Do you mind if I call you?
The three dots appear, disappear, appear, and keep going.
Fuck it.
I call her.
It rings three times, and I spend all three of those seconds telling myself to hang up. By the fourth ring, my body feels jittery, and I’m trying to convince myself that I’m Decker fucking Davis and shouldn’t be afraid to talk to a woman.
“Hello?” She sounds like she was in the middle of something, which is confusing since she was just texting me.
“It’s Decker.”
She chuckles, which I hope is a good sign. “I know.”
“Well, it took you a while to answer.”
Only silence greets me for a beat. “Give a girl time to prepare herself.”
Is that a good sign? Like she had to prepare to talk to me. Maybe it’s actually a bad sign because the last thing she wants to do is talk to me on the phone versus text.
Fuck, calm down, mind.
“It’s not like I showed up on your doorstep.” I wish I were close enough to do that.
“At least you can’t surprise me like that. How is St. Louis?”
“You know our schedule?”
“My dad and Hazel have this thing… anyway.”
Of course, her dad. Why would I think she’d follow our schedule for any other reason? Three years and I’m still out here finding ways to make things mean something they don’t.
“What thing?” I ask.
“Nothing… anyway, what’s up?”
I can’t blame her for wanting to keep this conversation professional. “Sorry, I’m just getting ready to head out. I just got out of the shower when I saw your text, and I don’t have much time, that’s why I called instead of replying via text.”
“Oh… kay.”
And the awkwardness between us just keeps hanging in the air, like a helium balloon that won’t quite deflate.
“So, the date is?—”
“On the attached list. It has the location and a link for them to RSVP.”
“Do you want me to do anything else? I could call some food trucks or something.”
“No, Decker.” She laughs. “This is my job, remember?”
I pack up my toiletries and head into the main part of my hotel room, dropping them in my suitcase. Then I pull out my clothes, resting the phone on the edge of the dresser.
“I’m not sure you exactly signed up for it, did you, slugger?”
She doesn’t say anything, and I realize I probably shouldn’t have said that. Slugger is her dad’s name for her, which means it’s a name from the version of us that existed before everything got complicated. I just reached back twenty years without thinking about it.
I’m not sure how to be around her without falling back into exactly who we always were with each other.
