I thought it was so sweet that my uncle texted to tell me Happy Valentine’s Day.
He’s the most fabulous uncle ever, always ready with words of wisdom like, “Oh, dahlin, it is always easier to ask for forgiveness than for permission.” or “Never, never stand next to Little Richard. I still haven’t gotten his makeup out of my new white linen shirt.”
So I texted back to say I miss him and I love him and that I hoped he was having a happy Valentine’s Day, too.
“Do you know who this is?”
Strange. Until I realized that the first message was not from Uncle Jeffrey, but from just Jeffrey.
Crap. Just Jeffrey who orbited for a while three years ago, before I moved. Who more recently sent a text declaring that he regretted never asking me out when he had a chance. Who invariably uses too many exclamation points and is needy and desperate and likes Thomas Kincaid.
Who I never should have answered. Who I never should have accidentally told I love.
So I did what anyone would have done: I finished my snack, ignored texts for the rest of the afternoon, made out with my boyfriend, and wished my uncle a very happy Valentine’s Day.