Me:Lol not necessary. I’m just nervous, I guess.
I watch the blue dots dance as he types his next response.
Wes:You know this thing backward and forward, Ives. Don’t overdo the practicing tonight. You’ll psych yourself out, and you need a good night’s sleep.
Me:I know. I stopped practicing. Just got in bed. I fear it’s as good as it’s gonna get.
Wes:Which is pretty damn good. Trust me. You just need to believe in yourself as much as I believe in you.
My smile falters a little, nerves encroaching despite Wes’s comforting words. I send a smiley face anyway, worried he’ll find the anxious note in whatever I type.
Wes:My couch misses you. He told me himself.
Me:I doubt he misses my snoring.
Wes:You don’t snore.
I blink at the message, a blunt reminder of the night we spent tangled together.
Me:Neither do you.
The three dots appear. Then disappear. Then appear again. I hold my breath.
Wes:I wish I could hold you again.
I exhale sharp, my body going warm all over. I shouldn’t respond, but my fingers fly over the keypad of their own accord, de-escalating the situation before I can get myself in trouble.
Me:That was nice…except for the part where I nearly died of heatstroke.
Wes:Less clothes next time ;)
I almost drop the phone.
My stomach dips, heat flooding my cheeks at the image he painted in my head. My thumbs hover over the screen, debating my response. While I’m uneasy with the direction this is going, I’m also a little bit excited. But as always, I overthink every potential reply to the point of paralysis, that crippling self-doubt overtaking me once again. When I don’t write back after a minute, my fingers frozen with indecision, Wes sends another text, letting me off the hook.
Wes:You should get some rest. You’re gonna kick ass tomorrow.
I fall back against the pillow with a groan. My emotions are mixed, part of me relieved for the save, the other partdisappointed in myself for not flirting back. For not taking a risk. It was harmless. It was innocent.
Remember what happened last time you entertained flirting from a guy?
And likethat, I’ve poured cold water on the idea. My shoulders slump as I text him back.
Me:You will too. Goodnight :)
Wes:Night, Ives.
After flicking off the light, I lie in bed and stare at the ceiling, wondering why I can’t let myself have this—why I can’t indulge in a tiny crush. Because that’s what it is, isn’t it? A crush. I can admit that much, at least. So why can’t I bask in the butterflies like other people do, even just for a little while?
You know why.
But Wes isn’t likehim. Wes is the opposite ofhim. Wes is warmth and sunlight and humor and kindness. And no, I’d never expect him to actually act on his flirtation with me. I’m not dumb enough to believe the night we slept together meant something, or that his suggestive messages carry some deep desire, or that his requests to spend time with me are as anything more than a friend. I’m not so stupid to think someone like Wes Tucker could ever be seriously interested in someone likeme. So if my expectations are nonexistent, then what is the harm?
These questions on my mind, I toss and turn, trying to get comfortable on the mattress that’s too hard, in the room that’s too empty. When sleep comes, it’s restless and wrought with stressful dreams, though surprisingly, they’re not about the speech.
Every single one of them is about Wes.
Nerves startleme awake at five a.m., and I don’t fall back asleep. Staring at a blank spot on the wall, I recite the speech in my head, and when I’m done, I recite it again and again and again, pushing my brain to the edge of mental combustion. Only then do I roll out of bed and stumble through a shower, standing beneath the hot water until the room fills with steam.
