Last night, he scored two goals and had one assist. The crowd screamed his name while I pretended to be a professional photographer and not a woman who’d been wet for him for twelve straight days.
Every fantasy I have involves him.
After the final horn, I took a rideshare home and stared at my phone for twenty minutes. I opened his contact that said “Chef” and selected the cake emoji, the cursor blinking right after it. But then I remembered he wanted me to beg, and I’d rather die than give him that satisfaction.
I don’t want games. I want him buried deep inside me until my vision blurs. Once that happens, I’ll be able to walk away and put this …obsessionto rest.
But now it’s Saturday morning, and I’m home, staring at the photos from last night, trying to focus on composition and lighting instead of the way Patterson’s jersey stretches across his shoulders. The action shots are good, maybe even great, and the owner will be thrilled with the material I’m gathering. I surely am.
My phone rings, and I grab it without checking the screen, half hoping it’s him even though I know he won’t call because that would mean he broke first.
“Hello?”
“Hey, stranger,” a familiar voice says in a warm, easy tone. “Been a while.”
I glance down at the number, realizing the area code. Boston. I nearly drop the phone. “Jamie?”
“The one and only.” I hear his smile and almost imagine the one he used to reserve for me. “Hope I’m not catching you at a bad time.”
“No, I’m …” I look around at the canvases stacked against every wall and the paint supplies scattered across my dining table. Then I see the finished portrait of Patterson still on the easel, a masterpiece. “Working. What are you up to?”
“Always working. It’s almost like nothing has changed.” He laughs, and it’s such a familiar sound.
I always imagined what I’d say to him the next time we spoke again.
“It’s been over five years, Jamie. Of course I’ve changed,” I say, but realize I’m older, more jaded to life.
“I’m intrigued,” he says, giving me all his charm. “I called you and left a message a few weeks ago.”
“Did you?” I play dumb. “Sorry, I’ve been occupied.”
“Mmm. Tell me, Kendall, are you seeing anyone?” he asks.
I chuckle. “Jamie, you know I don’t do second chances, so don’t try it.”
“Well, see, now I’m going to have to.”
My heart races because I cannot be put in this position, between the two of them … again.
“I’ll be in the city soon. I’d love to see you and catch up. Like you said, you’ve changed. I’ve changed. I take less for granted these days. One dinner, for old times’ sake.”
I lick my lips and exhale. Then I remember what Patterson said about going on dates.
“Dinner, for old times’ sake,” I repeat.
This makes Jameson chuckle. “Is it weird? I know we haven’t really talked since …” He trails off. “Well,since.”
Since the argument where he ended our engagement and shattered my entire world. I spent months believing I’d lost the love of my life, crying into Addison’s shoulder while she told me I deserved better. I packed everything I owned and went to Europe to escape the city that held memories of us.
I’d thought Jameson was it for me.
I thought we had the type of love that people wrote songs about.
But looking back now, I see what I didn’t see then.
He was right. There was a spark missing in our relationship.
Underneath the grief of losing that relationship sat something else. Recognition. Relief? Because part of me had always known we were forcing something that didn’t quite fit. Even though we should have been great together, our relationship felt wrong.
