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Nervous she has.
Ergo, I waste time shaving.
During which, I try hard to not think about her.
And fail.
I think about the minutes we spent together.
I think about her post.
I think about Charleigh’s words: She didn’t want Grant to know.
That’s the piece that keeps sticking out.
Which only further settles the fear that whatever the tabloids thought they knew about Dylan-as-Tatum and her time with Grant, it was falsely reported.
That doesn’t sit well at all.
***
She didn’t respond.
Nor does she overnight.
I try not to feel disappointed, but, yeah.
I’m disappointed.
Apparently, my mood was evident in my acting today because I was called out on more than one occasion.
Not wanting to be burdened with the need to check my phone every thirty minutes, I’d left the device in my hotel room, something I regret immediately upon getting back to my room that evening.
Two missed calls and a text message.
All from the same number.
I sit down quickly at the end of the mattress and open the text message.
Hey, this is Dylan. Sorry for the calls. I hung up the first time, then decided to leave a message after all, and then realized you were probably on set. So I’m texting you instead. Obv. I hope filming is going well.
I wonder if she had to press send before erasing it all, too, much like I did last night.
I can’t help but smile, and even though I want to play it cool, I redial the number Dylan called from.
She doesn’t have a traditional ringtone, but instead, her phone has a playback of Maroon 5’s “Help Me Out.”
Decent beat.
I find myself nodding to it while I wait but then…
“Hi.”
I swallow hard and sit up straight. “Hey. How are you?”
Awkward.
As.
