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I woke up Saturday morning and kept my eyes tightly shut, consumed with desperate prayers that when I finally let my eyelids crack that I would be faced with the familiarity of my own apartment.

I didn’t get so lucky. Since I didn’t remember getting to this apartment I instinctively knew that something awful has happened last night. That I had had too much to drink, in all likeliness had acted absurd and obnoxious and was now going to be forced to face a situation I wanted absolutely nothing to do with.

I’ve been seeing Blue for a while now. I probably should have acknowledged his presence in my life on this blog before today but I didn’t expect that this was going to end up being something and figured I could just hash it out later as things would come to an end sooner rather than later. And I guess part of me didn’t want to jinx it. What did I do to even deserve an actual nice guy?

I’m a sex writer and have a blog where I openly discuss my life and the events surrounding it. What man in their right mind would want to date a person who does what I do? Obviously, I wouldn’t want to be with a man who didn’t accept my work and acknowledge the value that it brings to the world without dismissing it as vicious smut., but I didn’t really think there were many men out there who were actually understanding and, honestly, appreciative of my work.

But Blue is different. He cares about my writing and seems to care about me as well. I plan to post some of his writing here as he’s currently grappling with the realities of dating me: an emotionally unavailable millennial female.

I’ve resisted him as much as possible. I didn’t have any interest in having a relationship and certainly nothing serious. I guess reason has won out.

When the going gets tough it’s easier to run away and not deal with the situation than it is to actually confront it. I’ll openly admit that I am great at running. I could have a PHD in Running The Fuck Away.

Waking up this morning I laid very still for several minutes deciding what I was going to do and how I was going to make my escape from Blue’s apartment to the salvation of my walk up on the Upper West Side.

How far am I from the train, again? Is it too early to get home so I’ll have to explain what happened to PW? Would Blue wake up if I tried to sneak out? Shit, my backpack with all of my stuff was in the living room. Could I be quiet enough to get dressed and peace out?

My panicked thoughts were abruptly halted by Blue’s voice. He sounded somewhat annoyed, clearly perplexed and obviously frustrated.

We’d gone to a comedy show the night before, prefaced by a happy hour with my best friend from Paris, GH, and a bottle of wine with the steak we had at dinner. I didn’t need any more to drink at the show but I did—because I’m an asshole and have issues with limits.

Blue related what happened. A cringe-worthy mixture of obnoxious screaming and tears. I was mortified. I couldn’t even look at him.

Up until now I had nothing to lose. What the fuck did I care about this dude? Who was he to even get me to feel this shameful about my actions? I hated how vulnerable and emotionally raw I felt. I wanted out and fast.

“I’m leaving.” I declared and started putting on my clothes in a hurry, desperate to hightail it to the train even though it was raining and I had a terrible headache. “Why?” he asked. I explained that I was uncomfortable, that I didn’t want to be there anymore—the usual speech I give for why I don’t face my mistakes and instead run away and pretend nothing ever happened.

He asked me to stay. I kept getting dressed. I wasn’t staying there. Hell no. I looked at him lying there. He was confused and upset and asking me to stay despite the fact that I had been a complete jackass the night before. I didn’t understand why he was even asking me to stay. I brushed it off, curtly, as his being polite.

When he asked again I stopped in my tracks and just stared for a long moment, deep inside my head. Why was I running away from this guy? It was easy to run away before. I never gave a shit about anything enough to make it better. I didn’t have time to pick up the pieces. I just had to leave them there, messy and broken and move on to the next chapter, storing away those unwanted memories in the back of my mind. To admit that I cared meant that I would have to take action and set off on a course to (hopefully) remedy the situation.

What I felt next made my cheeks warm and sweat collect on my brow. Holy hell. I cared. I actually gave a shit. I didn’t want to run away. I wanted to mend the cracks and make it better. I wanted to fix it. And I wanted Blue. I didn’t want to never see him again as I had been planning only a few minutes earlier, as I lay plotting my escape.

I put down my things, climbed back into bed and legitimately had a real conversation. I admitted I was wrong, that I was red hot with embarrassment and sorry I behaved like such a petulant child. And what was crazier was that I meant it all.

He forgave me, which made me like him even more because it showed an amount of character uncommon in most of the men I’ve dealt with in my (almost) 24 years on this earth and nearly 5 spent in New York City. I acted like a dick, he was angry, I apologized and we both cared enough to make it better.

I call that progress. Progress for my maturity and progress for my sometimes-unmanageable pride. To admit defeat was the first step. And admitting defeat didn’t mean that I was defeated. It meant that I was a human being and human beings are flawed.

Anyway, I guess I have a boyfriend now. This is territory I haven’t been in in a very long time and I’ll admit I’m terrified while still being excited.

I’m grateful my heart wanted something enough to master the science of giving a shit.