Total pages in book: 99
Estimated words: 96875 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 484(@200wpm)___ 388(@250wpm)___ 323(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 96875 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 484(@200wpm)___ 388(@250wpm)___ 323(@300wpm)
But, that wish, I hold close to the vest. There’s too much to jinx in it.
“Maybe. But even if I don’t, I’m pretty happy right now,” he says.
“So am I.”
Except for that little matter of a long-distance relationship. We haven’t talked about that—what it looks like long-term, how we’ll make it work beyond May.
On one hand, it seems like we’re navigating the relationship part just fine. But I’m not convinced either one of us knows a thing about how to handle the distance.
34
Declan
One thing I learn about Grant Blackwood in April: he likes to give gifts. It’s not entirely surprising, but it is absolutely endearing.
The first gift arrives in digital form late one night after a game.
I’m on the subway heading home, tempted to open it. I’ve learned, though, that multimedia texts and emails from Grant are best viewed behind closed doors.
I wait . . . mostly patiently.
Once I’m inside my apartment, I click open the text, and I’m both turned on and amused as I click on a picture of Grant’s ass photoshopped into a Topps baseball card.
A chuckle bursts from me as I read the stats. Instead of batting average, height, and weight, he’s listed:
Firm enough to flick a quarter off it.
Round, tight, and delish.
Your favorite place.
He does include position, though. But rather than catcher, he writes: Versatile AF. Can play all positions and loves all positions.
It’s the best gift ever.
I write back.
* * *
Declan: Does this mean you want a dick card?
* * *
Grant: Dick card, dick pic, dick drawing. S’all good.
* * *
I FaceTime him, so he gets a dick video that turns into a long, late-night phone call where we get ready for bed together.
“Hey,” I say, flashing back to Grant’s first season of pro ball and a convo in the bathroom of a pool hall. “Did you ever learn to cook?”
Laughing, he shakes his head. “Nope. I am the king of DoorDash. You’ve barely seen my amazing DoorDash skills. I know the takeout menu of every restaurant in the entire San Francisco metropolitan area.”
“Impressive,” I say as I flop down on my bed. “Do you want to learn to cook?”
“Maybe? I don’t know. I’m open to it, but I also love going out to eat. I’m kind of a social person.”
“I’ve noticed. And it’d be fun to go out to dinner with you.”
“Don’t forget breakfast and lunch.”
“I won’t. We’ll do all three.”
On that promising note, we talk for a little longer and say goodnight once we’re both under the covers.
I turn off the light, picture Grant doing the same on his side of the country, and wish we had a date for breakfast tomorrow.
There’s a package waiting for me a few days later, in the mail room of my apartment. The shipping label says Rafe Rodman, but I didn’t order anything. Upstairs, in private, I open the box. Arching a brow, I pull out a pair of black briefs. The underwear isn’t the source of my skepticism—it’s that they are covered with cartoon unicorns.
* * *
Declan: Why do you get to wear the snug, solid-color Rafe Rodmans that make me want to fuck you all night long, but I get to wear unicorns?
* * *
Grant: Is there some reason you think unicorns on your ass and cock will deter me from wanting to fuck you?
* * *
Declan: Fair point.
* * *
Grant: Also, you have a unicorn cock. So there.
* * *
Declan: Maybe I’ll wear these when I see you next month.
* * *
Grant: Is that supposed to be a threat? Because it sounds more like I’m winning.
The third gift arrives the next morning—a DoorDash delivery from my favorite bakery, consisting of a half-dozen everything bagels with organic peanut butter. A note in the bag reads: In case you’re wondering what was on my mind last night in the shower, I hope this makes EVERYTHING clear. -G
I’m grinning as I toast a bagel and tap out a reply.
* * *
Declan: In case you’re wondering, I love everything about you . . . every single thing.
* * *
But I don’t send that. I want to tell him in person that every day I fall more in love with him, and that I don’t ever plan to fall out.
Instead, I backspace and type something else that’s true.
* * *
Declan: In case you’re wondering, I can’t wait to see you. Can’t wait to do everything to you. With you. For you. I just can’t wait.
* * *
That feels clear enough. I hit send.
Emma stops by later that day on her way to the Met, where she’s been working. I waggle the bag of bakery treats. “As hard as I try, I can’t eat six bagels in one day. Well, it’s five, now, since I had one already.”
“And you know there is nothing worse than day-old bagels.” She shudders dramatically. “Luckily, I’m here to save the day. Toast one for me?”