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“Fuck,” he mutters. “I’m sorry.”
“Shut up.”
He huffs.
“You good?”
A moment passes, before he says, “Yeah. Yeah, I’ll be fine.”
My teeth clench, and I feel the phone creak in my hand. The hard screen digging into my ear. “Say that again, and this time, make me believe it.”
That gets a short laugh out of him, but I know better than to think that means everything’s all roses and daisies now.
“I’mfine,”he says, dragging out the word. I picture the barbell poking through his tongue flicking over his teeth, andfuck me,I should not be getting a boner right now.
But I miss him.
I miss him so much it steals my breath.
I miss him more than I ever thought possible.
“Just three more days,” he whispers, and if I’m not mistaken, his voice has deepened, as if he senses where my thoughts have shifted.
“Three more days,” I repeat robotically, staring vacantly around the bedroom, before landing on the ball of cotton on the floor next to the hamper.
Waylon’s sweatshirt.
He threw it there the morning we came back from watching the sun rise on the bridge. Our last morning together. The rest of our clothes quickly found their way on the floor, too, but have since been put in the hamper. Normally, Waylon doesn’t leave anything laying around—he’s far neater than me—but in our rush to get to Philly once we realized we were late, he somehow overlooked his hoodie.
It hasn’t moved from that spot in ten days. I just can’t bring myself to pick it up.
And while there’s only three days until I see his face again, there’s still another month and a half, give or take, before he will notice his hoodie’s still on the floor.
Fuck. This is harder than I thought.
“Will?”
I shake my head and force a hard swallow. “Sorry, did you say something?”
I can hear the grin in his voice. “No, you just got really quiet—”
My eyes roll, already knowing where this is going.
“—and you’re never quiet.”
“Har, fucking, har.”
“I should go,” he says, and I don’t miss the exhaustion settling in, weighing down his words. This was far from being the worst panic attack he’s ever had, but it’s clear he’s still zapped. “Mase just paid the bill. We gotta get back to the studio early.”
“You think you’ll be up for it?” I ask, not even bothering to hide my concern.
He sighs. “I have to be.”
“Way—”
“Shut up, Mase,” he says, making me think I’m not the only one calling him out. “It was just a little one. I’m fine now. We’re already behind as it is, and I—”
Either Mason or Shawn must cut him off, but I can only hear muffled mumbling.
