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I’ve been crawling out of my skin, doing my best to stay busy and keep my mind occupied. The fact that I can’t tell my friends about what happened today is driving me up the damn wall. I want to be able to talk to someone about it. Anyone!

God, it’s so frustrating.

What’s worse is knowing it’ll never happen again but that I really want it to.

As if to add insult to injury, my phone pings with the fourth text message Noah has sent me today .

I groan outwardly, snatching my phone off the counter to stare laser beams into his contact name, hoping it explodes or something.

I should really just block his number at this point, so that’s exactly what I do.

I set my phone face down on the counter, busying myself with organizing Chelsea’s mug collection.

It’s nothing more than a hoarder's paradise of mismatched ceramics with holiday characters, funny sayings, and my personal favourite a mug with nothing but a picture of her ex-boyfriend’s cat.

She dumped him and stole the mug, almost took the cat too.

My mind betrays me, leaving me to wonder if the fur sometimes stuck to Rafael’s clothing is from a cat or a dog. Definitely a dog, I decide. He could never pass for a cat daddy.

Why am I even thinking about him at all?

I just hope that practice on Monday isn’t too awkward. It would be my own fault if it were, and like Rafael said, it was a moment of weakness. A brief lapse in judgement.

The awkwardness of it all will pass as we both forget about what happened, and then we can move on with our lives.