RB’s email left the ball in my court about switching our conversation to texting. I mulled over the decision for three days, weighing the pros and cons before finally relenting to the idea. She wasn’t aggressive in her suggestion. In fact, I haven’t heard a peep from her since, which I find slightly worrisome.

RB, whoever she is, is the only answer to my predicament right now. I need her. Badly. Up to this point, she’s come off as laid back. Cool. Nothing about her dialogue has caused me to panic. I’m starting to hesitantly believe this farce might work.

I don’t sit around all day, constantly refreshing my inbox, hoping one from her arrives and ignoring my responsibilities. That would be absurd. I do enjoy hearing from her, though.

And, sure, I get excited when I see her name pop up.

Happy, too.

It’s not a big deal.

I’ve never been one to put in such effort to casually converse with a woman. Normally it’s all done in person, indulging in time-killing bullshit until it’s been long enough where we can climb into a cab and go back to my apartment without feeling like total strangers while we fuck into the late hours of the night.

Now look at me. I just spent 30 minutes scrolling through Google, searching for the best opening lines to use in a text message for the first time. That’s literally what I typed into the search bar, not wanting to ooze total desperation when I speak to her next, no matter how dire my situation is becoming. Mild, panicked hysteria will suffice.

My mother called me yesterday, inquiring again about my date’s name for place cards.

Goddamn place cards.

I’ve been itching to ask my friends for their advice on how to handle this whole fiasco, but that would lead to questions.

Questions I don’t have the answer to.

Questions I’m not sure I want to know the answer to.

We’ll tackle that shit at a later date.

I’m out here all alone, up a creek without a paddle.

Well, might as well dive in.

My fingers type out the opener I’ve constructed and deleted no short of 15 times. I’ve argued in courtrooms and helped design some of the most lucrative contracts in baseball history, but a text message to a woman is going to be my demise.

The boys are going to have a fucking field day with me when they find out.

After six laps pacing around my kitchen island, I finally grow a pair and hit send before I can think twice and chuck the device into the garbage disposal.

JD: We’re going on a road trip.

JD: What two snacks are you bringing?

There we go. That’s not so bad, is it?

Except…

Shit.