But my throat locks and all I manage is, “Of course.”
“Good night, Elliot.”
“Good night.”
And then he’s gone. The front door clicks shut. The silence that follows presses down on me, leaving me with nothing but the echo of what almost happened.
“What have I done?” My words are barely audible over the T-Rex roars coming from my screen. “What am I going to do?”
Okay, I tell myself. I can fix this. This is fixable. I’ll apologize to Arthur.Profusely. I’ll blame it on too much wine and not nearly enough pizza. He’ll understand. He has to…right?
Not even the calm, steady presence of Dr. Alan Grant can soothe me now. I shut the movie off mid-roar and drag myself to bed.
By the time I’m brushing my teeth, my brain is in full spin cycle. God, the way he bolted. Like he couldn’t get away from me fast enough.
Maybe Sam was wrong. Maybe Arthur doesn’t like me like that. Not that I can blame him. I’m a mess. A single mom with a failed marriage, a short attention span, and enough debt to bury me. Why would someone like Arthur want someone like me?
This can’t happen. Not like this.
Not like this? What does that even mean? Not likewhat?
I plug in my phone, crawl under the covers. It’s not even eight, but I want this night to be over. Maybe in the morning it won’t feel so catastrophic. Oh, who am I kidding? I may be an optimist, but I’m not delusional.
I switch off the lamp and sink into my pillow, head heavy, heart heavier.
The phone lights up immediately with an incoming text.
Arthur: I’m sorry.
I jolt upright, thumbs flying across the screen. I’m ready to tell him it was all me, that he has nothing to apologize for?—
Arthur: We’ll discuss this when I’m back.
My fingers freeze mid-word. My stomach knots as I think about my job. The ink has barely dried on my performance review and suddenly my permanent position feels less permanent.
I backspace everything I’ve typed, gnawing at my lip until I taste metal.
Elliot: Of course.
I set the phone down and collapse flat on my back, yanking the covers up tight around my throat until they feel like a noose.
What have I done?
CHAPTER TWENTY
ARTHUR
There areweeks that go quickly when you’re travelling with the team. The flights, the bus rides, the games, the press, all blurs together like a movie you’re watching of someone else’s life.
Then there are weeks that drag like fingernails down a mile-long blackboard. Endless. Excruciating. Torture.
This week, unfortunately, was the latter.
It should have been a good week. Hell, itwasa good week. We clinched our playoff spot, just like I knew we would. Even if we tank every remaining regular season game—and we won’t—we’ve got enough points to move forward.
As if that wasn’t sweet enough, my father didn’t call me once. Five whole days of silence. I googled him midweek just to make sure he hadn’t dropped dead and no one told me. Nope, still alive. Just blissfully uninterested in me. A miracle.
So yeah. Everything’s great. Except not.
