Welcome to your thirties

Another week had passed without much word from Statham. I got dressed and left my apartment for my weekly night out. I look forward to it; it's the only social interaction I get all week. Most nights I leave work late and run along the river. After I get home and walk the Femme Fatale and prepare dinner, it's 9:30 by the time I finally sit down.

It was a light crowd that night. Inclement weather in the South kept most people at home. But when the boys discovered I just had my birthday, they took turns buying me birthday shots: blow jobs, red-headed sluts, blonde-headed sluts, something that tasted like orange-flavored cough syrup and then the southern version of an Irish Car Bomb.

Another boy appeared in front of me. I recognized the tattoo sleeve poking our from under his red t-shirt.

I pointed at him, "Is your name [Tattooed Boy]?"

He smiled.

"Hey! I'm Sarah!" I extended my hand to him.

"I know," he said as he took my hand. I've seen him around;I've just never spoken to him.

He sat down next to me and ordered the strongest drink I've ever tasted. He enjoyed watching me try it and then scrunch up my face in disgust. Every so often, he's push his drink toward me.

"I haven't seen you around lately," I said.

"I know. And you won't after this week. I'm moving. Leaving the state."

"Aw, that's a shame. You seem pretty cool."

"I am very cool," he said. "You're missing out."

He invited me out the next night. I accepted and gave him my e-mail address.

Clemson appeared from the corner of the bar. I was splitting food with the Tattooed Boy. He ordered food as well. The Tattooed Boy kept pushing his drink to me and then laughing as I coughed and sputtered.

The Leader grabbed my hand and we danced to a song on the jukebox. I laughed. I laughed a lot. It felt good that the new group of friends were acknowledging my birthday. It felt like acceptance, that I was now one of them.

The Tattooed Boy left and Clemson and I began chatting. He was inquisitive about my family and my origins. I spoke of my father leaving in the middle of the night. He shook his head in sympathy.

"So you hate men?" he asked.

"No! I don't hate men. I'm just wary. Trust has to be earned," I corrected. We spoke for awhile and I grew tired.

Clemson looked at me. "You doing okay?" he asked.

"I'm pretty shit housed," I admitted.

"You can come back to my place again," he offered.

"Okay," I said without protest. I couldn't drive. It wasn't even a question.

He took me back to his place and turned on the TV. It was some ungodly hour and I had to show up to work sometime the next morning. He sat down next to me and I threw a pillow on his lap and laid down. He immediately put his arm around me and caressed my shoulder. I closed my eyes. It felt nice. It felt really nice to experience that kind of physical contact. Despite the selfish, dirty sex, I hadn't received any affection since Valdosta back in January.

Clemson noticed I was dozing and he shut off the TV and told me it was time for bed. He told me to sleep on his side of the bed because it was more comfortable. I climbed in. He pulled up the sheet around me. When I shivered he found a blanket, shook it out and laid in on top of me. I appreciated his sense of detail.

"Ugh," I moaned. The birthday celebration had caught up with me.

"What's wrong?"

"My stomach feels wonky and I have heartburn," I whined.

Clemson fetched a glass of water and a bottle of Tums.

"You have Tums? But you're a boy. Boys don't keep meds," I said.

"Are you kidding me? I'm in my thirties and I'm a computer geek, of course I have Tums. Welcome to your thirties," he said as he toasted me with the water glass.

Clemson climbed in bed and spooned me. I relished it. Not specifically Clemson, but the touch. It felt so good to be held; I miss being held. I sighed and stretched my legs.

"Ow ow ow ow!" I cried as I sat straight up in bed.

"What's wrong?"

"I have a charlie horse in like the arch of my foot!" I wailed. I had increased my running frequency that week, running a 5k every day. I don't know if the increase in male attention was directly related to me dropping a pants size, but I wanted to lose another one just to be sure.

Clemson sat up in bed and grabbed my foot. He rubbed out the cramp. He collapsed into the sheets and I nestled in the crook of his shoulder. When Clemson's alone, he's kind of a gentle guy, I thought. He rubbed my back as I drifted off to sleep.

A few hours later, his alarm went off. I got up and ducked out of his apartment without saying goodbye or thank you.

I have no idea what I'm doing these days.

The End: How I screwed up

Statham and I have been IMing daily. Some days it's not more than a few lines. Others it's lengthy conversations. After my usual weeknight with the dodgeballers, Statham popped up in the corner of my screen:

How was last night? Any less drama than last week?

