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“They’re my favorite anyway.” I lean down and kiss her on the cheek as I pass.
I climb the stairs to my bedroom, close the door, and shut the lights off. I nap hard for a couple of hours but wake up around ten thirty and can’t force my brain to shut back down.
I grab my phone and peruse the messages from the guys. An hour and a half ago, they messaged to ask if I was coming out. At this point, there’s zero chance I’m leaving the house. Besides, I don’t feel like doing the whole social thing.
I hit the bathroom, relieve myself, and dig through the vanity for some eye drops.
Then I lie back down and scroll through social media. Kody’s feed is full of hockey pictures and Lavender. Mine is full of . . . nothing. The last thing I posted was hockey practice a few weeks ago.
Clover has an IG account, but obviously I’ve never followed her because that would be stupid as fuck. But it doesn’t mean I haven’t creeped on her a couple of times. Most of the time she posts pictures of flowers or dinner, and occasionally a selfie of her and Sophia hanging out. But there’s no consistency. Weeks and months can pass between posts. I fight not to give in to the urge to creep on her, but I lose the battle after a minute.
This week she’s been a lot more active, with several new posts popping up on her feed. There are pictures of her with her family in Florida. There’s another couple too, closer to Clover’s age, if I had to guess. I can tell the man is her brother. I wonder what it would be like to meet her family—not that it would ever happen, but still . . . How would they react to me, eight years her junior and still in college? Would it be different once I’m playing professional hockey?
By the end of next semester, a lot will be different.
I scroll to the next picture. She’s wearing a beach cover-up, but it’s sheer, and it shows off the bikini-clad figure underneath. That I’ve had my hands and mouth on. That I’ve been inside.
It was posted today.
I squint and use my thumb and finger to enlarge the photo. Around her neck is a thin gold chain with a familiar charm dangling from it.
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.
Before I 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 comes in:
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.
