“He may have his reasons or he could be too stubborn to admit how he feels.”
“Doubtful.”
My phone buzzes.
Patton Cross: Misplaced my jacket. By any chance, is it in your office? We can get that planning meeting over with then.
Short. Professional. So Patton.
I don’t reply. Stubbornly refuse to acknowledge how I feel.
Then another message appears.
Patton Cross: Glad you weren’t hurt today.
I stare at those five words for a full minute. He’s teasing. Has to be.
Me: Yes, your jacket is there.
Patton Cross: Thanks.
That’s it. But somehow it seems like more.
Grandma looks at me knowingly.
“What?” I ask, squealing inside.
“Nothing, dear. Just wondering who could’ve texted that would’ve brought such a big smile to your face.”
“I’m not smiling.” I so am.
My phone buzzes one more time.
She arches an eyebrow.
“Patton left his jacket in my office. I plan to return it with mud in the pockets. Shaving cream. Something gooey. What is it about that man that makes me feel so juvenile?”
“Maybe it’s because he’s like that boy who sat behind you in third grade and would pull on your pigtails.”
“Christopher McCall?”
“He had a crush on you.”
“He certainly did not.”
She shakes her head as if to say that I’m hopeless. “I never said that boys or men are necessarily emotionally literate. It takes some practice.”
Though I wouldn’t mind getting my hands on one of those Crush Cakes. I check my phone, recalling I have another text waiting.
Patton Cross: Guess we’re stuck together.
I read it twice, looking for annoyance or resignation. But all I can hear is the gentle way he spoke to that scared squirrel.
Maybe he isn’t just a cold, unfeeling grouch. A smug-faced jerk.
Maybe there is more to him than the wall he built between us.
Maybe I want to find out what that might be.
