Twice Shy

by Sarah Hogle

A little bit of friendliness doesn’t mean anything more than that. I’m a danger to myself, my imagination running away.

Maybell, no, HE LIKES YOU BACK, GIRL. DON'T SECOND GUESS YOURSELF, HE'S CRAZY ABOUT YOU!

my Achilles’ heel is attacked—he’s turned on Christmas music at top volume, sleigh bells riiiiing following me down the stairs.

If you won't marry him, I will, because he is an absolute BABE.

He made me a tree-topper. It’s even better than a store-bought one, with its cute little irregular edges . . . I have no willpower at all.

Neither do I, because I think I just found my new book boyfriend.

I’ve identified the font they used in your postcard as Fanal, in case you wanted to use it in brochures or advertising. Thought maybe you’d be interested, since you like the postcard so much. I tried my best to color-match the house. If you want to imitate sunset, we’ll need a few different colors.

This man is fictional and that is a damn shame.

Wesley’s wearing a knitted white cardigan this morning,

STOOOOOOOOP

“I think someone a little more serious, a little more grounded,” I make myself finish, “to balance me out. Someone understanding. Dependable.” He’s quiet for a spell. And then: “Hm.”

Lordy loo, I'm a goner.

He reaches for me with both hands and slowly, carefully slides my glasses off my face. I stare as he peels up the hem of his shirt, exposing an inch of golden skin, and uses it to wipe the spots of rain off my lenses. He hands them back, skin warm against my freezing fingers.

OH MY GOD DUDE ARE YOU SERIOUS STOP WITH THIS

“A bell chimes,” he says lowly, “when we open the door.”

He is officially the perfect man. RIP me.

For once—once—that anticipation, that tingling on the nape of my neck, that intoxicating awareness injected straight into my veins, isn’t vicarious. It doesn’t belong to an imaginary Maybell in a fantasy, a guess at what she might feel. It’s mine. And I think: At what point did my happy place stop being a dream and start being the person in front of me?

gsiohesjfd

My brain zings in a billion directions. He’s mad at you, it suggests. You did something wrong.

This is me.

I overcompensate for his quietness by being extra chatty.

This is SO me.

“Good. Write it down so that you don’t forget. Carry it in your pocket. I loved you yesterday, I love you now, and I’ll love you in the morning. When I come home in five days, I’ll love you then, too, and I’ll tell you so to your face.”

“This is what you and I do. We take turns being brave.”

This is so reminiscent of my own relationship.