: Chapter 22

I’m putting myself on a diet. It’s going to be tough, but I’m cutting out all Amelias. Today got out of hand. I think I touched that woman at least a million different times, and each time I told myself to walk away and go do something different, I ended up closer to her somehow. We even made dinner together tonight. DINNER. Well, I guess I made dinner and Amelia helped by sprinkling salt and pepper into the soup when I asked her to. We had chicken soup. Like a little old couple who’s been married for thirty years, we sat on the couch side by side and watched because that was all that was on my basic channels at the time, slurping our soup in tandem.

Amelia is an interactive viewer. She yelled her answers at the TV, and I tried not to stare at her the whole evening. So I guess you could say we were both busy tonight. And then when her arm brushed mine while dropping our empty bowls into the sink, I almost rolled my eyes at how my body reacted. Like an electric shock took hold of me. An arm brush should do that sort of thing to me.

I realized tonight that I’m in real danger here of developing feelings for her. That’s a problem, because admittedly, I’m that loyal guy who develops feelings and then falls way too hard way too fast. I don’t know how to keep things casual. I hate casual. It’s pointless to me. Like city girls wearing Carhartt beanies.

So yeah, I’m keeping myself cooped up in my bedroom for the rest of the night where I can’t do any more damage to myself. I’m in bed with a book in my lap. Except, I read the same paragraph four times. I’m distracted by my own addiction to Amelia. Every time I hear her bare feet padding down the hallway, I twitch. I cannot let myself touch that doorknob.

But I hear her walking again so I lower my book. My heart rate picks up when I notice her shadow under the crack in my door. Also, I notice that I forgot to fully close the damn thing. It’s resting against the doorjamb so she can’t see inside, but still. One little press of her finger to the door and it would glide right open.

She’s standing there and I know she’s contemplating opening it. I don’t think I want her to. I’ve kept my room purposely closed off from her because I didn’t want her getting to know me at all. This room feels too personal. Too much of in here. I like controlling the part of me that Amelia gets to know, and if she came in here, it would be a slippery slope to telling her everything.

Her shadow disappears and I breathe again. She wouldn’t just barge in here. I raise my book again and tell myself to focus on reading.