“And thenhewalks in.” I scoff. “This guy. This…Andrew. Out of nowhere. Type No. 45. Heart in his hand. And I hate it. I fuckin’hateit.”
I swallow,
my heart drop-kicking my bones.
“He texted me something,” I whisper?—
“And you wouldn’t believe the shit he said.”
“What did he say?”
I close my eyes.
“I wanna see you,”I quote,
mouth dry. “No period.”
Silence.
Then her inhale. A slow, professional one.
“Sounds like he wants to see you,” she says.
“RIGHT?”I hiss. “Who says that? Who the fuck textswanna see youwith no punctuation, no period? Like there’s no end to theseeing me. He mean… forever? Without an agenda? No games. No angle. Just me. He’s not playin’. And I know he’s serious ‘cause he’s still… around. Still… all up in here, Mitch. Like a psycho. Ruining everything. I had a system. It worked.”
She waits through my spiral.
“Now I’m hidin’ behind a shower curtain, sweating my ass off ‘cause I care now. Apparently. Against my will. And I don’t care about guys, I care if they leave me the hell alone. And he hasn’t.”
The silence settles long enough to make it uncomfortable.
She’s doing it on purpose.
“How does that make you feel?”
How does that make you feel,my brain mocks.
“Unsafe.” No hesitation.
“Why?”
“Because I like it,” I breathe.
“And I didn’t realize until right now.”
The confession hits the air,
echoing back at me.
I tip my head back. “God, you’re annoying.”
“It’s okay to be scared,” she says,
gentle now. “Vulnerable is scary.”
“No.” I shoot down.
“No. Uh-uh. This ain’t about me anymore.”I wipe sweat off my brow with the edge of Celie’s phone case. “You’re not grasping the severity of what I’m dealing with here. Three words, three syllables, Dr. Mitchell: Post-nut cry.”
