31. Do You Wanna Try Again?
We were back at it—same grocery store, same text exchange. I asked C if he wanted me to grab food again for church, and he said he’d meet me there. I gave a time. He beat me to it, which, let’s be honest, is wildly off-brand for him. But hey, miracles happen.
So we walked the aisles together again. It’s becoming a strange little ritual, the kind that feels normal and sacred all at once. It’s not dating. It’s not distance. It’s something in between—a soft limbo with snack options.
Afterward, we chatted in the parking lot for ten minutes. Not because we had to, but because we could. Because being near each other still feels familiar—like breathing in a place you used to live.
Then church.
Then Bible study.
Then pickleball.
Then swimming. (Yes. It was a full day. Yes. I wore a bikini. Yes. I looked smokin’. Yes. This becomes relevant.)
Now, I wasn’t exactly paying close attention to C the whole time. I couldn’t. I would not allow myself to ogle the suddenly shirtless hottie in front of me, so I focused on the other people and tried to enjoy the day. I was mostly successful… but he’s hot. Sue me. Anyway, I think the feeling was mutual, because I definitely caught him passing a few glances my way.
And then came the Junebug moment. I found one crawling on the ground and picked it up. It promptly struck a dramatic little bug yoga pose on my hand, and out loud I asked why it was doing that. Without missing a beat, C said: “It probably thinks you’re cute.”
At the time, I didn’t think anything of it. But later, my friend—who’s known C for a while—said, “He would never say that to me.”
And it hit me: He said it easily. Casually. But that wasn’t nothing. That was a soft opening. A safe way to say something real without the risk of it echoing.
Later, we were talking about hammocks and how there was a spot nearby where they could be hung. C made a passing comment that he had his hammock in the car, and I said, “Oh, I have mine too.”
Without missing a beat, he said: “I could string them both up… and we could… not lay together.” Then he laughed awkwardly and added, “Just so everyone knows that we wouldn’t be laying together.”
Here’s the thing: no one was listening to our conversation. And even if we had hung up both hammocks, no one would’ve assumed anything. Our friends know us well enough. So... who exactly was he clarifying that for? Because you don’t rush to draw a line unless part of you noticed how close that line almost got crossed. You don’t clarify what you’re not doing unless a tiny part of you considered it—even if only for a second.
Later on, during a quieter moment, he asked what I’d been up to that week. Just casual catching up—until he added: “I noticed you were in Augusta the other day.” And I froze a little. Because… how would he know that?
We still have each other’s locations from when we dated. It started for safety reasons—he wanted to be able to find me in case something happened with my health and I couldn’t call him. But after the breakup, we never turned it off. So yeah, he still has mine. I still have his.
And there are only two ways to see someone’s location on an iPhone:
You open the Find My app.
You open the text thread and check under their name.
That’s it.
I didn’t get to Augusta until 9:30 p.m. I left around 9:30 a.m. the next day. I was there for twelve hours. Eight of those, I was asleep.
So… he looked. And then—whether he meant to or not—he told me.
It wasn’t a big moment on the outside. But it landed with that quiet weight—the kind that only registers when someone gives themselves away just a little. You don’t notice someone’s location unless you care. You don’t mention it unless some part of you wants them to know you were looking.
As the day wrapped up, we started saying our goodbyes. I gave a couple friends front hugs. Then I got to C, and just as I reached for him, I panicked. Oh right. Side hugs only. We’ve established this. So I awkwardly twisted mid-hug into some kind of half-frontal, half-side disaster. Probably the worst hug I’ve ever given. Maybe the worst hug anyone’s ever given.
But C didn’t flinch. He held on anyway. Didn’t let go. We all laughed. And then, through the laughter, he looked at me and said: “Do you wanna try again?”
We were talking about a hug.
But my heart heard something else.
Because the truth is—I do. I would.
I’d try again in a heartbeat. Try the long drives, the phone calls, the quiet Sundays. Try grocery store conversations and coffee we never finished. Try to be softer, braver, more myself.
But I know that’s not what he meant. It was just a hug. Just a joke. Just a moment.
Still… that moment stayed with me.
Because maybe the saddest thing about all of this is how close we still are—Close enough for inside jokes and accidental touches and soft compliments wrapped in bug metaphors—But not close enough to say what we’re really feeling.
So no, I didn’t say it out loud. I just nodded and laughed and gave him the hug. But if he had asked me differently—really asked—The answer would’ve been yes.
Yes, I want to try again.
Even if it’s awkward. Even if it’s scary.
But for now, I’ll keep showing up. I’ll keep laughing at weird hugs and catching my breath in the in-between. I’ll keep listening for the unsaid things, the tiny moments that speak louder than they should.
And if he ever really means it—If he ever looks me in the eye and asks, not as a joke, but as a choice—
Then yes.
I’ll try again.
Every time.
Call me lovesick. Call me foolish. Call me whatever you want.
But I know what my heart wants, and unfortunately, all it wants right now is him.
- Cheesecake