No. Drama. Drama. Drama. You realize everyone knows, right?

Knows about what?

I frowned. Then I typed, That we have shared the sex.

Statham panicked. He opened a new IM window and began messaging Girl from Irish Pub, asking what the hell happened last night. Unfortunately all of the drama transpired after she left; she didn't know a thing. Then he contacted his ex to again profess his innocence. He got drunk, hit on me and I turned him down. End of story in his opinion. He said she isn't handling the breakup well and he didn't want to hurt her anymore than he already has.

He did all of this before I had a chance to tell him what exactly happened. After twirling with the boy, I followed Clemson and the leader of the group to a second bar. Never go to a second location on a weeknight. Just shut it down and go home. But I didn't. I perched on my bar stool between Clemson and the Leader. It was just the three of us in the entire bar and we sat there until 2 a.m.

I told dirty jokes while Clemson ribbed me. Then the Leader puffed out his chest and told me about all of his conquests among the league.

"You know all the girls on our team?" the Leader asked.

"Yup."

"I've slept with them all." He paused, "If you were on the team a few seasons ago, you would be a notch on several people's bedposts by now," said the Leader.

"I've been playing with y'all for three seasons!"

"That's right. I heard you hooked up," he said.

I threw my hands in the air. "I don't know what you're talking about. I'm untainted," I professed.

"Right," he said.

Statham was never mentioned by name, and I didn't press the issue because I thought that asking what he meant could be seen as an admission of guilt. Just deny and change the subject.

I sent all of this to Statham.

He's not talking about me, typed Statham. He's talking about you going home with Clemson.

Crap. Didn't know he knew about that.

But it's impossible. I didn't do anything with Clemson. And Clemson was sitting right beside me when the Leader called me out. Clemson would have been caught lying. The person I hooked up with was Statham.

Meanwhile Statham's on the phone with his ex. Just mentioning the gossip that we hooked up hurt her. She decided to leave town for a few days to escape the situation.

Statham insisted that it's Clemson the rumor is about, not him. Then he drops the bomb on me. Everyone knows about me spending the night at his place. Statham heard it from Girl from Irish Pub and he heard it from another girl I've never even spoken to as well as other sources.

Via e-mail, I confessed the entire night. I detailed the night for him so he would know I was telling the truth and not lying, like I was doing for him.

Statham then updated me on the story he concocted for his ex-girlfriend. As he's ad libbing a new story that explains the Leader's rumor, I realized that Statham doesn't give two shits about me; he's more concerned about his ex's feelings than he is mine. Because I now officially feel like garbage. The lies and stories that we never happened are starting to hurt me. We agreed that neither of us would say anything, but the extent he's going to cover it up is beyond any effort I would put forth. It's made me feel cheap.

"I just don't know why the Leader would think we slept together. I never said anything," he told me later that afternoon on the phone.

"Um, really? Do you not remember Saturday when you said we went out and you didn't go home until 2 a.m.? Did you not see my eyes screaming at the other end of the table?" I asked.

"Just tell them we were drinking until 2 a.m." he shot back. I felt myself become smaller. It turned out he wasn't peeing on me; he was just that oblivious.

I never really heard from Statham after that. Not even on my birthday.

Thirty

I turned 30 over the weekend. I feel like I'm supposed to pen some coming-of-age, commemorative post. Except that I don't have a lot to say.

I spent the last year preparing to turn 30. I made a list of everything I ever said I wanted to do and began crossing them off. I didn't finish the list—there were four items left—but I accomplished a lot nonetheless. I ran a 5k. I shot a shotgun. I went pole dancing. I went down a zip line. I did things.

This summer I plan on rock climbing and kayaking and hang gliding. And maybe even finish those paper cranes.

I've been listening to a lot of punk lately. It's got a peppy, upbeat tempo that makes me happy. It's been years since I've listened to it. I've gone through two punk phases before: once in 2000 and again in 2006. Both times I was trying to claim my independence. I have no idea what I'm stake my independence from this time.

Last week I was at the bar of my old dodgeball league catching up with friends. "Next time you see me, I'll be a grown-up!" I laughed as I twirled.

The boy gaped his mouth open in disbelief. "You're turning 30? 30? You?"

The boy in question was 32, so I knew it wasn't the chronological age of 30; it was me being 30.

