The silence filled my ear as I sat befuddled by the entire exchange. I pulled my phone away to look at the screen. Are we fighting? Does he want me to call him more? Does he want me to be interested?
I stared at my phone for several seconds before I typed a message out.
Me: Fine, Maverick. No space. But I’m not positive you can handle the truth. (Gratuitous Tom Cruise reference.)
Evan: Try me.
And there it was—the defining moment. Bracing myself, I typed out what would be either the truth that opened the door for me with him or the truth that would cause him to slam it in my face for good.
Me: I’m pissed that I missed a chance to see you yesterday. I’ve thought of absolutely nothing but you for the last two weeks. And I don’t know how to show you that without going too hard too fast and risk scaring you off.
Evan: Christ, Henry. What the hell are we doing here?
Me: I can’t answer that. It’s your turn to be honest, Evan.
Evan: I fucking hate when you type my name.
I swear I needed a decoder ring to read between the lines with this guy.
Me: I don’t even know what that means.
Evan: The scary thing is I don’t either.
I squinted at my phone, trying to see if some sort of sense could be made from our current conversation. I typed out several messages in reply, but the words didn’t feel right, so I deleted them all.
“You’re Henry Alexander.” His words rang in my ears.
In my world, I wasn’t Henry Alexander. I was just Henry, smartass extraordinaire. But I’d forgotten that Evan wasn’t of my world—no matter how much I’d wished he were.
“Shit!” I dropped my phone.
So, now, on top of convincing his conscience that it was okay for him to be with a man, I had to overcome the stigma of my fame. There I was, worried about him meeting a woman, when he was worried about me meeting…well, everyone else.
I hated that I’d made him feel this way, but this revelation immeasurably filled my damaged soul. The potent high sent me spinning, and the warmth brewing in my chest made me brave.
I couldn’t lose him over a misunderstanding. For the first time in years, I’d found someone I could actually imagine a future with. I’d been handling him with caution because I wanted more than just a cat-and-mouse game. But, if Evan wanted to be chased, I’d cat the fuck out of him.
My hands began to tremble as I reached for my phone, knowing what I had to do.
“DO I NEED to slap that shit out of your hand again?” Scott joked, pulling my attention away from my phone.
I’d been staring at it for the last five hours. That damn text bubble would occasionally pop up, taunting me that Henry was typing, but no messages had been sent.
It was official. I was a bitch. But, for over two weeks, Henry had been driving me insane. Baiting me with texts but never calling. He hadn’t even mentioned wanting to see me again. Every so often, I’d give in and call him, and he’d always act like he was happy to hear from me. But I had no interest in another one-sided relationship.
Relationship?
My head was a jumbled mess when it came to him. Just the thought of being with a man again sent me into a tailspin, or that’s what I told myself. When, in reality, Henry’s indifference toward me was what really had me on the edge of sanity. I wavered from minute to minute between what I wanted—him—and what I needed—self-preservation.
I reminded myself every day that this thing with him was as casual as I’d told him it was. Unfortunately, the more I got to know him, the less I wanted it that way. I couldn’t deny that I was attracted to him, but wasn’t everyone?
He was charismatic, charming, and unbelievably sexy.
But, on the other hand, he was so charismatic that bullshitting me would be easy for him.
And he was charming with everyone—not just me.
And, sure, he was unbelievably sexy, yet I was supposed to believe he’d set his sights on only me? For fuck’s sake, I knew firsthand that life didn’t work like that. Much less when you add in fame and fortune.
But, despite what I’d told him on the phone, I didn’t care that he was superstar Henry Alexander.
I did, however, care that, for some reason, I was starting to develop feelings of the non-naked variety for him.
And, tonight, I’d broken, making myself more vulnerable, because now, he knew I cared. Pretending was safe. I could even convince myself sometimes. Now though? I’d exposed my hand, and he had absolutely no response. Watching that text bubble flicker was like salt in a wound.
“Dude,” Scott laughed. “You’re missing the fight. What the hell is wrong with you?”
I shook my head. “I don’t know. Tired, I guess.” Pushing to my feet, I headed to the kitchen to grab a beer. “You need another?”
“I’m good,” he replied before yelling at one of the fighters on the TV.
We’d been planning to go out to the sports bar, but when he’d gotten to my house, I’d been in a shit mood. So shitty that he hadn’t argued when I’d told him that I’d rather stay in and order the pay-per-view.