Читать книгу Vanilla - Меган Харт - Страница 15

8

Three days had passed since my conversation with Esteban in the front seat of my car. I hadn’t blocked or deleted him from my contacts, but I was still surprised when my phone chirped at me as I was changing out of work clothes and into something more suitable for a pint of ice cream and some streaming episodes of Queer as Folk on Interflix. Five minutes later and I wouldn’t even have noticed, because I’d already put my phone on the charger and hadn’t planned on taking it downstairs with me.

I held it, looking at the notification but not reading the message just yet. I let my thumb hover over the screen. One swipe and I could delete the message, unread. But then I’d have no idea what he said, and while curiosity might’ve killed the cat, not giving in to it was more likely to haunt me forever.

I miss you.

Well. That was nice. No lie, it lifted my heart a little. Made it go thump-thump. It also set my jaw and narrowed my eyes.

I didn’t answer him. Not at first. I let half an hour go by, though I knew he would see that I got his message and read it. I got myself some ice cream and settled on the couch, my phone with its unanswered message weighting my pocket. I turned on the TV. Chose my show. And finally, because I hated when my messages went unanswered, I took out my phone and typed in an answer.

Don’t.

The fact the little D became an R immediately told me he’d been waiting for my answer, phone in hand. JohnSmith is Typing appeared at once, and that set my heart to thumping harder again. My throat closed a little, but I forced away any kind of emotion. No relief. Especially nothing so disgusting as gratitude.

I’m sorry. I want to see you. Tonight? At our place.

Our place. As if we’d ever had one, or anything, really, that could truly be called “ours.” I was cranky about it, all at once, when I knew I should not be. My relationship with Esteban had come with rules right from the start, most of which I had written and none I hadn’t negotiated or agreed upon. I was hurt and stung by his sudden ending of it, but that had been one of the rules—that either one of us, at any time, could decide to break it off. I’d simply assumed I would be the one to do it. I deserved the slap to my ego. A reminder that no matter how special you think someone thinks you are, it’s never really true.

I’m busy, I typed.

A minute passed. Then another. He’d read my message, I could see that, but he wasn’t typing a reply. I put my phone to the side, wishing I could feel justified in being a dick about all of this, but finding very little satisfaction. I tried to get lost in the TV show, one of my favorites and usually a guaranteed pleasure, but watching Brian refuse to admit he loved Justin, even though it was obvious throughout five seasons of hot sex and angst, only made me think about Esteban.

I was lifting the phone to answer him when his message came through. One phrase, written in Spanish. Again, one of the few I knew without having to use a translator.

Por favor.