Page 92 of Catching Feelings

Thinking of you always.

Miles the fucking idiot who will continue to grovel until the day he dies.

My heart pounds in my chest as I clutch the letter to my chest and scoot down farther under the covers. The moisture in my eyes trails down my cheeks, forming a little puddle on my pillow.

His letter is as authentic as Miles is. I believe everything he said, but I’m still embarrassed. If he expects me to be as open and honest as him, well, we’ll never work. I’m not him. I can’t speak from the heart. Or rather, I don’t. I don’t know how. It’s not as easy as it sounds, at least for me it isn’t.

There will always be the elephant in the room between us. He knows I’m curious about exploring in the bedroom but am afraid to voice my desires. He’s read some of them but how long until he tires of me? How long until he gets frustrated that I don’t open my heart like he does?

I wish I could. I’ve longed to be in an open and honest relationship with a man. I told him as much when he was a virtual stranger. My issues lie deep, and just because Miles wears his heart on his sleeve doesn’t make it any easier for me.

Whatever my issues are, he doesn’t deserve the silent treatment I’ve been giving him. Next week, my days are going to be busy from early morning until late at night. If I’m going to give him a chance to reconcile, I’ll need to do it now.

Sleep comes more easily, and when I wake at six the next morning, I lie in bed longer than usual, contemplating my decision to contact Miles. If I don’t do it now, there won’t be another opportunity for quite some time. Weeks, possibly months. My life is about to get bat shit crazy—thank you, dysfunctional family—and I can’t leave Miles in limbo any longer.

Before I can change my mind, I send Miles a text. It’s unfair of me to expect him to meet me this early in the morning, especially since I doubt he’ll even hear the text alert. If he doesn’t get the message in time, I can say at least I attempted to meet up with him.

It’s cowardly of me, I know.

Ten minutes later, I’m jogging out my door in my leggings, sneakers, and hoodie. I put in my earbuds and keep my music relatively low so I’m still aware of my surroundings. The sun is barely up and my breath makes little clouds in the cool November air.

Running isn’t my choice of exercise. Walking, Pilates, maybe a dance class here or there, but if I’m running, I can use the lack of oxygen to my lungs as an excuse not to talk.

Like I said, I’m a big, fat coward.

The park isn’t too far from my apartment, but it’s a solid twenty-minute drive from Miles’s place. Even if he got my message when I sent it and he left right away, it will still be another fifteen minutes before he shows up. That is, if he can even find me along the running trails. I didn’t set a meeting place, just told him I’d be jogging along Storrow Drive.

Only three songs in, and I feel a giant presence to my left. Because it’s the city and I’m a woman, my first instinct is to run faster, but then I remember I’m not a runner, so I slow my pace and side-step to my right.

“So this is what I’m missing by sleeping in every day?” Miles gives me his signature wink and lopsided grin as he jogs next to me.

It’s not fair how effortless he makes running look. He’s probably been running around the entire park trying to find me, yet, in his gray joggers, navy zip-up hoodie, and backwards hat, he looks more like he stepped off a sports magazine fashion shoot for casualwear.

“Early bird catches the worm,” I reply stupidly. Way to sound like a moron. Who even says that anymore?

“I’m not into worms, but I don’t mind chasing something else. Someoneelse.” His grin quickly falters. “Hell. I can’t go two seconds without flirting with you, and I promised I wouldn’t. At least, I meant to put that promise in my letter. I was so nervous writing it, I don’t even know what I actually wrote.”

It’s hard to picture Miles nervous. Although, with the random tangents he went off on, I suppose I could read that as his nerves getting in the way of cohesive writing.

I don’t respond because I don’t know what to say. The old me—the current me—would apologize or tell him it’s fine. But the new me—or the me I want to be—doesn’t want to be a doormat anymore. Not that Miles ever treated me like one.

“Mind if we slow down a bit? I haven’t slept in over a week and I have practice in a few hours.”

This is one request I don’t have to think twice about. I hadn’t realized I’d picked up my pace. Running from my problems, I guess. We slow to a brisk walk and I keep my attention straight ahead. I’m not strong enough to be this close to Miles and not cave. To not bend my backbone and tell him I don’t care about the deceit as long as he keeps giving me the attention I’ve unknowingly longed for.

“I don’t know how you do it, waking up at the ass crack of dawn and putting in eight to ten hours of work, and on your feet all day. Sorry about lurking outside your apartment at six every morning. I didn’t mean to force you into your Houdini escape plan for a week.”

“I, uh, had apartment issues and stayed with Jackson.” It’s not a complete lie. My apartment issues were that everything reminded me of Miles. Putting separation between any memories was necessary in getting over him.

Not that it worked.

“Oh. That’s good. Not about the apartment issues, but that you stayed with Jackson. Everything okay with your place?”

No. “Yes.”

“Good. Good. When you texted me this morning, I nearly shit myself.” He takes off his hat, scratches his head, then returns it. “That doesn’t paint me in a good light, does it? Nothing saystake me backlike admitting you shit your pants. Not that I did. It’s a figure of speech. Although, one time when I was in training camp—never mind.”

I turn my head away from him and bite back my laugh. God, this is what I miss most about Miles. His open honesty. His sense of humor. His ability to make me smile, laugh, melt, and swoon by saying the most ridiculous things. They’re never planned or orchestrated. Always unfiltered.

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