"You cannot be that old," he stressed. "You're just too young. I mean, you twirl in bars for god's sake." He picked up my hand and spun me around again in demonstration.

He made three. He's the third person in the last couple of weeks who has commented on me being young at heart.

I'm back. S and Christopher did not ruin me.

All that glitters is not gold

Saturday was game day. I had my own plans with Schmoozer to go to a festival in the morning, but I was going to make the game. Statham had told me that he wasn't sure which weekend festival he was attending, but he wouldn't be at the game. So I was surprised when I was lazily standing by home plate and heard cries of Statham's name across the field as he caught a pop fly in his own game. He team cheered and rallied around him.

It had been a week since our initial hookup, and this was the first time we were in public together. The Girl from the Irish Pub who had been so hard on me during the week said nothing to me about Statham during the game. Instead we talked about our remaining weekend plans. First Baseman was out of town, and I recognized Clemson's stocky run as he crossed the bases over in Statham's game.

I headed over to the team bar afterwards with the rest of my team. I squinted when the door swung open. I couldn't tell who was entering; all I could see was the bob of his baseball cap. Then Statham appeared at my table.

"Hey! How was y'all's game?"

"Abysmal," I frowned. "We gave up."

He took a seat at the booth. When he found out we had all ordered food, he put in an order as well. Clemson and the rest of Statham's team were drinking outside.

My plan was to deny, deny, deny and pretend that we still don't know each other outside of the league.

"How was your race this morning?" he asked me.

"It was a sloppy race. It was 2,000 people running in a 4-foot wide street. The first two miles were fine, but the last 1.1 miles were a solid incline. However, I did improve my pace by 2 minutes a mile."

"That's great!" he cheered.

Okay, so maybe people would think that I told him that I was running a 5k last week.

He looked at the rest of the table and gestured to me, "We went out on Thursday and she took me to the greatest restaurant. I've been telling everyone about it."

OH MY GOD, THIS WAS NOT IN THE PLAN. RIVER IN EGYPT, STATHAM. RIVER IN EGYPT!

He continued, "Yeah, I didn't get home until 2 a.m. and I had to get up at 5. I was beat. How were you Friday morning, Sarah?"

I shriveled up on the inside. The boy is peeing on me. That's what he's doing. The damned fool is marking territory. Because you know who is sitting next to me? The leader of the entire sports league. The main man who has slept with everyone. This is the guy that keeps a running tally of who has slept with whom. When my girlfriend denied who she has gone home with from the league, it was the leader who pulled me aside and told me. This has just become part of my permanent record.

Now, why was Statham giving me the golden-shower treatment?
Was it because he liked me? Or was he getting back at his ex in some effed-up manner?

Everyone began talking about Easter plans. I announced I wouldn't be in town.

"That's right. You're going to the Nooga for your 30th birthday," explained Statham.

"Really? That surprises me. I would not have thought that about you," said a girl at the table.

I could have said, That's what Statham said! But I didn't. I was still trying to play it cool. "You're the second person who's said that to me this week!"

Statham met my gaze and said nothing.

After he was done eating, Statham did his usual thing. He parked his pitcher of beer by me and flitted off to the other tables to say hello. Periodically he'd return and join the conversation while pouring himself another pint. No one said a word to me about our date and I was grateful. I

I left with my team and we worked our way out by stopping at each team's table. Clemson's face lit up when he saw me; I don't think he knows. We chatted for a brief minute. Then I walked with my team to my car.

As I was fiddling with my Shuffle, I saw Statham appear in my rear view mirror. I rolled my window down.

"I'm going to go home and nap before tonight," he said.

"Yeah, me too. I'm exhausted."

"I've got plans to meet some guy friends of mine," he offered.

"That sounds like fun."

He winked at me. "You behave yourself tonight, okay?"

"Yeah, you too."

I drove away. Down the road I was stopped at a light and I saw Statham's car come up on my left. He honked as he passed me.

Nope. Still can't figure him out.

Statham of the Union

Statham's contact with me after our encounter was primarily apologetic. He said he's not normally like that and he doesn't typically move that fast with women. I heard his apologies so many times that what I began to hear was I respect women, just not you.

He asked me out on a date and I half-convinced myself he was following through on it just to prove that he was a nice guy. I even gave him an out the morning of our date while we were texting in bed and expected him to cancel before the day was through.

