I flip back to the previous picture and zoom in, but her neck is bare in that one. Back one more image, two days ago, and again, bare neck.
Which means sometime between yesterday and this afternoon, she opened the gift I slipped her before she left for the holidays. And if she’s wearing it, that means she’s thinking about me like I’m thinking about her.
I could call her out, see what happens.
It’d be a hell of a lot better than sitting in this limbo.
I’m not used to doing the pursuing, which I realize is how this has been the entire time. It makes sense, considering her position versus mine—me with nothing to lose, her with a career and a life and a reputation. Usually, I can count on whoever I’m dating to message, ask when we’re hanging out next. The role reversal takes some figuring out.
BeforeI can talk myself out of it, I fire off a message:
Maverick: You were supposed to wait until Christmas Day.
I leave my phone facedown on my bed and look around in my desk for some paper, needing to keep my hands occupied. I find origami paper in the bottom drawer. It’s faded with time and age, but it’ll do the trick. I start folding, my mouth going dry as I wait for a buzz.
It takes five minutes.
I flip it over and find a message from Clover.
My stomach does a few somersaults and a swan dive, but I’m committed now. I open the message and smile.
Clover: Are you creeping on me?
It’s followed by that gif of Homer Simpson disappearing into the bushes.
I send her back a shifty-eyed gif in response.
Clover: I couldn’t wait any longer. It was taunting me every time I looked in my purse. I love it. It’s beautiful and beyond thoughtful. Thank you.
There’s a pause before the dots appear and then a second message comesin:
Clover: I wish I could have opened it in front of you.
I stare at the message, trying to read between the lines. But all I can do is hypothesize. I hate being in the dark, not knowing where I stand. I’ve always made it clear with anyone I was dating that I wasn’t boyfriend material, that I couldn’t do long-term. The truth is, I was never invested. BJ was right. I’ve only dated women I wouldn’t get emotionally attached to. They were fun, and they usually had the same MO I did. They wanted hot sex and no strings, something temporary so they could keep their focus on what really mattered: their grades and their friends. I was something to do in their spare time.
For the first time in my entire life, I don’t want to be the afterthought. But I’ve already set the parameters, and I don’t know how to undo that. Except maybe by being honest with her and seeing if things shift and change over time.
Maverick: If your goal was to make me want to read into that statement, mission accomplished.
Another message appears thirty seconds later.
Clover: I missyou.
I stare at those three words, wondering how hard it was for her to type them when I’m thinking the same thing.
Maverick: We match, then. Can I call you?
It takes nearly three minutes for her to respond.
Clover: Please.
I tuck my noise-canceling wireless earbuds into my ears and hit the video chat icon. A few seconds later, Clover appears on the screen. She’s sitting on a bed, wearing a pair of shorts and a tank. She’s definitely not wearing a bra. Her hair is pulled up in a topknot, strands hanging around her face. One knee is pulled up to her chest, chin resting on it.
“Hi.”
“Hey.” I set my phone in the holder attached to my bedpost so I can recline against my pillow without having to hold the phone. It’s great for watching movies in bed. Among other things.
Her eyes roam over my face, and she takes in my surroundings as she fingers the charm around her neck.
