“Sorry. Thought you were someone else.”
“You must not like him very much.” I hear the smile in his voice; sense him easing into our usual warm repartee, but this time I’m determined to resist his charms. After all, couldn’t he have called before now? It’s been almost a week, enough time that I’d practically written him off. I don’t want to be the B-roll of anyone’s love life, not even Beautiful Bisexual Boy.
“So what’s going on?” I answer, cool. Making sure he knows I plan to keep this phone call right on track.
Instead, I’m surprised to hear his thoughtful exhalation of breath, and then, “I’m not sure, Rebecca. Wish I were.” His voice is quiet, notably heavy, and all my anger evaporates in the face of his honesty.
“Tell me what you mean,” I encourage, moving toward the sink to fill my water bottle.
“Oh.” He gives an agreeable laugh. “Just been a tough weekend, that’s all.”
“Well that tells me next to nothing.” There’s silence, and I think I hear birds and a lawnmower in the background on his end. “You’re outside.”
“Yeah, on the deck. Watching the sun disappear into the hills.”
“Okay, but please just tell me you’re not going to become That Guy.”
“Which guy?”
“The one who calls me whenever he gets a little moody and sad,” I tease, hoping to make him laugh.
“Nah, I’m more like the guy who doesn’t call for a week.”
“Oh, so you’re admitting that, Mr. Warner?”
“Yeah, and you were pissed,” he says, as I chug deep gulps of water. “Weren’t you?”
I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand. “Did you want me to be?”
“Maybe. ’Cause if you were, then I could stop thinking about you so damn much,” he answers with a soft chuckle. “But like most of my plans, guess it didn’t quite work out that way.”
“You know, something tells me you’re a very easy man to forgive.” And I mean it. He’s such a gentle, warm guy that I’m finding it impossible to stay angry.
“I have been thinking about you, Rebecca,” he answers. “A lot more than I probably should have been. But it’s just hard. Figuring things out right now.”
I’m sure it is hard trying to cope without the love of his life, to understand what that means for his family. No wonder this strange dance between the two of us is so baffling to him; it’s baffling enough to me.
I want to tell him that he’s all I’ve thought about for the past week. That he’s invaded my day thoughts, my night thoughts, my dream thoughts. Instead, I practically whisper into the receiver, “You know, you could tell me why it’s been such a hard weekend. Considering that I’d like to forgive you.”
“Would you consider coming over?”
“Now?”
“I could give you the long-form explanation that way,” he says. “Versus the short form that might only get me a tiny pardon.”
“Who’s cooking?” I’m already mentally clicking off ingredients for a pasta dish. Ground turkey, tortellini, cilantro…
“Domino’s,” he answers decisively. “So we can be together, not dividing our time with the kitchen.”
Why do I get the feeling that Michael Warner is a man rarely prone to backing down from things once he’s made up his mind about them? And more importantly, why do I sense that in some crucial way, he might be beginning to make up his mind about me?
Too bad I remembered that dang voice mail from Jake, because otherwise my mood would be dreamy perfect after my phone call from Michael. Unfortunately, I do remember, and listening to Jake’s smooth Hollywood voice sours my improved humor just a little.
“Uh, Rebecca, hey. Jake. How are you?” I towel off my face, still dripping with sweat from the run. “It’s been too long, you know. I’ve been thinking about you… bumped into Cat down at The Derby the other night. She says you’re doing great.” He pauses, and there’s the muffled sound of him covering the receiver to talk to someone else. “Yeah, so listen, it’s been too long, and we need to do something about that, so call me back. You know the number.” Click. Not goodbye or see you later, Rebecca, or anything. Just a dial tone.
Oh, so very, very Jake.