My fears were calmed as soon as I opened my front door. Statham looked good. Really, really good. He wore a plaid button-up that was rolled up to the elbows, jeans and flip flops. His hair was styled into a messy fauxhawk of sorts and had enough product in it that it was hurricane proof.

I smiled. It was a date. A Real Date. I brought my A game as well. I had lost so much weight recently that my jeans no longer fit me. I had them tumbling in the dryer on high heat for two hours trying to shrink them. Even with my belt notched on the tightest loop, they still were loose. I covered them up with a silk khaki top that made my hair and eyes look like chocolate.

Knowing Statham's penchant for outdoor patios, I took him to the same place I took Guy with Rash. As we pulled into the hidden neighborhood, he was impressed. Despite being after 9 p.m. on a weekday, we still had to wait for table.

The conversation was easy. It's always been that way with Statham and me. I met him in early December between Valdosta's and my first and second date. I was stretching in the hallway before my first dodgeball game and he just walked up to me and began talking. As he chatted away, I smiled and thought that I could get used to this. Then he dropped the girlfriend bomb and my face fell in disappointment. However after every dodgeball game, he always wandered over and said hello and spoke to me. He was my first dodgeball friend.

Statham and I have identical personalities: outgoing to a fault and no social filter that would sometimes get us into trouble. (A prime example of this would be the incident in which I asked about the status of the ex in front of her, and then he told me that she's in front of me. Fail on both of our parts.) Even when we were talking in the previous weeks, people would laugh at us because we spoke the exact same manner with the exact same vocal inflections. They said we sounded like twins speaking our own language.

"You know, this week I remembered something you said to me during dodgeball season," I told him as our second round of drinks arrived.

"What's that?"

"After we played your team, you crossed the court immediately after the game and you told me I had the cutest stomp you had ever seen. I thought I was some badass during dodgeball and you completely threw that image out the window by calling me cute."

"I remember that! You would stomp every time you got out, like you were surprised. It was hilarious!"

He asked me more about my list of things to do before I turn 30. "I never would have guessed that you're turning 30," he admitted.

"Why?" I scrunched up my nose. "Older or younger?"

"No! I would have said you were 25. You just have this thing about you that most people lose when they get older. You're just so energetic and bubbly."

A smile slowly spread across my face. I've heard this before. Adam said the same thing. Andy used to tell me that I had a childlike sense of wonder about me. Matter of fact, I haven't heard this in years. I beamed. S and Christopher didn't kill me; it's just taken me some time to recuperate.

Back at my apartment he checked out my city views. Once again, he's impressed. He said my apartment looked like home. We talked for a few minutes and he got up to leave.

I walked him to the door. This was the test if this was a Real Date or not. He turned around, grabbed me by the hips and leaned in for a Real Kiss. Real Date! Real Date! Unlike last week, the kisses were tender and gentle. Until they weren't.

He pulled away and sighed, "Do you want to go to your bedroom?"

He found his way to my bedroom as I made a pit stop in the bathroom. But when I get to the bedroom, he's sitting on the edge of the bed. He changed his mind.

He told me the events of the week. He met up with his ex for closure. Breakup is still on, but he feels like he's betraying her by being here with me so quickly. He said people thought our conversation of outing her at the Mexican restaurant was planned, when in reality it was just both of us being awkward. He said the difference between us and the rest of the group is that the rest of the group just hooked up. He was going from a relationship to dating someone else—feelings are involved and people are hurting.

I felt like I was getting dumped all over again.

"What do you think?" he asked.

"I mean, what do you say to that?" I spoke carefully. I've said these exact words to Valdosta.

I sat next to him on the bed. I said that it was natural to feel what he was feeling. He would be pretty cold-hearted if he wasn't conflicted by this. I maintained I still didn't know what this was, but I saw myself as having two roles with him. It was my job to support him and give him his freedom. And as far as feelings getting hurt, that ship had sailed last weekend.

He sighed, "There's nothing I want to do more right now than rip off your clothes. You're incredibly attractive and I've noticed you. I've been watching you. I, I, I... I just don't know what I'm doing right now. I should go."

I wasn't going to fight for someone that isn't confident in wanting me. I've wasted my entire twenties doing that.

"I'll walk you out." We stopped in my hallway and I reached in my gym bag. "Before you go, I wanted to show you my new running shoes. They were my birthday present to myself." Statham is an ex-track runner and I wanted his approval. My new running shoes are bright fuschia with neon yellow laces. They are the new version of the Nike Free line that was just released this month.

