Page 28 of Imperfect Player

Me: Yep.

Everly: Care to clue me in?

Me: I can’t stop thinking about you…

Those irritating dots appear on my screen telling me she’s either typing her response or just staring at the screen at what I said.

The line isn’t untrue. I can’t stop thinking about her. Maybe this is my backward way of telling her that, but I sent it with the intention of making a joke out of it.

Me: And why you ordered cheesecake the other night instead of chocolate cake. Who does that?

Three laughing face emojis appear on the screen.

Dessert. The fight of the century.

I’d ordered us chocolate cake. She told me I ordered wrong and requested cheesecake instead. The battle ensued. We argued relentlessly throughout dessert about which was better and why. The entire time I was wondering if she would taste better than the chocolate cake that I was biting into. I decided she would. Sweet, utterly delectable.

I’d adjusted in my seat countless times that night.

Turned on as I was by her, it was more than that. More than just a sexual desire that I was feeling for her. I liked her. I liked being around her.

That’s where the problem lies. I’m stuck in this middle ground I’m not used to being in. Either I fuck women, or I don’t. That’s it. There’s no in between. With Everly, though, that’s all there is. This murky gray area that I don’t know how to navigate.

Still, here we are days later, texting and chatting as I leave practice. Because as I said in my text—I can’t stop thinking about her.

Me: What are you up to tonight?

Spending more time with her is bad. Wrong.

Everly: Girls’ night.

I groan at the thought of her and her friends out there drinking and dancing. Men’s hands on her, trying to get in her pants.

Me: Sounds like fun.

Everly: Oh, it will be. Just me, Chelle, and a gallon of ice cream.

Relief washes over me. An at-home girls’ night. No prospect of men touching her. Sounds good to me.

Me: Never pictured you to be so… wild.

Everly: You haven’t seen anything yet.

Me: Can’t wait.

Me: Enjoy your night. And if you happen to text me pics, I wouldn’t be angry.

“Hey, Thurston,” I say as I enter my building.

There’s a tight smile on his face. A look I haven’t seen in two years. Not since I let my world implode.

“Mr. Ambrose,” Thurston says.

“Everything okay?” I ask him.

“Okay, yes. I just . . . ”

There’s something he wants to say but can’t or doesn’t want to. I’m not sure which.

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