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THIRTY
ELLIE
“I’m coming. I’m coming,” I mumble to myself in response to the incessant pounding on my door.
I lean forward to check the peephole as I grab the deadbolt.
My hand freezes without turning the lock.
Slater Jones is outside my door.
I hardly breathe as I watch him pull his phone out of his jeans. A second later, my phone vibrates in my back pocket. We haven’t spoken since he called me at four this morning. I texted him on my lunch break, but he didn’t respond. By the time I left work, I’d convinced myself he wasn’t going to. Conversations held in the dark of night shouldn’t lead to expectations.
I want our relationship to be real.
Did he mean it? Does he want me? I should be bounding around my apartment with joy, but instead I grip the deadbolt tighter. I can’t force my hand to move.
This is it.
“Elle.” His voice carries easily through the door. “Are you home?”
“I don’t know.” The words are a whisper, spoken so quietly that he can’t hear them.
It might be nerves, or joy, or fear, but tears well in my eyes. I swipe at them with my free hand. I don’t want to open the door while I’m crying.
And I do want to open it.
I blink rapidly before looking through the peephole again.
He’s gone. Gone. I panic.
“Slater!” I shout as I flip the deadbolt and yank the door open in a fluid motion. It moves with more momentum than I anticipate, and I stumble backwards.
He was sitting with his back to the door, so he spills into my apartment. His recently concussed head nearly bounces off the tile floor.
“Oh no,” I cry as I drop to my knees. “Are you okay?”
I grab his head and feel for a bump or a tender spot or some other indication that I injured Slater Jones. Again.
He grabs my wrists. “I’m fine.”
“I was so worried about you.”
He sits up and I fling myself forward into the world’s most awkward hug. One of his arms is fully pinned by my body while the other pats me on the shoulder. He tries to shift, but I cling harder. I’ve missed touching him. The urge to climb into his lap is strong. I only resist because we’re on the floor in front of my open door.
Oh my goodness, am I hurting him? I bolt upwards and stumble away.
“What are you doing here? Is it safe for you to travel? Don’t you have to be with the team?” Questions fly out of my mouth so fast that he doesn’t have a chance to respond.
I move into the kitchen, feeling simultaneously frantic and settled.
“You said we could talk today.” He stands up in one effortless move.
Giggles bubble out of me. I sound possessed. “I meant on the phone.”
He shrugs. “It’s our bye week and I’m restricted from team activities, so I have a little time on my hands.”
“You’re supposed to be resting. Not flying cross country. Does Cam know you’re here?” I try to sound reasonable even though my mind is running in hundreds of different directions.