"Omigod, those are bright," he laughed. He flipped them over and picked out the gravel already stuck in the tread. "And they're light!"

"Best of all, they're pink!" I bounced in excitement.

He stopped and got serious. "That's what I'm talking about. That's the thing you do.

"Screw it," he said and he began kissing me again, walking me back to the bedroom.

We flopped on my bed. "No," I fought. "You can't give me that whole speech and then change your mind. I'm not going to let you feel bad about being with me."

He said I was right, that as far as hurt feelings go, the ship had sailed.

His face was on top of mine. I could feel his breath on me.

"What do you want?" He asked hoarsely.

I turned my head and stared at my closet door. It was too intimate of a gesture for me to handle. I don't trust Statham. Not yet. But here is a beautiful boy on top of me, detailing the past four months about me. He had been watching. Besides, we already slept together once...

"I don't want you to go," I whispered, still looking away.

So he didn't.

Ramifications

A few days later I showed up with a girlfriend to a bar to visit old friends from dodgeball season.

"Hey! Sarah!" waved the girl from the Irish pub on Sunday.

"Oh! Hey!" I immediately headed towards her table. Sitting across from her was Clemson. One chair down from her was Statham's ex. Uh oh.

We chit chatted about our Monday mornings and how rough they were due to the weekend activities. She said she wasn't drinking that night, but still managed to have a shot and a beer in front of me.

She leaned towards me, "I noticed, by the way. First Baseman was too drunk to notice, but I did. Statham had his arm wrapped around your leg on Sunday."

I immediately looked up. The ex had her back to us; she was deep in conversation with another girl I recognized from girl's night. I had a feeling I knew what she was talking about: the very same boy we were talking about.

"Oh. Ha ha. Nothing happened," I worked out.

"I noticed," she repeated.

I didn't say anything.

She looked around the room, uninterested in my answer. "My drama isn't here tonight." Funny, because First Baseman is out of town. She's referring to someone else. Statham was right about everybody being with everybody.

"I don't like drama. I love other people's drama, but I don't like my own," I told her.

She looked hard at me, "You better be careful then," she warned. She turned around, "Doesn't the ex look so sad? I IM with her while I am at work."

Her loyalties don't lie with Statham; they lie with the ex. Statham warned me that his breakup was going to create a fissure in the group and that he was going to lose friends. I just didn't think it was going to be the girl in front of me. Everything was fine a couple of days ago. She was even trying to set him up with one of her friends.

I didn't say anything again. I was too concerned with the current situation with the ex to be bothered to see if Clemson had heard any of this.

My girlfriend arrived and I was grateful for the distraction. We headed to the opposite corner where our friends were. Meanwhile, I typed out a text to Statham:

Did you say anything to our friend?

I'm confused. About what?

I'm at the bar. She just said something to me.

I learned later is that this is the exact moment Statham's phone blew up. I wasn't the only one texting him. So was the girl from Sunday, and so was the ex. When Statham realized we were all out together and he wasn't there, he damn near had a panic attack.

What I didn't know then that I know now is that in between Statham's and my hookup and me being at this bar, Statham met up with the ex for some closure. The morning after meeting up with his ex, he contacted me to set up a date. He asked if we could go somewhere in my part of town "preferably somewhere without the chance of gunfire." I originally thought he was making a crack about my apartment location, but now I'm beginning to think that "gunfire" meant a situation such as this.

Even though Statham and I promised to each other that neither of us would say anything, everyone knew in less than three days. Despite Statham flat-out telling the girl from Sunday that he hit on me and I turned him down, and despite me being tight-lipped to her as well.

Later on in the week, Statham would be sitting on my bed and telling me what really happened in the bar the night I was there. The girl from Sunday told the ex that Statham got drunk, hit on a girl and she took him home. Thanks to Facebook, it was pretty apparent that the girl was me.

She knew. The whole time I was there, she knew. And to give her credit, she didn't say a word to me.

Sleeping with the Enemy

We had sex. The dirty, selfish, 9-1/2 Weeks kind where both participants are focused on his and her own pleasure. The kind of sex you have when you don't know when your next opportunity will be. Things were done. And truth be told, I was the instigator of most of those things.

What have I done?

