“Be My Valentine,” She Said

It’s just another game of love.

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I had known Whitney for two years, yet our friend circles only overlapped on stray nights at the club when everyone else broke off into their own little groups. It wasn’t a rare evening where Whitney and I ended up alone, somewhat awkward, as we sipped at our drinks of choice. She was a wine girl whose cheeks flushed ever so slightly the more she drank, but I found that little quirk of hers to be endearing.

I didn’t know if she could have said anything similar about me — I barely knew how to string a sentence together around someone like her — but we ran along the usual threads of small talk. I asked her how her job was going, she laughed along at my attempts at humor, and we poked fun at the regulars we saw around the club. I didn’t mind her company at all. In fact, I probably wouldn’t have minded dating her.

But in the way of things we never broached the subject. It was as if neither of us wanted to take the chance of wounding our egos in the process. Or maybe it was all one-sided on my part, misreading the signals I thought she was sending me every time her hand brushed my arm or each moment I managed to make her giggle hard enough that she almost spat out her wine in the process.

It was as if I were in high school again, caught on the end of a string connected to…