I grab my things and make my way back through to Tyler’s room. Snake still isn’t awake. Tyler’s watching the weather forecast on TV, so focused on it that he doesn’t even notice me as I pass behind him, disappearing back into his room, which is now mine.
I ram my stuff back into my suitcase and then pat the pockets of my shorts. Empty. I don’t recall the last time I had my phone. It could have been at Times Square last night, where I remember taking pictures. My eyes scan the room until they land on my jacket, still curled up in the corner. I reach down and check the pockets, breathing a sigh of relief when I pull my phone out. It’s completely dead.
Right then, I realize I haven’t spoken to Dean since I left. I was supposed to call him when I landed. And before I went to sleep. And when I woke up. In fact, I’m supposed to talk to him throughout the day, every day. That was the deal. Yet I haven’t even sent him a single text.
“Are you ready?”
I jump at the sound of Tyler’s voice behind me. I spin around and he’s staring back at me from the door, a baseball bat in one hand, a ball in the other. He tilts the bat up and smiles.
“Yeah,” I say quickly. It’s only taken me twenty minutes to get ready, not an hour, but there’s no point in waiting around. With the time to spare, I know I could call Dean, but my phone is dead. And I know I could just borrow Tyler’s, but after our conversation last night I don’t think asking Tyler if I can borrow his phone to call my boyfriend is appropriate. It’s kind of like slapping them both in the face at the exact same time.
God, I’m awful. So, so awful.
“One sec,” I tell Tyler. I grab my backpack and rummage around inside, sifting through all the crap I’ve thrown into it until finally I yank out my charger. Finding a socket, I plug in my phone to allow it to charge while we’re gone. I’ll call Dean when we get back. Hopefully he won’t be too mad at me.
“Now?” Tyler asks. He’s leaning against the door frame, and I throw him a quick nod over my shoulder as I slip on my Converse. My new pair. The ones from him. The ones that tell me to not give up.
“Yep, good to go,” I say. I straighten up and hook my index finger around the loop of my shorts, eyeing the baseball bat challengingly. I might not know how to play, but I know that I want to kick ass. “Are you sure you want to teach me?”
“Definitely,” Tyler says. He steps back from the door and waits for me to join him in the living room. He reaches for my hand, his skin warm against mine, and slowly he places the baseball onto my palm. He wraps my hand around it, his fingers over mine. “Don’t get your hopes up,” he tells me. “I’m not gonna go easy on you.”
“I don’t need you to.”
“Good.” He squeezes my hand, then lets go. He walks over to the door casually, like he hasn’t just touched me again and as though my breathing isn’t hitching. I think he does these things on purpose, like brushing our hands together and grasping my waist. I’ll bet he knows it’s going to drive me crazy. I’ll bet he knows how much I love it. “So, you coming?”
I look over at him and in that moment I decide that his hair looks slightly longer than I remember. More styled, less tousled. Somehow, I manage not to stare for too long. I grin instead. “Let’s go.”
Tyler checks the apartment before we leave—he’s even cleared away the empty beer bottles while I’ve been getting ready, it seems—and then we head out to the elevator, leaving a sleeping Stephen behind. We’re joined by a woman and her screaming toddler, so there’s no room for conversation as we suffer through its relentless tantrum for the time it takes to descend twelve floors. I try not to make eye contact, so I stare at Tyler’s boots instead. I’ll bet he’s staring at my Chucks. Neither of us smiles.
Awkward elevator ride over, we make our way back through the main lobby and over to the main doors, with me close behind Tyler. I can’t move my eyes away from the back of his neck and he holds the door open for me using the baseball bat, earning him some hard looks from passers-by on the sidewalk.
“You might wanna give me that ball back so that it doesn’t look like I’m about to commit a felony,” he says, laughing. He waits for me to brush past him before letting the doors slap shut again.
“Hmm,” I say, hesitating on the sidewalk. I tilt my head and narrow my eyes, playfully scrutinizing him. The bat is swinging from his left hand. “Yep, you definitely look like you’re about to beat the hell outta someone. Maybe I’ll just hold onto this ball for a little while longe—”