Page 37 of Tripped Up

Clearing my throat, I try to recalibrate. I should say something here. I need to change the subject. What do I say?

I’m saved by the waiter arriving with our food. Elsy pulls away. Am I imagining the reluctance on her face?

The food is as good as I was led to believe, and from the way Elsy digs into her entrée, she seems to agree. The blissed-out expression on her face when she drags her salmon through the chimichurri sauce makes my pants inexplicably tight.

She talks about her students and the upcoming performances with the symphony. I mention my upcoming games. It’s all very surface level, a welcome relief after the earlier heaviness.

And as we walk out of the restaurant and I set my hand on the small of her back, she smiles up at me, and maybe, just maybe, I wonder if this could be the start of something new for us.

thirteen

Elsy

After lunch, Wyatt drove us out to Lady Bird Lake. We walked a lap around the lake before he convinced me to take out one of the paddleboats.

Turns out, my propensity for carsickness extends to boats, so we quickly ended that adventure.

Instead, we got paletas from a nearby vendor with a pushcart full of popsicles and sat on a park bench for two hours. It didn’t feel like it was all that long at the time.

When he dropped me off at my apartment at the end of the afternoon, I was surprisingly energized for having spent a day with someone else. Usually, spending time with people is a drain on my energy, no matter how much I love them. Even Bex and Mitch drive me nuts after a few hours, and I need some time to decompress.

But with Wyatt… I don’t feel that need. In fact, I almost invited him up to hang out more until he said something about hitting the gym and I noped out of there.

Instead, I cleaned my apartment, did two loads of laundry, and read a book cover to cover. Now all that’s done with and I’m… lonely.

I’m lonely.

By nature, I’m a homebody. I like to be at my apartment, and I like to be myself, and I don’t think those are bad things. While I’m perfectly capable of entertaining myself—with a good book, with crochet, watching a movie, making a homemade spa day—I’ve never felt the need to be around someone else all the time.

Plus, I’ve always had roommates before. This is the first time I’m not living with anyone else. To my surprise, I kind of miss it. It was nice knowing I could venture out of my room and Bex or Vanessa would be there to chat or watch a movie together. I always knew I could text any of the twenty girls in our book club and someone would be down to grab dinner or drinks.

I’m used to having a social network. And now I don’t.

After the symphony chose to keep my cheating, emotionally manipulative ex and dumped me to “keep the peace,” I’m not about to double-dip with the symphony, not again. I’ve learned my lesson, thank you very much.

Having moved crisscross the country a few times, I’ve always known someone in my city or had a reason for being there. College, everyone was new. Then grad school, we were all working for the same degree. Or my first job in Chicago, close to where my cousins lived. And in Boston, I had Bex, who introduced me to her friend group, where they welcomed me with open arms.

My social media is pretty locked down. Between the symphony and my being associated with Mitch, I’m a private person who is tangentially connected to the spotlight. There have been plenty of people over the years who have tried to use me to get ahead. Now I only accept friends I know in person to have access to my profile.

But I’ll never make real-life friends here in town if I don’t try.

So I type out a public post, looking for women in their thirties who like romance books and watching hockey. And then I set the location to Austin and click submit.

Stuffing my phone into my bra, I’m determined not to look at it. Instead, I vacuum the living room and dust the bookshelves. I make a pot of Kraft mac and cheese for dinner because I’m still a kid at heart, even if my driver’s license says otherwise.

But then my phone buzzes. Pulling it out of my boob pocket, I blink at the screen in surprise. There are seven comments on my post in the first ten minutes.

Laughing to myself, I start to tap out replies. Maybe this will work. I’m not going to get my hopes up, not yet. I still have to meet these internet strangers to figure out if they’re serial killers or not. Let’s hope not.

This could be the start of something new.

* * *

Wyatt has two back-to-back games, first against Anaheim, then Edmonton. I have a performance on the night of the first game so I make a point to attend the second. I’m not sure why it’s so important to me that I’m there, but I guess he is my only friend here until my new online friends can meet in person. And I’m definitely not inviting them to come watch a game until I can be sure they won’t freak out at the idea of hanging out with a professional hockey player.

Anyone else would kill for my usual seat behind the bench, so close I can practically see the sweat drip down the back of the players’ necks. Even after spending the better part of the last decade around the league, the electricity that floods my veins when the puck drops doesn’t get old.

During pregame skate, Wyatt grinned at me and waved, and Henry flipped me a puck. I gave it to the kid a few rows behind me, which made her day, and which made Henry shake his head. But he was smiling, so I don’t think he was too upset.