Sorry, diary, for being such a slut. I know, I know, straight from the love of my life into a two month whatever it was, and straight from there into whatever it is now with this broken boy. I know I say this every day but can you blame me, diary? I'd met this new boy three times when me and the recent ex became me and the recent ex. My roommates asked me if there was anything they could do to cheer me up. "Yes," I said, "Call Lysander." And the fourth time we met was that night, us on the couch, this broken boy consoling a less than perfect stranger.
The last three weeks we've talked every day, spent almost every day together. He came over yesterday to help with a baking project. Our helpers dropped off one by one, and then it was just me, him, roommate, and their friend. Their friend can't hold his smoke, and started to panic at two in the morning. Lysander sprang into action, and I heard him in the other room playing counselor, his voice smooth and deep and calm. He left mid-session to grab water from my room, grinning ear to ear as he did.
When his friend calmed down and fell asleep, we were left alone again on the couch. He gestured to the pillow in the crook of his arm, and I snuggled up next to him, his arm wrapped around me, his leg tucked into mine. We'd drift in and out, fidget, rearrange, hug and sigh, drift out again. I rolled over in the middle of the night and he pushed against me, slid a hand up my side, and held me.
Here's to managing expectations.