Here's a personal question.

“So you said you have about two crushes a year. Am I one of those?”

I felt my face ignite as I scrambled to gather the pieces of my quickly crumbling composure. I looked out the window. I squirmed in my seat. I leaned forward and searched his face for a lead. He was looking me straight in the eyes, his face stoic and unreadable. “Uh…,” I awkwardly laughed, “how am I supposed to answer that question?”

I swear he instructed me to tell the truth, but I also remember him allowing me a pass. A pass?! As if my stammering, nervous laughter, and flushed face hadn’t already given me away. We were seated across from each other, an odd distance apart, against the wall of a small and empty restaurant, quiet jazzy tunes filling in the background. Our empty bowls, crumpled napkins, and Tillamook cheese wrappers lay piled atop our table. I looked out the window again, glancing at the cars driving past, desperately trying to find safety. I was trapped. I was being forced to confess something I was not prepared for nor ever had the intention of confessing.

I felt like an idiot. “Maybe,” I lamely admitted. Maybe? What was I thinking? Was I trying to maintain deniability? Was I clinging to some small vestige of pride? Quite possibly it was purely instinctual. What child, when caught stealing a cookie from the cookie jar replies to his mother’s shrewd questioning, “Yes, Mother, I stole this cookie. It looked delicious and I couldn’t resist”? Why couldn’t I just own up to the fact? “Yes, I have a crush on you. You look delicious and I can’t resist.” (Mom…Dad…I don’t really think that way.) Perhaps I should just be grateful that I didn’t answer, “I don’t know.”

“I want to make sure that I’m not leading you on,” he explained. “I’m not in a position to pursue anything right now.”

I took a drink from my small plastic cup even though there was nothing left but ice and tried to cover my tracks, “Well, yeah, it’s more like a…pretend crush. You were in California and I knew nothing was going to happen.” It didn’t occur to me until later that I should have made it clear that not once did I think he was interested—that there really was no reason for his extra precautions.

He continued to enlighten me. He claimed that he valued our friendship and enjoyed talking to me. He pointed out that he can’t talk to other girls like he can talk to me. I told him that was nice to hear. What I really meant was, “It’s nice to hear you don’t hate me but that’s kind of small consolation…since I knew that already.”

Conversation transitioned to other topics. Admittedly, I couldn’t focus. I felt exposed, trying to keep my head above the floodwaters while he sat, untouchable, in his “I don’t like you” tower. I wondered why he felt the need to throw down the gauntlet on my seemingly not-so-obvious, completely mild, and almost laughable pretend crush.

We left the restaurant and he apologized if I was blind-sided by his question, as if I could have seen that coming somehow.

“I thought it would be better if it was all out in the open,” he defended. I mumbled something about honesty being the best policy. We got in my car and I drove him to the airport. Conversation was intermittent but lighthearted and promises were exchanged that we would remain friends. Our goodbye was short and semi-sweet. He was going back to California, pretend crushing all of those mild hopes and laughable dreams.