Page 80 of Playing Her Game

"It might be."

"Then take the treatment."

I flip him off. He grins and reaches for his beer.

For a while, neither of us says anything. The refrigerator hums in the kitchen. Somewhere outside, the wind moves over the lake, rattling a branch against the house.

I pull my phone from my pocket.

Her contact is right there.

I could text her now. Tell her I miss her. Tell her the game was shit and she's the reason I couldn't get my head straight. Tell her that watching her walk away was the worst part of the last six days, and that I haven't stopped thinking about her since.

Instead, I open our messages and read the last thing she sent me.

I don't need to write something perfect. I don't need to make a promise I can't keep or ask her to reassure me that she feels the same.

I need to be the man who said he'd call.

I lock the screen and put the phone down.

Gabe watches me. "You going to do it?"

"Yeah."

"When?"

"When she's had a chance to settle in."

He raises an eyebrow. "You know, for a guy who just lost his mind over a woman leaving, you're putting a lot of faith in waiting."

"I'm not waiting forever."

"Good."

I take another drink, then set the bottle on the table.

I'm not giving up on her. I'm not pretending six days were nothing because it's easier than admitting they changed something in me. And I'm not going to chase her so hard that she has to run just to breathe.

I'll call. I'll listen. I'll let her tell me what she wants, even if the answer isn't the one I'm hoping for.

It's the long game.

I've never been particularly good at those.

But for Anna Winterfield, I'll fucking learn.

Laying in bed, I tap out a text, at 11:47 pm.

Me:

You make it to Germany in one piece?

Me:

Or did your mother have you intercepted at customs?

Me: