Page 94 of After the Snap

A smile pulls at my mouth before I finish reading.

You want me to congratulate you for doing nothing?

She answers almost immediately.

Yes! Do you have any idea how difficult that is for me?

I laugh because I do, which is probably why she bothered telling me in the first place.

Good girl.

The words look different on my screen than they sound in my head. I’ve only said them to her like this a few times, but I know exactly what those two words do to her when I say them another way, which is probably why I’m already smiling when her answer appears.

You cannot use that as a reward for being lazy.

Pretty sure I just did.

Her answer takes longer this time.

Fine. I’ll allow it.

I know better than to point out that she started this conversation by insisting it counted, but I’m still smiling when I climb into the truck. I should start it and head home. The protection notes are waiting for me, but her name is still sitting at the top of my screen, and I’m not ready to put my phone down.

For most of my life, work waiting for me would have been enough. There’s always something I can study or make better. Something that lets me believe if I work hard enough, I can fix whatever went wrong. Sunday should’ve sent me deeper into that habit, but I called her before I ever opened the film. I let her see me pissed off and hurting before I knew how to fix any of it, and she stayed. Now I’m sitting here with work waiting for me again, and for once, it isn’t where I want to be. I want more time with her, so I open our messages again.

What are you doing tomorrow?

The typing bubble appears.

Bold of you to assume I have plans.

Come over.

There is just enough of a pause for me to wonder what she’s thinking before her answer appears.

You miss me that much, Old Man?

She’s giving me an easy opening, the kind we usually take without thinking. I could tell her not to flatter herself or remind her that somebody has to make sure she eats something besides whatever she can reach without leaving the couch. The joke dies before I can type it. I’m sitting in the parking lot asking her to come over when I saw her only a few days ago, and wanting someone this much scares the shit out of me.

Football has always been easier because I know what it asks of me. I can study longer, throw another hundred balls, watch another hour of film, and believe that if I give enough, eventually I’ll get something back. People have never worked that way, and I know that better than most. Some part of me still wants to keep pretending whatever this is between us doesn’t matter quite so much, but hiding behind a smart-ass answer won’t make it true.

Yeah, Pea. I do.

The typing bubble appears almost immediately, then disappears. For the first time since she texted me, I wonder if I should’ve taken the joke she handed me. I’ve spent the last few weeks letting this become more without asking what more means. Being with her feels too damn good to start picking at the edges of it, but watching that typing bubble disappear makes me wonder if I’ve been assuming we’re moving toward the same thing without ever giving her a reason to think we are.

Well. That was disgustingly sincere.

Some of the tension leaves me with the breath I’d been holding.

You asked.

I was flirting. I wasn’t prepared for emotional honesty.

I laugh, but those few seconds of silence are still sitting in the back of my mind because she hasn’t actually answered the question that started this.

So, is that a yes?

To you missing me? Absolutely. I plan to be insufferable about it.