My stomach dropped. I just had dirty, selfish sex with someone that I am going to have to see again. And what about Clemson's feelings? What about Statham's ex? I'm pretty sure I already made her cry once this weekend. Oh god.

Statham came up behind me and sucked in air through his teeth. "You have scratch marks all the way down your back. I'm sorry."

Oh god.

Oh god. Oh god. Oh god.

I wanted to be friends with these people and what I ended up doing was creating the most volatile situation imaginable. I slept with a guy who broke up with his girlfriend 48 hours earlier, who is also in the same group. She's going to hate me and I don't blame her one bit. I feel like the other woman, a homewrecker. Word is going to get out and I'm going to be known as The Hussy.

But I'm not a hussy! The last time I slept with someone I wasn't dating was S in 2007, and even that turned into a two-year relationship. Before that was Nick in 2005, and he was a good friend from college. I don't do strange.

We got in the shower together. The conversation was awkward. "So, uh, how's your kickball season going?" he asked.

"We haven't won yet."

Ugggggghhhhhhhhh.

He left me alone to re-dress. The gravity of the situation hit me and I began to shake. Even though he's single, Statham's not available. Everyone had been joking all weekend that they were going to get back together within the week. He kept assuring me that's not the case, but let's be real here: I knew he was lying. He, at the very least, didn't know what was going to happen.

He reappeared in the hallway where our clothes had been strewn. He pressed me against the wall and began caressing my side.

"You okay?"

"I think... I think I need to sit down," I stammered. Instead of finding a piece of furniture to sit down upon, my back slid down the wall and I plopped on the carpet. I grabbed the towel I used minutes earlier and tried to use it as a security blanket, but Statham grabbed it out of my hands and tossed it aside.

"You think this was a mistake," he said slowly. "It's written all over your face."

Yes. "No." I paused, "Just promise me one thing: when you get back together with your ex, this never happened."

He tilted his head back against the wall and closed his eyes. "I know people have been joking all weekend, taking bets about when we're getting back together, but it's different this time. This wasn't one of our usual breakups. There was closure." He met my eyes and held them, "I don't regret what I did with you. Not one bit."

"It's just I'm new and I'm trying to make friends. I don't want gossip and I don't want a reputation."

He laughed. "It's an incestuous group. Everybody has slept with everybody—except for me of course because I've been in a relationship—and what you've done is nothing compared to the rest of them.

"I have a good time with you," he continued. "When we were hanging out at the team bar and we were all invited to the Mexican restaurant, I was excited to hang out with you more! I thought you were giving me a vibe."

I clasped my hands to my face and groaned, "I'm not supposed to be giving out the vibe!" And if I remember correctly, I didn't. At least not intentionally. Don't get me wrong, I've given Statham the vibe before, but at the team bar he was the one who approached me.

He popped up behind my barstool, "Listen, we have to talk about your shorts."

I looked down. I was wearing little red running shorts with my alma mater stamped on the leg. I looked at Statham's shorts. He was wearing the basketball shorts of the enemy. My rival school.

"My shorts are more socially adept than your shorts," I teased.

"My shorts are smarter than your your shorts."

"My shorts can outdrink your shorts."

"My shorts make more money than your shorts."

"My shorts have hot girls!" I shouted.

"Touche," he smiled.

So, no, it wasn't me. Or at least it didn't start with me.

"And then I get to the Mexican restaurant and the ex was there..." he trailed off. "She wasn't supposed to be there."

"I didn't know it was her."

"I was trying to get you to go home with me last night, but Clemson wouldn't leave," he snarled. I stayed silent. "And today at the pub you ignored me," he playfully slapped my leg. "Now it's Sunday night and we both have to be at work in the morning. So what now?" he asked.

"I don't know," I shrugged. My mind was blank. I kept thinking about when Valdosta dumped me. I invited him up to my apartment and he said no, that we needed to separate and let things marinate. That's what I wanted in this moment. I wanted to leave, let the dust settle and have time to sort out my feelings.

He tilted his head to the side and tisked. "You still think this was a mistake, don't you?"

Yes. "No."

But I already know this was a mistake, because I just put myself in a prime situation to get hurt. Your twenties are for making mistakes though. Thank god I got one week left.

"At least you can cross 'sleeping with the enemy' off your list of things to do before you're 30," he chuckled.

The tension broke and I laughed. I shook my head, "You know, I think you are my first."

I just don't know yet if this was a good mistake or a bad mistake.