Chapter Twenty-Two
Tayler
Iblink at my phone, then scoff.Nowhe texts?
Luke:Hey, babe.
I’ve got a myriad of emotions running through my mind right now. First, I’m angry. A week has passed, and that’s the text he finally chooses to send? It’s sad. Sad that it took him a week to reach out. But I’m relieved. I’m tired of thinking about him, and I’m tired of wondering what’s going on between the two of us.
I decide to ignore it rather than get into a pissing match with him about the reasons why he’s such a dick. I need to focus on my final project, but I haven’t been able to concentrate long enough to put anything together. So, now that he’s sent me a message, I’m determined to let Luke stew on it for a while.
Pulling out my fabric swatches, I curl up on my couch and begin to work through my ideas. Not fifteen minutes later, my phone chimes. I squeeze my eyes shut, willing myself not to look, but my curiosity gets the best of me.
Luke: I know you’re angry.
Oh really? HeknowsI’m angry? How could he? He’s been MIA for a week. God, I’m definitely pissed. Screw the other emotions.
Sucking in a deep breath, I decide to ignore that text as well. I was finally getting something done.
Luke:The thing is, the longer I waited, the harder it was.
What the eff?
Luke:So I decided to risk it.
Risk it? Why can’t the guy just apologize? It’s like he’s unable to do the common sense thing.
Luke:I can tell you’re not going to respond, so I’m going to keep going.
Luke:Have you heard from your stalker?
I can’t even….
Luke:Let me know.
Luke:Hey, I need help at the bar over break. You interested?
I can’t do this. I can’t keep staring down at my phone waiting for his next message. I’ve got work to do. Although, I do need a job. I’ll find one too—just not at Cy’s Roost. Pressing the power button on the phone, I watch the screen go black.
I wish I could tell you that it made me feel better, but it didn’t. All it did was make me constantly wonder what else he wrote. So, cutting my losses, I turn it back on.
Luke:I’m gonna let you do what you need to do until I get home from work. Then I’m calling you. I hope you pick up the phone. We need to talk.
We need to talk?
Four words that hold so much meaning—and create so much doubt.
I hate those four words.
* * *
My phone ringsat two in the morning. When his name flashes across the screen, I sigh and pick up my phone because I’m a damn glutton for punishment, and also because I can’t get “We need to talk” out of my head.
“Hello?”
“I’m downstairs. Can you come let me in?”
Our landlord, Vic, finally put a secure lock on the front door after my ordeal with Dylan. To say the other tenants of the building were unhappy is an understatement, but Vic’s words are final around here, and everyone’s been doing a decent job making sure the door’s locked up.
