It’s Sunday and I promised my friend that I’d go visit her and her baby. Again. Instead of hauling ass to NYC, I remain huddled under covers, snuggling up to my man’s warmth.
“Morning, boo,” I whisper sleepily. It’s the only time of day where I don’t speak like a typical Dominican. That’s loudly. He caresses my face. I ain’t going anywhere, I think.
We spend the day indoors, watching football (yes, I do that now) and eating ice cream. He has a stash of chocolate eclairs just for me. I cook dinner as I often do. This time I make potatoes and baked chicken. And to his red futon we go, where we spend the afternoon and evening, giggling, cuddling, and stealing kisses while rooting for the NY Giants, although they’re on a losing streak.
So I don’t see my friend or her newborn baby. I don’t text her to cancel. I choose to be that girl, the one who hibernates with her significant other on a cold winter night. Over the last 5 months, I’ve chosen to be that girl and spend my weekends with Boo in Long Island. This isn’t the first time I’ve “forgotten” to text a friend when we had plans. This isn’t the first time I’ve canceled.
And I feel bad. I do. I text my friend an apology 24 hours later. I am honest. I wanted to spend the weekend with Boo, I say. She understands because she knows this is what it feels like to be in love. “That is what made this baby girl,” she replies and sends along a photo of her newborn.
Yes, this is what it feels like to be in love. This is why I am that girl. The one that I once disliked and didn’t understand. The one that I made fun of for being all about her man. The one that angered me because she flaked one too many times. The one that I envied because I desired to feel the same reciprocal love that she felt in her relationship. I am now that girl, and I embrace her gladly.