Page 30 of Definitely Not a Thing

His smile dropped – not into a frown, just… focus. He was actually listening. “From the too-muchness?”

“Exactly,” I nodded. “And I don’t want to end up in some weird ass, toxicthingbecause I got caught up in a moment instead of actually processing.”

“Fair enough. What does processing look like?”

“Uhh… feeling my feelings instead of running from them,” I answered. “I remember talking about it with my therapist some years back – any time we have negative emotions, we want to rush past it, or push it behind something to avoid it, but that just prolongs it. I have to let myself be sad about the breakup. Mad about it.Hurt.”

“That apply to other stuff too? Just gotta sit in it and feel it?”

I nodded. “Yeah, I think so.”

“How do you make sure you’re not like… wallowing, though?” he asked as we approached a crosswalk. “What’s the balance?”

“That is a great question I do not know the answer to,” I laughed. “I wish I did.”

“Yeah, me too,” Calvin chuckled. “Sitting in it just feels so…”

“Bad?” I offered, and he nodded.

“Shit is draining.”

“That’s kinda the point though, right? To wring all the bullshit out, and then… replenish?”

“With what?”

I shrugged as we crossed the street. “I don’t know – that depends on the person. Whatever makes you feel… full.”

“Got it. So.. Family. Basketball. Flirting with my pretty ass new neighbor…”

“Damn – third on the priority list, huh?”

“There’s room to move up in ranks.”

I shook my head. “I don’t think I want to even know what the promotion tract looks like there.”

“Painless,” he swore. “I mean… unless you’reinto?—”

“Okay this is my stop,” I spoke over him, laughing as I pointed to Urban Grind. “I need to get some work done.”

He chuckled, shifting his bag up onto his shoulder a little more securely. “Yeah, me too. Headed to PT.”

“Physical therapy?” I asked, confused. I’ddefinitelyseen him in action on that basketball court beside our building. He was fast, confident, and often shirtless – a breathtaking example of what God was capable of creating to be quite frank. “Did you hurt yourself or something?”

“Old nagging injury,” he explained, moving to cross the street alone. “No big deal, just keeping on top of it so I don’t end up in a bad spot with it.”

“Oh, gotcha. Well… good luck with that.”

“And good luck with work,” he said, with a parting wave.

I didnotwatch him cross the street.

I went inside.

And watched him travel the sidewalk from there instead.

Like a proper lady.

But then I was off that, and onto what I’d gotten up to do – work. I ordered my latte and pastry and then found myself a little spot where I could settle into my task list. Before I knew it, an hour had passed, and Shia was slipping into the other seat at the table I’d chosen, with her own coffee in hand.