I broke down and contacted him. It had been a month. I figured he would at least want to be friends. He did.
He also wanted to rush home from his weekend away and ask me on a last-minute date on Saturday night. I said yes. I didn't realize I was so quick to forgive.
His car was playing Michael Buble when he picked me up. What are the chances that he was just listening to that? Slim. I was tickled. (Not literally. That would be weird.)
It took ten minutes into the date with a group of people we barely knew (he barely knew; I knew not at all) for the romantic tension to be shattered with a "How'd you guys meet?"
And I knew he wasn't going to hold my hand. Because he was seeing me as Sister What's-Her-Name again, even if only for a moment.
I guess it didn't matter that I changed out of that shirt I wore as a sister missionary.
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