In the hour or so I’ve been here, I haven’t stopped thinking about Angel.
I haven’t stopped being pissed at myself.
The game we’re supposed to be watching—it’s called Bossaball, which is apparently a combination of volleyball, soccer, and some sort of acrobatics—isn’t the distraction I’d hoped it would be. All it’s done is make me think about how it would make Haley laugh. She might even want to come up with a version of it herself.
The few sips of beer I’ve taken have been sour in my mouth.
My chest feels heavy, like there’s a tremendous weight sitting on it.
Max hasn’t told me what’s bothering him, and I haven’t told him about Angel, either. We’ve just been sitting here, barely talking aside from random comments like, “Weird sport,” and “You need a beer?” and “Why the fuck are they on trampolines?”
“Need anything?” Max asks as he hauls himself off the couch. He looks at the can of beer in his hand with a frown. “This one’s piss warm. I’m going to get a new one.”
“Nah, I’m good.” I set my can down on the coffee table. “Still got most of it left.” And I’m not planning on drinking it, either. I think I’m going to give it another ten, fifteen minutes to be polite, and then I’m going to head home. Get ready for a longnight of stewing and berating myself and wishing that Angel would answer my text.
Halfway to the kitchen, Max turns. “You okay?” It’s the first time he’s asked it since I got here. He hesitates before adding, “You want to talk or anything?”
“I’m good,” I reply automatically. “What about you?”
Max’s gaze slides to the right. “I’m good. Just thought I’d ask.”
Once he disappears into the kitchen, I look down at my phone again. The screen is black, which I know damn well means Angel hasn’t texted me back. But I tap the screen to wake it, anyway.
I’m not surprised she hasn’t responded. Not after how I acted.
And as I’ve been sitting here, stewing, I’ve realized that if I want to fix things, I’ve got a lot of work to do.
I need to apologize, to start. I need to be honest about why I was such a jerk. And I need to man up and tell Angel the reason I’ve been single for so long and why I’ve been so adamantly against dating.
And if she tells me she prefers Garrett, I need to accept it.
But I’m already shaking my head at the thought. I don’t want to accept it. I want Angel for myself.
Maybe it’s selfish. Fuck, I know it is. But Angel makes me feel things I’d given up on. Things I didn’t think I wanted anymore. She makes me happy. And seeing her smile because of something I’ve done…
It’s not just Angel, though. It’s Haley. Haley and her silly jokes and her boundless enthusiasm and her obsession with Christmas movies. It’s how thrilled Haley was when she completed her first run down one of the grown-up trails, and how she hugged me after and told me how great she thought I was.
Shit.
Shit.
I really fucked up.
I’m just about to text Angel again—maybe she didn’t see my first message, maybe she was in the shower, maybe she somehow missed it—when her reply appears on my screen.
I’m still up.
My heart jumps.
Can we talk?
Three dots blink for a few seconds.
It’s kind of late. What do you want to talk about?
What, indeed? Me being a jerk? Overreacting? Being a coward? Making her feel bad? All of the above?
I settle on something simple, but the truth.
