Page 79 of Things I Overshared
I walk in a dreamlike state through the steps from the gala to the car, hotel, and finally the suite. I know he hears me come in. I stand there like a frozen idiot, wondering if I should go to his door. Go to his door and do what, exactly? Beg him to kiss me? Tell him he almost ruined me for all men everywhere with just one dance?
I think about knocking on the dark wood, then remember last night. He was clear in his position, and downright angry about it all. But then tonight, dancing for two songs straight
. . . that was the opposite of clear. Except his message was the same: I can do whatever I want with other men because we’re just friends.
I decide to go get some water from the fridge, loudly. I find a package of crackers and open it, letting the crinkles of the plastic ring out. I bend my feet up to pry off my heels and let them fall on the kitchen floor with two loud thunks. After all that, I basically stare at his door and will it to open.
But it doesn’t. I sigh in defeat and go to bed. When my head finally hits the pillow, I debate texting him a thank-you for the dance. Lame, but not the worst idea I’ve ever had. Especially since he’s almost downright chatty via text message, for him, anyway.
I pull out my phone and unlock it, catching up on the usual one million texts from my sisters. Skye mentions something on Instagram, so I switch over to my social apps and notice for the first time the background behind my apps has changed. I swipe over, and my breath catches.
On the last home screen, with just one icon, some random app I don’t use, there in all its glory, is a selfie of Emerson Clark. He’s glaring at the phone, unimpressed, in the low light of the ballroom earlier tonight. The angle is funny, and the quality is grainy, and he looks angry. Like he’s annoyed at himself for taking the selfie he’s actively taking. I laugh. It’s my new favorite photo of all time.
He held up my phone tonight at the ball and took an actual selfie?!
And then set it as my phone background!
It’s too much. I cannot. I debate texting Sadie, since she knows now, at least bits and pieces of what’s been unfolding, but I don’t. Instead, I outstretch my arm, splay my hair in a hopefully sexy way behind my head, roll my eyes with a half grin, and take the selfie. It’s pretty cute—at least, I think so. Whether or not he’ll think it’s cute, I have no idea.
Wait, forget cute.
I do the whole thing again, but I pull my tank top down lower and shove the girls up higher with my arm. I check my work. Tasteful but hot.Ladies and gentlemen, we have a winner!
Me: [Photo]
I expect this to be set as your background tomorrow
Or else our friendship is over!!
He doesn’t reply, but I don’t mind. I’m staring at my phone like an idiot, imagining him taking the photo again and again. It takes me forever to fall asleep, and when I do, my phone is still in my hand. And I’m smiling.
Chapter 25
“So, all that and then fucking nothing?” Trina wails in disbelief as she chomps on a french fry.
“Then effing nothing,” I say, exasperated.
She gives me a look. “You Cantons really are as straitlaced as they say, eh? Can’t say fuck?”
“Ican, of course. But . . .” I shrug. “You can take the girl out of the Bible Belt and all that, yet still, my sisters and I would rather pepper some good cuss words now and then, to season a sentence that really needs it, rather than marinating the whole conversation, you know?”
She sits back in the wooden pub chair. “No. I don’t know.”
“Anywaaaay, I am at a loss about what to do next.”
The crowd around us in the rustic bar yells about something on the TVs. After they settle, she perks back up. “What about the songs on the playlist?”
“A mix—romantic right along with sad and weird and loud. It’s no help, just more confusion. All those mixed signals from him, and then two days of total avoidance. He was around with us as we packed up the exhibit, and at dinner with all of us yesterday, but never near me long enough to talk. Even avoided getting in the elevator with me.
“I stormed around in our kitchen to see if he would come out for a nightcap, but no. Today we went to two manufacturing plants, and he was protective—not letting me skip the stupid hard hat and making sure I wasn’t walking near any equipment—but again, I don’t think he actually said a single word to me. When we got back, I texted you because I was about to snap and just walk up to his door naked or something crazy.”
Her face turns mischievous. “Maybe what he needs is something crazy.”
“I just don’t want to be rejected again. I mean, at what point am I pathetic?”
“That’s the age-old question, innit?” She and I sit and think for a second, feeling defeated. “And you’re sure you played enough hard-to-get?”
“He saw me in the arms of another guy multiple times. He hated it, turned purple, and looked like he was gonna kill somebody, but it wasn’t enough. He stood his stupid ground.”
