Page 117 of Finding Delaware

Scowling down at my plate, I check my phone for what has to be the millionth time today, billions in the last week. Plenty of texts, just not from him. It’s been two weeks since we exchanged numbers on Instagram, but I’ve been too cowardly to reach out first.

Just like I was too big of a coward to face him that morning a month ago after St. Patrick’s Day.

A month. Four weeks. Nearly thirty days since I’ve seen Taylor, or touched him, or felt his lips on mine. I’m going fucking crazy.

“What’s with you today?” Logan asks next to me, looking about as bad as I feel. “You’ve been in a bad mood since we left the apartment.”

“So have you,” I counter dryly, and he just lifts the corner of his mouth in response.

Yeah, we haven’t been fun to be around the last few weeks. A moping Logan was bad enough, but add in my surly ass, and now being cooped up in that damn apartment is becoming unbearable. It’s been nothing but studying for finals, piles of homework, and being alone with my thoughts. I started dragging Logan to the gym for something to do, but that still gave me too much time to think.

Like thoughts about the fact that Taylor saved my fucking life, and I assaulted him after disappearing for four years. And then I made out with him, sucked the soul out of his dick after he admitted he was in love with me, then disappearedagain. Cue the self-loathing. Between Logan and I, there’s plenty to go around.

“Hey, Huckslee,” one of my uncles calls from across the room. “Any news on thatdraft pick yet?”

Ugh, don’t remind me.

“Not yet. Pick’s not until next weekend. It’s anyone’s guess.”

The top players know which NFL team they’re getting picked for ahead of time, but seeing as I’m just reasonably decent, it could be anywhere.

Dad takes a sip of his drink. “Who you hoping for, son?”

Honestly, I’m hoping I don’t get picked at all. It’s an odd thing to say for someone who spent four years playing football, but I just don’t think I want to make it my career. Free agency would be ideal.

“Somewhere close,” I shrug, pushing my food around. “Or at least on the West Coast.”

My cousin Angela gags. “Really, like the Seahawks? Booo!”

That starts a whole discussion about NFL teams that I’m just not in the mood for, so I finally pull out my phone again and text Taylor.

Me: Where are you?

He doesn’t respond immediately, and I listen to the conversation around me for a minute until the screen lights up.

Taylor: Who dis?

Seriously, asshole?

Me: Huckslee.

Another minute passes.

Taylor: How did you get my number?

Me: You gave it to me on IG, remember?

He did. Right? I pull up my Instagram account to read over the message again, making sure I’m not crazy. Another text comes through.

Taylor: Salem runs my social media accounts. I’m never on those haha.

What’s up?

What’s up?What’s up is that I haven’t stopped thinking about the way your lips feel or the way your cock tastes, motherfucker.

Me: Where are you?

Taylor: Uh in my room?

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