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I go into my bedroom, sit at my desk, place my cell phone down, and stare at it.
Three days since the last messages when I asked him if he really believes any man would be lucky to have me… and nothing in response. He’s left me hanging.
I claw at the desk as if attacking it, two images clashing in my thoughts. There’s a completely crazy one of Jaxson sitting at a sunlit window, a child in his arms, smiling up at me as I enter the room… causing my chest to pound heavily with warmth as I take in the sight of the father of my child holding our baby.
What. The. Hell?
Then there’s another image, just as insane—Mom and Jaxson kissing and holding each other.
I pick up my phone, getting ready to compose a new message. It’s not fair for him to message me so much and then go dark with no explanation without stopping to think about how it would make me feel. Maybe that’s why I send the text and try to start an argument to release some pressure.
What happened between you and my mom? I just asked her, and she won’t say anything about it. She got all shifty, but I think it’s fair that I know. I remember the drama when I was a kid and how you stopped coming by. Nobody will tell me what happened.
I send the message, then watch as the status changes fromdeliveredtoreadalmost instantly. Three dots appear, telling me he’s writing a message. Then they disappear and appear again.
A cynical thought strikes me. He’s thinking of the best lie to tell.
CHAPTER6
Jaxson
Three days since I last texted Zoey, and each day has been more difficult than the last. I’m barely holding on, finding it difficult to drag the words out of me and focus on the basics. Working out has become a challenge—not just physical and mental—in pushing myself through the pain. Now, the straining of my muscles makes me think of Zoey, defending her, grabbing her luscious hips, and shamelessly sinking my hands in.
I’m sitting in my office, the word processor mocking me, with my cell phone on the desk in front of my keyboard. She wants to know what happened between her mom and me. I can’t tell her the truth, but I can tellatruth.
It’s not my place, Zoey,I reply.When your mom’s ready, she’ll talk to you about it. I can’t do it for her.
Wow, you replied.I thought you were ghosting me.
I smirk, feeling more purposeful than I have in days since our last text. A rush of meaning floods me, and I suddenly know why I’ve felt so deflated lately. I knew anyway, but this confirms it. It’s Zoey. Talking with her, giving into thoughts of the future, and ignoring the impossibility.
I knew if I kept texting you, I would lose control.
I delete the message.
You’re too captivating. You’re making me obsessed.
Again, I delete it.
Thankfully, she sends another message, a follow-up to her sass.
I’m sorry. I know you’re probably really busy.
Normally, I disappear into the writing process and don’t emerge until I’ve done what I said I’d do. However, these past three days have been far slower than usual, with all my ideas and outpouring of words dominated by Zoey. Every part of me is dedicated to her, obsessed and enthralledbyher.
I wish I could tell you more, but it would mean breaking a promise.
Mom made you promise not to talk about what happened?
Yeah.
It’s times like these I wish I had a dog—an excuse to leave my apartment and walk for hours and hours. I could do that anyway, but I always feel restless, like I should be running, writing, working, or doing something more productive.
Then I guess we can go back to the silent treatment…
I grit my teeth, walk through my apartment, ending up in the living room, but I don’t sit. Instead, I stand behind the couch, gripping it with one hand as I hold the phone just as tightly in the other.
I don’t want to give you the silent treatment,I reply, knowing I have to be careful.I thought texting so much could become awkward, considering your mom doesn’t want me in her life at all.
