Total pages in book: 101
Estimated words: 98305 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 492(@200wpm)___ 393(@250wpm)___ 328(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 98305 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 492(@200wpm)___ 393(@250wpm)___ 328(@300wpm)
I can’t help but laugh at the absurdity of his response.
“We’ll put an ad in the paper,” he continues.
“Walt,” I groan, trying to wriggle away from his hold.
“Fine then, we’ll get you a puppy.”
“I’m being serious.”
I reach up to try to push him away, but instead, he grasps my hand against his chest and pushes it harder against his heart so I can feel its beat.
“So am I.”
His gaze implores me to see reason.
The mood in the room shifts on a dime in that moment, with his grip on my hand both firm and caring.
I understand now what he’s trying to force me to see. What he’s too afraid to tell me.
Twenty-One
My lips part and hope fills me like helium filling a balloon. The air between us is charged with unsaid words. My gaze falls to his lips and I lean forward, off my pillow, my chin tilting up only slightly. It all suddenly feels so simple. The two of us together.
If he won’t lean in, I will.
Or I would…
If I didn’t suddenly remember the night I kissed him in the entry gallery, the night that felt so much like this. He turned away from me then and his rebuff still stings to think about, even now.
I press my lips together and glance away.
Walt notices my retreat, and he lets go of me, pushing to stand. He tells me good night on his way out the door and I stare up at him in my dark room, wishing things between us were different.
Wishing.
In the morning, he’s the first thing I think about. I toss my blankets aside and hurry into the kitchen, eager to see him. I’d like to thank him for last night. He was an unexpected source of kindness on a hard day.
I make my breakfast and coffee and sit at the island, eating slowly, eyes darting to the doorway every five seconds, only to realize as I load my dishes in the dishwasher that he’s already left for the day. His empty coffee cup, turned upside down on the top rack, is proof.
I don’t see him that evening either.
I brush it off as an anomaly, but then another day passes and he’s still a shadow in the apartment. I only know he’s been home because there’s a different coffee cup loaded in the dishwasher by the time I wake up in the morning. This time, his iPad is out on the kitchen island too. He must be waking up and leaving for work at the crack of dawn and staying there until well into the evening. I remember something he said the night of the fundraiser about keeping his distance and trying not to encroach on my space.
I think he’s doing that again, and I don’t like it.
As absurd as it sounds, I’m starting to miss him.
Miss him!
A man like Walt!
I barely believe it myself.
I force myself to work, of course. I don’t have any other option. I only have three more weeks to get my collection done for Nadiya. She reached out to me by email to confirm I was on track, and I sent her photos of a few finished pieces. Thankfully, she seemed to really like them, so at least I have that going for me.
Now if only Walt would come home.
The longer we stay apart, the more I realize the arrangement between us as it currently stands won’t work forever. We’re playing a game, and it’s like reverse chicken. Instead of careening toward each other at breakneck speeds, we’re running in the exact opposite directions. The objective is simple: who can avoid admitting their feelings the longest? Who can stay away more?
It’s the dullest game in the world. So dull in fact that I’m starting to think I might be okay with ending it even if I lose, even if I’m the one with a broken heart.
It’s just that the alternative—this constant state of wondering what could happen between us—is driving me insane.
Unfortunately, Walt’s made it impossible to end the game because he’s never home.
Friday morning, I’m sipping my coffee in the library, going over a color palette for a new piece when I get a harebrained idea to take Walt lunch at his office.
The concept is like a bolt of lightning, zinging me to life. I’m so eager, I hop off my chair and set down my palette knife, only to realize it’s barely 9:00. Not exactly lunchtime.
Fine.
I go back to work—a little sulkier than before—and force myself to be productive until around 11:00, then I rush off to my closet and flip through clothes, discarding one outfit after another for no apparent reason. I don’t even really need to change. The clothes I have on are fine, and yet still, it feels like if I’m going to show up at Walt’s work, I should be wearing something other than jeans. Not to mention, spring has finally decided to rear its head outside, so I embrace it by grabbing a soft fitted white tee and pairing it with a short wrap skirt that ties with a little bow on the left side. As always, I toss on my Doc Martens and my jewelry.