Sunday was miserable. There was no call first thing in the morning to wake me up. His voice wasn’t the first one I heard, and I missed it. Of course, I could have called him, but that would have interfered with the pity party I was having for myself.
Chay had texted me as soon as he got home Saturday night. I read the text to make sure everything was all right. When I knew it was, and had satisfied my curiosity about what he wanted to say, I set the phone on my nightstand without answering. I told myself if he texted again, I’d answer him. But even though I kept checking every thirty seconds—okay, maybe not that often, it was a least a minute between peeks—he didn’t text again. Disappointment flooded me. Which was so totally stupid since he did text me first.
Disappointment quickly gave way to irritation by Sunday morning. He texted me twice Sunday afternoon. I didn’t acknowledge either of them, which was rude and childish. I didn’t care. I’d decided sometime in the wee hours of the morning when I was lying in bed thinking about him that I didn’t want to discuss things through text messages. So I was waiting for him to call. He didn’t. Which pissed me off even more.
Of course, I could’ve—should’ve—called him. He’d made the first move by texting as soon as he got home Saturday night and telling me he loved me. But I was still in the midst of my pity party, and I wasn’t going near the phone first. No friggin’ way.
I heard the doorbell ring around dinnertime, and my heart beat a staccato rhythm against my ribs.
Chay!
I bounded down the stairs just as my dad opened the door.
“Hey, how ya doing?” my dad said.
I heard a man answer. “Doin’ good, and you?”
That isn’t Chay. Who is that?
My dad opened the door wider for the guy to come inside, and time screeched to a halt.
7
Angel
Xavier.
Seriously? Xavier here?
The foyer was at the foot of the stairs. Xavier just had to look up and see me standing on the steps. I backed up slowly before he noticed me. Making my way quietly to my bedroom, I avoided the floorboards I knew creaked.
Xavier. Xavier? What’s he doing here? He knows my dad? Xavier, really?
I couldn’t get my mind wrapped around him being in my house, or why he’d be there in the first place.
“Milayna…” I heard a high-pitched voice call from outside.
“Oh, no,” I whispered. “Not now.”
“We’re here to play,” Friendly called from the yard below my window. He looked like a demonic Santa Claus with his red skin covered in the fresh, white snow.
“Come outside now,” Scarface screeched. “It’s too damned cold out here to play. I wanna go home where it’s warm.”
“Mi-lay-na…” they said in their little girly voices. “Come outside.”
My cell phone vibrated against the bedside table. I knew it’d be Chay with the hobgoblins making their appearance in my backyard.
He can’t come over while Xavier is here.
I snatched the phone from the table and opened his text.
Chay: How long have they been there?
Me: Just spotted them.
Chay: Oh, you’re answering me now?
I could almost hear his sarcasm. I didn’t answer him.
Chay: I’m coming over.
Me: No, they aren’t doing anything. I’m not going outside anyway.
Chay: Hmm.
Me: “What?” I said aloud as I typed on the little keypad.
Chay: You don’t want me to come over?
Me: That’s not it. I’ll call.
I dialed his number, and he answered on the first ring. Well, answered implied he said something. It would be better to say he picked up on the first ring, because he didn’t say anything.
“Hey,” I said. I waited patiently for him to decide to respond. “You know, you’re acting like a child by not speaking.” Of course, it didn’t escape my attention that I’d been acting like one by not answering his texts. I chose not to examine that too closely.
“And you haven’t been?”
“I didn’t say that.” I sighed. “I just didn’t want to discuss things through text messages.”
“You could have called.”
“The phone works both ways, Chay.”
He snorted a laugh and muttered something under his breath before telling me, “If I’d known that’s what you wanted, I would have called. Something you could’ve very easily told me through a text message.” He yelled the last few words.
I flinched. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t apologize,” he said. “I’m not done being mad.”
“I am. I’ve been miserable the last twenty-four hours. I don’t want to be mad anymore. But you go ahead. I’ll wait until you’re finished. Just give me a call—”
“Wait.”
I smiled. “What?”
“I’m done being mad. I’m sorry, too,” he murmured.
“I missed not waking up to your voice this morning. Even though you wake me up entirely too early on the weekends.”
He laughed. “Yeah, I think you’ve told me that a few hundred times. But you don’t need it.”
“Need what?” His ability to change subjects so quickly was exhausting sometimes.