Page 95 of Dear #47, You're the Worst
I stare at the message, reading way too much into three simple words. He probably just meant home, not specifically here, not specifically to me.
Me: When do you get back?
Hunter: Tonight. The flight lands at 6.
Me: Cool. I’ll probably be here.
It’s not true. I have no plans except sitting on this couch and pretending I’m not waiting for him to walk through the door.
Hunter: I’ll see you soon, Firecracker.
Firecracker. The nickname that should annoy me, but it makes my stomach flip-flop. I’m definitely losing my mind.
Wanting my day to be productive, I apply for three more jobs, none of which I actually want. I clean the apartment even though it’s already spotless. Then I reorganize my closet and do laundry. Basically, anything to keep myself busy.
By five-thirty, I’m pacing.
By six, I’m refreshing the flight tracker app I definitely didn’t download just to see when his plane landed.
By six-fifteen, I’m sitting on the couch pretending to read a book while listening for his key in the lock.
When I finally hear footsteps in the hallway, my heart does a stupid little jump. I force myself to stay on the couch, eyes on my book, like I’m not hanging on every sound.
The key turns in the lock. The door opens.
“Juliet?”
“In here,” I call, not looking up from my book. Playing it cool. Totally normal and not at all pathetically excited that he’s home.
I hear his bag hit the floor, his footsteps crossing the hardwood. Then he’s standing at the back of the couch, hair messy from travel. I try not to seem like I’m checking him out while I pretend that I’m reading. He’s still in his team tracksuit, looking tired but somehow still annoyingly attractive.
“Hey,” he says. There’s something soft in his voice that makes me actually look up.
I smile. “Hey yourself. How was the trip?”
He shrugs, moving into the room and dropping onto the other end of the couch. “Long. We lost two out of three, so everyone’s in a shit mood.”
“Sorry.”
“Not your fault.” He stretches his legs out. I try not to notice the way his tracksuit pants pull across his thighs. “What’d you do while I was gone? Paint your nails? Have a pillow fight with the girls?”
I roll my eyes. “Hilarious. I worked. Applied for a few PR gigs. You know, responsible adult things.”
“Right. Any luck?”
“Define luck.”
He studies my face. I hate how easily he seems to read me these days. “That bad, huh?”
I close my book with more force than necessary. “I don’t want to talk about it.”
“Okay.” He doesn’t push, which is worse than if he’d demanded details. It makes me want to tell him everything.
We sit in silence for a moment. I can feel the weird tension that’s been building between us for weeks crackling in the air.
“I’m going out with the girls tonight,” I say suddenly, remembering my lie from earlier.
His face does something subtle. A flicker of disappointment, maybe? “Where?”
