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There are three little dots underneath it almost immediately. They disappear, come back and disappear again. Whatever he’s trying to say is apparently putting up a fight.

Finally, another message comes through.

Wyatt:

You didn’t do anything wrong. I was having a shitty day and took it out on you. I shouldn’t have.

Some of the tightness that’s been sitting in my chest since I left his apartment eases.

I type out a response, delete it, then try again.

Me:

Thank you for saying that.

His answer comes quickly.

Wyatt:

Can I see you later?

I heave a sigh of relief. So he must be feeling like shit too, just as desperate as I am to fix this. But I’m still careful.

Me:

Are you actually going to talk to me?

Wyatt:

I’m going to try.

It’s such an un-Wyatt answer that my chest squeezes.

Me:

Okay.

A second later, another message comes through.

Wyatt:

Come over after practice? I’ll feed you.

I smile despite myself.

Me:

Sounds good.

A little after six, I’m standing outside Wyatt’s apartment with my hand raised to knock when the door opens.

He must have heard me coming.

For a second, neither of us says anything.

Wyatt looks tired.

There are shadows beneath his eyes, but it’s more than that. Something about him seems quieter than usual, like he doesn’t have the energy to put on the version of himself that normally greets me with a grin and something inappropriate.