hungry. You know I don’t let my friends pay my way. So, yes, that means sometimes I’m that stick-in-the-mud who won’t go out, or orders just tea, but—as you also know—I’ll happily cook dinner at my place anytime.”
“I still maintain that you making dinner is not fair either. That’s just the same as you taking me out; you’re paying for the labor and the food, just like I would be.”
I crossed my arms. “Moving on, what’s this proposition you mentioned?”
“Changing the subject?”
“You can’t force me to talk about something I don’t wish to discuss.”
“You always do this.” He gave me his sly smile. “I’ll allow the subject change—”
“You’ll allow?” I rolled my eyes, chuckling.
“—only because we have much to discuss today—but let the record show, we still haven’t come to a consensus yet. We’ll discuss this food matter in the future. Back to your friends. Quinn. Janie. How are they?”
“Oh.” I uncrossed my arms, surprised by his inquiry. “Janie. Yes. She seems okay, but understandably frustrated with the bed rest. I think they’re just ready for the pregnancy to be over and I can’t say that I blame them. It’s been tough.”
He appeared to be listening intently. But then, out of the blue, he asked, “Do you want kids?”
I flinched, opening and closing my mouth for a few seconds before answering honestly. “Yes. I do. If it works out that way, and it’s the right choice for me and my partner.”