I pause halfway down the grocery aisle, my hand hovering where my phone burns a hole in my trouser pocket. Anxious thoughts crowd my brain. Was I cold when we left? Should I have sent her a message since we parted ways? Why am I horrible at all this? And why is a ten-hours-old fake relationship already on track to be more of a headache than the last real relationship I was in? A voice on the overhead speakers announcing a sale on ground beef snaps me out of my overthinking. “No texting,” I tell myself, pushing the cart. “No need to overcompensate. No reason to act like an overeager, lovesick
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