Hot sun. Burned skin. Sand between my toes. Refreshing ocean swims. Summertime had officially begun and I couldn’t have been more excited. I always looked at summer as a fresh start; leaving all the uncertainties of the past behind in order to embark on a brand new season that exudes carefree fun.
I had been talking to Jack, texting mostly, after our meet-cute on the yacht and had even gone to visit him after my Writer’s Group one night. He texted one afternoon and invited me to come to Laguna Beach the next day to celebrate Memorial Day Weekend. I agreed, thinking I might bring a friend along with me, possibly to see if ever the slightest amount of jealousy would crop up on Jack’s behalf, but later decided to go it alone. And that’s when I realized it: I was playing “the game.”
The Game: (noun) “The idea that dating predominately revolves around subtle manipulation and power plays.”
Everyone has played “the game” before, always with the intention to get something you want, whether you’re the pursuer or the pursued. I hate the game. Always have. I’m too transparent. Why is that we can’t just tell one another we like each other, or conversely, don’t, and not play messed up head games that inevitably make you and the person you hope to end up with both feel like you’re crazy?
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