“Then why does it matter to you what I say to her?”
“Because she’s still the mother of my baby. I don’t want to come across all clingy and horny.”
“Are you horny?”
Yes.
It’s been seven weeks since I’ve had sex—my longest dry spell ever—and the last person I had sex with is now my awkward counterpart.
“I don’t need sex all the time, you realize that?”
He snorts. “Okay.” Then he goes back to typing on my phone.
I pull at his shoulder. “Seriously, what are you saying?”
“Chill, dude. I’m just asking her how she’s feeling.”
I pause. “Oh . . . that’s probably a good idea.”
“You are such a fucking idiot.” He hands me my phone back and then launches himself on his mattress.
I glance down at my phone to read the text he sent.
Eli:Sorry about that last text. I meant to send it to Posey. How are you feeling today?
I glance up at him, and he’s smiling smugly at me. “Simple,” he says, holding his arms out wide. “You’re overthinking it.”
I take a seat on the edge of his bed and then lie back on the mattress as well. “I fucking hate this. I feel like ever since my birthday, things have not felt the same, and it’s freaking me out.”
“What do you mean?”
Closing my eyes, I say, “I can’t stop thinking about her, and now that we’re living together, I can’t seem to screw my head on right.”
Posey props himself up on his arm. “Dude, I think you like her.”
I shake my head. “No, that can’t possibly be the problem.”
* * *
**PENNY**
“Blakely,”I whisper as I turn into her office.
She glances up from her computer. “What? Why are we whispering?”
I close her office door behind me. “He wrote back.”
“Is this really what’s going to happen? I have to be present for your text messages? You know, I have a job to do, right? These VIP tickets aren’t going to sell themselves.”
“I know, but I don’t think he wrote this text message.”
Blakely’s eyes grow with interest as she reaches her hand out and twiddles her fingers at me, looking for the phone. “Things just got interesting. Hand it over.”
I give her my phone and then round her desk to look over her shoulder.
She reads the text out loud. “Sorry about that last text. I meant to send it to Posey. How are you feeling today?” She looks up at me and smiles. “Yeah, he didn’t write that. Not after what you’ve told me your conversations have been like.”
“Who do you think wrote it?” I take a seat in one of her chairs and cross one leg over the other.
