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“You were holding it the entire time?”
I sag. “I was holding it the entire time…”
“That’s totally normal. Whenever I’m stressed, my phone winds up in all kinds of weird places, and I’m always losing my glasses when they’re on my face. Treasure your eyesight, Schwester. Needing a subscription to see is just cruel.”
Maybe I am overreacting because I might be about to see a guy that I admire. A guy that I write romantic self-insert fanfiction about.
Okay.
Yeah.
Everything is fine.
I’m just a creep, and my brain is attempting self-destruction in an effort to spare me from the inevitable crippling embarrassment.
My self-awareness is what’s making me itchy. I know my intentions aren’t entirely pure. Even if I’m not trying to compare myself to this goddess of a girl he’s in love with, I am actively trying to befriend someone who stars in kiss scenes that I’ve written.
“You’re right,” I murmur.
“Anxiety can be a real jerk. Do you need me to come out there and kick it anime-main-character style? Not DBZ. Think, One Punch Man.”
I cannot. For while I am vaguely familiar with Dragon Ball Z’s existence, I have no idea what One Punch Man is. “That’s okay. I know you hate driving, and I’ll be visiting you guys next month for Mom’s birthday anyway. You can save me anime-main-character style then.”
The sound of a dog barking explodes through the speaker, and Alana yells something in Japanese before snapping, “We are not under attack. Hush.” Alana’s tone shifts. “Did you get time off work?”
I haven’t asked yet. Asking is the hard part. I’m positive Racheal will rejoice over the concept of my taking care of myself, but something inside me revolts at the idea of asking for…anything. “I might need therapy.”
“Oh? Why?”
I blink ahead, pausing in the middle of the woods. Therapy. I think Willow knows a very good therapist. I doubt I’ll work up the courage to ask her about it, though. Because…yeah.
Why were we even talking about therapy?
Did I say something I shouldn’t have when I went out to dinner with her? I thought we had a good time. We even got ice cream afterward at a quaint little sweets shop downtown.
“Brittny?” Alana calls, snapping me out of the fog.
“I don’t know. I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”
“Nothing.” Her tone comes harder than usual before forcibly softening. “Nothing is wrong with you, okay? We both just grew up in an environment that was a little suffocating. We’re fine and handling the backlash of it all in different ways. You’re doing great.”
I want to believe her. I want to believe her just like I want to tell her everything about Doliver, everything about the best not-date ever, everything about how he won’t text me back now, everything about how I’m terrified I’m about to see him again in just a few minutes. But I know what she’ll say if I do tell her everything.
Forget about him.
He’s not worth my time.
If a guy makes even one regular mistake, she says they simply don’t meet her standards and dumps them. I’ve been in the room when she’s broken up with high school boyfriends before on account of, and I quote, a distressing lack of fan club. Apparently, if you’re a guy worth dating in a high school setting, you better have an obsessed fan club. Or a deep, dark secret.
I honestly don’t know.
We’re both probably insane.
“Did you hear me?” Alana asks, drawing my attention back to the possibility she’s been talking this entire time. It’s loud over there. The dogs are barking again, and I guess she’s been unsuccessful in getting them to hush.
Squeezing my eyes shut, I crouch in the middle of the forest clearing and drop my forehead against my knees. “Maybe. I’m sorry.”
“B, are you okay?”
