“No. I’m sorry, Katie, but I refuse to let you see that boy ever again.” She stared at me, her eyes wide and full of fear and disgust and a few other emotions I didn’t recognize. “He’s not—he’s not good for you. I don’t want you spending time with him.”
“He’s my friend.” Tears fell down my cheeks and I wiped at them furiously, not even aware I was crying until I felt them dampening my skin. “Doesn’t that matter?”
“You need no reminders of what happened.” She stood and wrung her hands together, like she’d just rid herself of all that unpleasantness. “It’s time to move on. Not relive what happened to you again and again.”
“Well, the detectives aren’t helping me with the reliving part, what with their constant questions,” I retorted, crossing my arms in front of my chest. But the movement only caused me pain and I winced, letting my arms fall to my sides.
She sent me a look. “Stop being obtuse. You know what I mean. That boy.” Her lips screwed up into the ugliest pout I’d ever seen. At this very moment, she looked so vulnerable, so old. When did she get so old? There were wrinkles around her eyes, her lips were thin, and her hair—I could see gray mixed with the dark blond strands. I felt bad. Really bad. Did what happened to me age her that quickly? “There’s no hope for him. Believe me. Seeing him will only dredge up unpleasant memories and I want you healing, not trying to relive everything.”
“So you’re not going to let me see him.” My voice was more breath than sound and my heart hurt at the realization that I might never see Will again.
She shook her head, her expression firm. “It’s pointless.”
According to her.
I think you meant to send this to someone else.
I stare at the text on my screen from Katie, nerves eating at my gut. Last night I’d been feeling lonely and read over our few text messages like a lovesick idiot. I never got out of the text conversation with Katie when I sent the message to my client Linda, asking if we could reschedule our afternoon meeting for tomorrow.
Instead of texting Linda, I’d texted Katie.
If I ignore her I’m a dick. If I answer . . . I’m still a dick, because I’ve avoided her for over a week. I had no plans to contact her again. After that letter from my father, I knew I couldn’t keep this up. Toying with someone’s emotions when the person is already so fragile is dangerous and cruel.
I’m not sure if I’m talking about Katie or myself.
I text my client first, resending her the message that I can’t meet today, and she immediately replies saying that’s fine. I’ve fallen a little behind on projects and I can only blame it on my twisted feelings for Katie. Despite not seeing her for the last nine days, I still think about her. Constantly.
Too much.
Her text haunts me and I switch to that conversation, staring at what she wrote. I can hear her voice, sweet and hesitant. I can see her face, those big blue eyes, her slightly pursed lips. I don’t know how to reply without looking like an asshole, but not saying anything is worse, so I decide to keep it short.
Thanks for letting me know.
I hit send before I can add anything else and pray like hell she doesn’t reply right away. Or ever.
My phone buzzes and I close my eyes. Breathe deep. Open my eyes to read Katie’s reply.
You’re welcome.
That’s it. I exhale in relief. In disappointment. What did I expect? A warm greeting? A pissed-off “where have you been”? She wouldn’t do that. She’s too sweet, too hesitant, too unsure. She doesn’t date, she’s never had a relationship, and here I am toying with her like a complete prick.
But I can’t resist her. I don’t want to resist her. It’s like I have this need inside me that keeps growing and growing.
The need to see, to touch Katie.
I clutch my phone tight, stare at the screen. Start typing before I can stop myself.
How are you?
Good.
A pause.
And you?
She’s being polite. I need to stop communicating with her. I’m just getting myself in deeper and soon I won’t be able to climb out of the hole I’ve dug myself. I’m already in too deep.
I feel like shit.
Her reply is immediate.
Why? Have you been sick?
I haven’t called you or texted you.
My fingers hover above the keyboard. Fuck it.
I’m sorry.
I wait for her reply and it feels like forever before I finally get it.
For what?
For ignoring you.
Is that what you were doing?
Running my hand through my hair, I contemplate what to say next. I shouldn’t say a damn thing. Leave it at the apology and quit this conversation for good. But . . . I can’t. It’s so damn hard. I want more. When it comes to Katie, I always want more. It’s killing me that I haven’t seen her. I want to see her. Talk to her. Make her smile, make her laugh.
I finally answer her.
Yeah, I was. And I’m sorry about that. It was a dick move.
My phone rings, startling me, and . . . fuck.
It’s her. Of course.