Courtney Walsh

I notice Dallas is also copied on the email and wish I felt comfortable enough with him to reach out and ask what he thinks of Alicia’s “date” ideas. Most are things I cannot imagine Dallas doing, even if we were in love. I mean, what man wants to “sit in a bookstore and read while holding hands and drinking coffee for at least an hour”?

Because that’s number ten on this list.

Now that I think about it, I wish I did know a man who wanted to do that with me. I’d marry him on the spot.

“You’re going to be fine. I promise. I can’t control a lot, but I can make sure you don’t get left alone, or have to fend for yourself.”

Raya is almost always right.

Which means she’s sometimes wrong, I try to tell myself.

“You don’t have to worry about me either,” I say.

She doesn’t look at me. “Someone has to.”

The words reach inside of me and squeeze. Is this what it’s like to not be alone?

He turns and pulls my grandmother’s afghan off the back of the couch, then spreads it over our legs.

In my head, I think of my mom’s directive to Raya, whenever she had Jeremy over in high school. No blanket sharing! Feet on the floor! Lights on at all times!

I’m disobeying all of these rules, which meant by morning I’ll be married.