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So why do my fingers tip-tap-type a response to Grant? Why can’t I keep myself from walking into the fire when I know I’m going to get burned? Nay, scorched.
Tate: Oh yeah? I could only catch the last inning because of work. Did you play well?
Good. Play it cool. Pretend you weren’t just glued to your television screen hoping for a glimpse of him on the field.
His response pops up and it makes my heart flutter.
Grant: Yeah, you’ll have to catch the highlights on ESPN.
* * *
Tate: Too bad I’m already in bed…
I immediately regret the ellipsis. “I’m already in bed period” says: Bummer, maybe tomorrow. “I’m already in bed dot dot dot” is an invitation, plain and simple.
Tate: I’ll look in the morning.
I add the second message quickly to help keep us on track. What track, you ask? Who knows. We’re playing at friendship, I think.
Grant: How was work?
* * *
Tate: Same ol’ same ol’. Lots of bandages and wound checks. I did get to help celebrate a birthday for one of our patients, though, which was fun. She’s four and she loves princesses. Her mom begged me to dress up.
* * *
Grant: Costume and everything?
* * *
Tate: Oh yes.
* * *
Grant: I’d love to see a picture of that.
* * *
Tate: I don’t have one, but I’m sure you can imagine it well enough. Amazon-issued Ariel costume, stuffed Flounder, synthetic red wig…
* * *
Grant: Damn. Slow down. Trying to seduce me here, Tate?
I burst out laughing and then immediately cover my mouth, hoping Daphne and Sophia didn’t hear me.
Tate: I assure you, it was very tame.
* * *
Grant: That was sweet of you to do that for her.
* * *
Tate: It was no big deal. How are your ribs?
* * *
Grant: Eh, they’re okay. I took another ice bath after the game and that seemed to help. I guess that offer of a kiss is off the table?
My jaw drops. Oh my god. I have to put my phone face down on my chest and squeeze my eyes closed for a second, because I’m that excited.
After a few seconds and some calming breaths, I reach for my phone again.
Tate: Grant! In my defense, I was drunk last night when I said that.
* * *
Grant: Were you?
* * *
Tate: A little…
* * *
Grant: So then I should be a gentleman and forget about it?
* * *
Tate: Yes. Exactly. Please!
I’m relieved. I am.
But it takes him far too long to respond here. Seconds stretch for years.
Grant: And if I pushed my luck and persisted? If I still wanted that kiss…what would happen then?
Holy.
Shit.
My breaths come quick and shallow as a swarm of butterflies take flight in my stomach. I can’t help but imagine him on the other end of this conversation, alone in a dark hotel room, stretched out on his bed with one arm bent behind his head and his phone propped up on his hard abs as he waits for my reply.
The mental image isn’t good enough. I want to know exactly what he looks like right now. What he’s thinking. How he feels.
This conversation is dangerous. Already, my resolve is starting to splinter and crack. I need Grant to make this easier on me. Pushing him away is no easy feat. I’ve somehow managed up until now, but there’s something about this back and forth that makes it feel like the consequences don’t count. There’s a clandestine cloak to messaging that doesn’t exist when you speak to someone face to face.
Tate: Grant.
That’s all I manage, just his name.
There’s a lull here where he doesn’t respond as fast as he has been. For a second, I think he might have given up on me, but then another message pops up and my heart soars.
Grant: Dustin just came by my room and asked why I was smiling like a fool…
I blush, glad no one can see.
Tate: What’d you say?
* * *
Grant: I told him I was talking to you.
All of my big complex emotions whittle down to a pinprick of understanding right then.
I need to wrap this up. What might have started innocent enough has all the potential to devolve into something we can’t come back from.
Without responding, I exit Instagram, put my phone on my charger, and lie awake, wondering why my life feels like it’s slowly starting to unspool all because of Grant Navarro.
ELEVEN
TATE
The next day, Michael arrives outside my apartment for our date at the exact minute he told me he’d be there, which means he gets brownie points for being dependable and punctual. He’s also holding a bouquet of roses and a big plastic bag.
“Flowers?!” I smile as I take them from him.
I lower my head and inhale deeply, because it feels like that’s what you’re supposed to do when you receive flowers, but they don’t smell like anything. Still, I beam. They’re the most saturated pink roses I’ve ever seen. I’ll take them up to my apartment before we leave. I don’t want to have to carry them around all night.
