Page 31 of Hot Mic, Cold Ice

"Thanks. I'll keep that in mind." I sigh, seething beneath my composed exterior. The constant reminder of Elliot's success is really wearing on me, and keeping my emotions in check is becoming increasingly difficult. Every mention of his name feels like a jab. It’s infuriating to see him thrive while I struggle to maintain my composure, knowing that behind the scenes, I’m part of his success.

The resentment simmers, slow and steady, beneath the surface, but I keep it hidden, unwilling to let anyone see how much it affects me. Our conversation shifts to lighter topics, like Rachel's pregnancy, but my own bullshit issues remain. I excuse myself early, heading back to my apartment. I know it wasn’t Rachel's intention, but our dinner put me in a bad mood, and nothing is snapping me out of it. Back in my own space, I collapse onto my bed, staring at the ceiling. My phone buzzes, and I pick it up, half-expecting another article about Elliot. Instead, it’s a text from him.

:When are you

back in my bed?

I groan, nothing to keep my frustration from erupting over to the surface now. I type out a response, my fingers flying furiously over the keys.

Ziggy:Not sure.

Busy with assignments.

:Come on, Z.

You know you want it.

Ziggy:Not as much as

you seem to think.

:Playing hard

to get? I thought we

were past that stage.

Ziggy:I'm serious, Elliot.

I have a lot on my

plate right now.

:Fine, but I'm

feeling like I need my

good luck charm.

I roll my eyes, my irritation growing with each message.

Ziggy:I'll let you know

if I get any free time.

:You better…

Ziggy:Noted.

I close my eyes to center myself, tossing the phone aside. His charm might work on the rest of the world, but it isn't enough to erase the anger flowing through my veins.

The next few days pass in a blur of nondescript work. I throw myself into my interviews, trying to ignore the constant stream of news about Elliot. But every night, as I lie in bed, my thoughts drift back to him. I hate how much he has gotten under my skin. After another painfully long day, I finally break. I call him, unsure what I'm seeking with my call. Maybe I need to talk to someone. Maybe I just want to hear his voice. Right now, it doesn't matter. The feeling of our connection is instant as he answers on the second ring, his voice warm and familiar.

"Ziggy," he says, a smile evident in his tone. "What's up?"

"I'll be back in Arizona in three weeks," I tell him.

"Good," he replies. "It's been a very long few weeks, Ziggy. I'm starting to feel like I might need you or something."

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