“For tomorrow. Our date.” I sigh. “Don’t act like you forgot. I know you’ve been counting down the hours.” I glance at the watch on my wrist. “We’re down to thirty-three now, in case you were wondering.”
“I’m not going shopping with you.”
“Oh, but you are. I need to make sure you don’t embarrass me with your…eccentric outfit choices.”
“First of all…” She holds her finger up in my face.
I bite at her.
She grimaces in poorly disguised disgust. “Can you not keep your mouth to yourself?”
“I—”
Denny holds her hand up. “You know what, don’t tell me. Anyway, how dare you judge my fashion sense! It’s…it’s…”
“Awkward? Confusing? Basically nonexistent?”
“No!”
“No offense, Den, but I ran into you last week while you were wearing brightly colored yoga pants, a sweater that was about four times too big, and no bra.” I lean down. “And by the way, I was so happy to see that your nipples were enjoying my eyes on them.”
A surprised gasp escapes from her lips then her breaths grow labored. She’s rattled. Shelikesthat my eyes were on her.
I liked it too.
Collecting herself, she crosses her arms over her chest like she’s protecting it from my prying eyes, which is pointless because she’s unfortunately wearing a bra today. I already checked.
“It was the middle of the night!” she reasons—or attempts to.
“All I’m hearing are excuses. Besides, us shopping together means your dress and my tie will match.”
“I could always text you a picture.”
“You still have my number?”
Her attention falls to the floor as she stammers through an uncertain, “N-N-No.”
I can’t tell if she’s stammering because she’s lying or because she’s ashamed she deleted my number.
I have never wanted somebody to be lying so badly in my entire life.
“I still have yours.”
Her bewildered gaze finds mine, searching to see if I’m being honest.
I am.
I haven’t used it in…well, years, but I have it. I still have all our texts too.
Technology is kind of amazing in that way. Nowadays, you can save texts from years past, hold on to the memories of before—you know, before you turned your own life into shit with your insecurities.
There were moments when I wanted to delete her from my phone, from my mind—because of my own shame, nothing to do with her—but I couldn’t bring myself to do it.
Erasing her wouldn’t erase my mistakes, no matter how hard I tried to make that happen.
“I have all our texts too,” I confess, still holding her stare.
Her pupils grow, and I swear I’ve melted the ice around her heart by at least an inch.
