What’s that supposed to mean? I ask back.

I saw you get a little weird when I mentioned hanging out again. You clammed up then abruptly left.

I type and delete. Type and delete. I’m caught between wanting to apologize, deny, and explain myself all at the same time. Meanwhile, he fires off another text.

I want you to know I wasn’t trying to be forward. We can hang, I’d like that. Or we don’t have to if you don’t want to. But we SHOULD clear the freakin’ air.

A few seconds go by. Am I supposed to say something? Thankfully, he picks the text convo back up. Unfortunately, it’s by stating the obvious...or rather the obviously swept under the rug: We kissed, Charlotte.

I inhale deeply and tuck my hair behind my ears as I wait to see where this conversation is going.

It was a long time ago, we were young, we were grieving, and I’m sure the Jack and Cokes had something to do with it. Bottom line: it happened, it was a mistake, and it meant nothing. Can we agree on that and move on?

Yes, that’s right. I kissed Brian. Or he kissed me. You be the judge.

I wanted to be alone that night—that’s the ironic part. But I knew it was physically impossible to get what I needed done on my own. That’s where Brian—or more like, Brian’s Jeep—comes into the picture.

His Wrangler was parked in my driveway, ready to be loaded with moving boxes to be shuttled from my nearly empty house in Highland Park to my rental apartment in Studio City. Brian was helping me bubble wrap dishes while we nursed our second third Jack and Cokes of the night. The next thing I know, Brian’s hands were cradling my neck and we were kissing. And not just a quick peck on the lips à la Dodger Stadium, but a passionate, albeit sloppy, kiss with tongue and hands where they shouldn’t have been, my shirt off and bra unhooked. I’m still not sure if it was the grief or the booze or the combo of both, but I don’t how else to explain.

As quickly as it happened, I stopped it. I clutched my shirt and bra to my chest and ran off to the bathroom. From behind a locked door and a stream of tears, I told him to go. He begged me to come out—said he was sorry and that I couldn’t finish the move on my own. I refused his help, shouting louder for him to leave.

I reread his text. I’m not sure how I feel about him boiling that night down to one convenient little thesis statement, but it’s nice to know that this can be it on the conversation about that if I just let it be. We can drop it, which sounds and feels a lot better than just completely ignoring it, if I’m being honest.

OK. Deal, I send back.

I agree that it was a mistake. I’m not sure, though, if it meant nothing.