“You can always text me.”
“I—” Blinking back up, I glance at his profile as my smile slips slightly. “Yeah. I could.”
“Did you save my number to your phone?”
“No.” I didn’t delete it either. So far, he’s only texted me twice. Once that first night and another that just saidfood.
Lifting the phone off my lap, I unlock the screen and scroll through my messages, landing on the unadded phone number a few texts down—right beneath Misty’sTELL ME EVERYTHING BITCH.
I swipe through the prompts and start typing “Lex” into the name field.
“Eh.”
I frown, popping my head up. “What?”
“You can do better. I’m your boyfriend, the love of your life. We’d hardly be on a first-name basis in each other’s phones.”
“What did you put for me?”
A knowing look.
“Right. Nicks.” I watch as he unlocks his phone and angles it in my direction. I was right. But the accompanying picture is what seizes my attention. It’s not a photo swiped from my social media profiles or even a tabloid shot. It’s candid. One he took himself, last week, when I wasn’t aware.
I’m sitting at his grand piano, singing through a lovesick smile, the image taken to my left and capturing my profile. I’m totally immersed in the music, my chin tipped, shoulders taut with passion as my fingers press along the crisp white keys.
Chewing my lip, I erase the three letters from the name field. “I don’t have a nickname for you,” I murmur, trying to think of something relevant. “Babe?”
“Not personal enough.”
“Lexy-Boy?”
He makes a face of disgust.
“Hmm.” My thumb taps the side of the phone. And then an idea hits me. Rubbing my lips together, I swipe across the keypad and show him the final verdict.
My Christianwith a red heart.
A heavy look steals his eyes. His brows dip, lips pressing together. He swallows. “Better.”
Warmth invades my neck, my collarbone, and I wonder if it’s too much. Too intimate and raw, a secret only meant for us and for that stage. But it’s already out there, so I let it go, closing the screen and returning the phone to my lap.
Another surge of silence swells as I look back out at the canvas of stars and wonder what he’s thinking. The longer the quiet stretches, the more my mind replays the moment in his living room when he unveiled his truths and I felt sucker punched and gutted. Stripped to bare bones.
I still wonder if I should have walked away or if I should have taken him in my arms like I wanted to.
“Hey, Lex?” My voice is a breath, a tiny voice.
He leans forward in the chair, elbows to knees. “Yeah?”
“Do you want to talk?”
I watch his eyes glaze over as starlight inhabits the blue. He doesn’t respond, propping his chin atop his clasped hands.
“About the other day?” I add. I want to be there for him. I want to be his friend, a shoulder to lean on.
Whatever he needs.
But I’m not equipped with the tools to deconstruct his pain. I’m wavering, waffling, torn in two. I’m both the girl he once knew—the one who’d sing him songs and hold his hand on rooftop shingles—but I’m also this new character, this new role, unsure of where I stand or how to reach him in the ways that count.
