Page 38 of The Longshot

But, for nearly three years straight, do you want to know what I got?

Roses.

I once confronted him to say, “Do you remember what I told you my favorite flower was?”

Do you want to know what he said?

“So? Be grateful I got you anything at all.”

I can still remember the red in my cheeks from my frustration with his remark. It’s almost as red as Wilks face, which is flushed with embarrassment.

It feels unusual to see him so nervous—I hadn’t known he possessed such a trait.

“Well, it’s not every day that I go out of my way to apologize for acting like a total fool.” He in-famously places his hands into his pocket. “Is it?”

Thankfully, I’ve got the flowers to hide behind as I mutually turn just as flush. “So, that’s what this is, then?” I question. “An apology?”

My sentence stumps him before he goes to speak. “Yeah, I suppose it is. If you’ll let me, of course.”

I fold my arms across my chest. Although I know I hardly have it in me to intimidate him, somehow, knowing that I have the upper hand comforts me.

He was kind of an arse the other day, but still I have a hard time staying mad at him.

“Alright.” I tilt my chin upwards, tapping my foot slightly, eagerly awaiting what exactly his apology is made of. “Go on.”

His eyes follow my repetitive motion until he starts to rub his hands together. “Well…” He reaches behind his neck, flexing his right bicep as he speaks. “I wanted to try and make up for the other day. I was trying to act big in front of my mates, and I shouldn’t have used you at my expense. For that, I’m sorry.”

I purse my lips in thought.

I’m not sure if I’ve ever had a man apologize to me before—I don’t think that word even existed in Simon’s vocabulary, and now that I’ve heard it, I’m left in an utter state of cluelessness.

It’s Monday. I last saw Gary on Friday. Has he been thinking about this all weekend?

Thinking about me?

Now, I’m starting to think, but not logically. I’m thinking in circles. What do I say back?

He continues to talk, saving me the trouble of a response.

“I guess what I’m really trying to say is that I was hoping you’d let me make it up to you. You said my charm wasn’t going to work, right? So, this is me trying to win over your approval.”

I chew down on my bottom lip—left daydreaming about the image I’d seen of him last on Instagram.

Shirtless.

Sweaty.

Alluring.

All that doesn’t matter, though, because the look of him standing in front of me is enough to scrap that image from my mind.

That was Wilks.

This is Gary.

He looks like he’s just finished up practice of some sort. His knees are stained a tinge of green from the grass. He’s got a zip-up Crawfield jacket slung over either arm and a duffle bag hanging over his right shoulder with that friendly reminder of his number stitched into the fabric—13.

I shift my weight beneath my feet, struck by his eagerness to win over my approval. It’s a desire I can hardly rationalize as much as I can’t make sense of.

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