“What if they don’t? You can’t play the what-if game, Hayvin, because there’s always going to be another what-if behind the one you ask.”
“So, I just have to jump and trust that he’ll catch me? He dropped me the last time, Titan.”
“I know, love bug. Fuck, I hate the way you hurt. As someone who knows what it’s like to lose you, he’s realizing how much he fucked up. We men, we’re not always the smartest or the quickest bunch, but most of us try to make amends when we fuck up. He’s not being pushy, and he’s giving you space to think about what you want. You don’t have to jump, Hayvin, but I truly believe you’ll be safe sticking a toe in to get some answers.”
His words echo in my mind long after we hang up, as I slip out of my dress and into pajamas.
I do want answers, and there’s only one person who can give them to me.
It’s time to make him answer.
He probably never expected I’d do it this late at night—or early morning, depending on how you see it.
Too bad, so sad for him.
I Want Answers
Hayvin
Callinganexforanswers while running on fumes, nerves, a splash of whiskey, and a storm of anger is a recipe for disaster. That cocktail never ends well. Then again, maybe this time will surprise me.
I prowl from room to room, the phone pressed to my ear, each ring echoing through the empty house.
Do I want him to answer? Not answer?
Do I want to tell him to sit on a cactus until it hurts?
I have no clue, and the uncertainty is clawing at my sanity.
I used to be decisive, until Alek crashed into my world and turned certainty into chaos with a single demand to see him.
“Hayvin?”
Alek’s husky voice slides through the phone, and goosebumps ripple down my arms.
“What game are you playing?” I demand.
The sound of his sheets rustling sends my mind wandering somewhere it absolutely shouldn’t go.
Bad girl, Hayvin.
“Game? What are you talking about?”
“The flowers. The card. The information you absolutely do know about my career after pretending you didn’t.” I shout. “How did you know about the ceremony and the awards?”
“I know everything about you, Hayvin.”
“Bullshit,” I spit.
“Ask me anything,” he pleads.
“What’s my favorite color?” I ask, honestly, not expecting him to know this.
“You’re angry, so right now, it’s orange. You always associate that color with anger or rage. Red when you’re writing or singing because you feel passionate about them. Yellow, purple, and pink are when you’re happy. You always alternate them. Black when you hit the darker part of you, blue when you’re sad because it reminds you of the ocean to try to make your mood lighter.”
His answer knocks the breath from me, and I find myself pressed against the wall, stunned.
“Favorite food?” I ask.
