Ugh. I don’t want to get up.
Liz: Why? I’m in my pajamas.
Ben: Babe, it’s late. I want to see you. Send me a picture.
Liz: Not tonight. Can we just say I’ll owe you one?
Can’t we just play with words instead?
Ben: Fine. I’m going to bed. Good night.
Liz: Good night.
Apparently not.
??Just as I set my phone down, it buzzes again.
Matt: Don’t forget, game’s at 7 tomorrow. Bring your A game.
I stare at the message for a second, thumb hovering. I don’t reply. Not because I’m annoyed—just because… it doesn’t matter. Hockey Matt belongs to hockey. He pops up when there’s ice involved, and then he disappears again.
I toss my phone onto the couch cushion beside me. Ben, on the other hand, is everywhere. In my head, in my evenings, in the way I measure out my energy. He wants pictures, wants me—even from across an ocean. And I’m the one sitting here second-guessing myself.
I am not in the mood to play games tonight. Ben likes pictures and I’m not sure I can blame him. He likes to be able to see who he’s talking to. But I hate taking them, and on nights like this I dig in my heels. It’s one of the few places we clash.
As I turn up the TV, guilt creeps in. I could’ve just sent one. It would’ve taken five seconds. Maybe I made a bigger deal out of it than I should have.
But then I remind myself—why am I guilty? This isn’t a relationship. It never has been. Ben is my friend. He’ll understand.
I scold myself for worrying and doze off in front of the TV. Around midnight I drag myself to bed, plugging in my phone without a second thought.
Only when I settle into the sheets does my brain betray me. I’m actively trying not to imagine Ben on the pillow beside me, shirtless, his laugh still echoing in my ears.
It almost works.
Chapter 9
Ben, February 28
I remember the night I almost told her. We were texting because my flatmates were home. It was late, almost midnight, and I didn’t want to wake anyone. I’d been working up the courage for weeks to just come out and say it — to tell her I loved her. But I never did.
Part of me was worried it wasn’t even her on the other end of the phone. She’d mentioned a joke that Matt guy told, said it was hilarious. It wasn’t very funny. Not her kind of humor at all. And that made me wonder — was I even talking to Liz?
Ben: Send me a picture.
The fastest way to assure myself it was, in fact, Liz.
Liz: Why? I’m in my pajamas.
Ben: Babe, I’m alone and it’s late. I want to see you. Send me a picture.
Liz: Not tonight. Can we just say I’ll owe you one?
Why wouldn’t she send one? Unless it wasn’t really Liz.
Ben: Fine. I’m going to bed. Good night.
Liz: Good night.
