LYRA

07.18.15

He wishes he was here—more than I know. He actually said that! He misses me, too!

The smile on my face might be brighter than the brilliant rays of the early morning sunlight pouring in through the window on the wall opposite of my bed—the one I forgot to close the blinds on last night before I went to bed. As I lie here staring at Tavian’s message on my phone, I no longer care that I’m awake at the ass-crack of dawn on a day where I have absolutely nowhere to be and nothing to do. I only wish I would’ve woken when he texted so I could’ve responded then, but seeing the text is time-stamped 1:07 a.m., I doubt he’s up and about less than five hours later.

I reply anyway… you know, just in case.

Me: I’m not sure about Stan’s, but my guy delivers and sneaks me sweet treats, too.

After making sure the message is delivered, I push to my feet and nearly skip over to the bathroom to take care of my morning business. The unease and apprehension I felt after messaging him last night is gone for the most part, even if I don’t hear back from him right away. I was wrong to doubt him, to doubt what we shared. And though I’m still not sure where we go from here, I feel confident Tavian isn’t disappearing from my life.

At least not yet, Lyra. The more attached you get, the harder it’ll be when you say goodbye. Only 9 months and 5 days until the calendar matches the numbers in his eyes.

The somber thought puts a damper on my cheerful mood, but only momentarily, because as I turn off the water from brushing my teeth, my phone dings with an alert. My eyebrows shoot up into my hairline as I pop my chin up and catch my hopeful blue gaze in the mirror. It’s an emotion I’m still unfamiliar with, and even though the anxiety and fear of forming a bond with someone—someone who I know won’t be here this time next year—still lurk in the cold, dark, solitary places of my mind, I refuse to exist there anymore. I don’t want to die alone, and I don’t want to live lonely.

Wiping the water and leftover toothpaste off my mouth with a washcloth, I rush back over to my bed and scoop up my phone. I open the message and read it once… twice… and then I let out a high-pitched squeal and jump on the mattress, bouncing around like a little kid who just found out she was going to Disney World.

Not surprisingly, my feet twist up in the tangled mess of sheets and pillows and I collapse into a heap of giggles, thankfully sparing my hurt fingers any further injury on the landing. I lift the phone back up to my face and read the message a third time, wondering if my cheeks are going to ache later from all this smiling.

Tavian: Your guy is me, and I’ll be the only one sneaking you anything from now on.

Me: Is that so? Does that make me your girl?

Tavian: You shouldn’t have to ask. I made my intentions pretty damn clear the last couple of nights of the trip and on that note I left you, didn’t I?

But what about Annie? Don’t be naïve, Lyra. Don’t be a dirty little secret.

My smile fades at the reminder, but I don’t overthink my reply, don’t pull punches. I’m not going to sacrifice my heart to be completely shattered come next April, all because I believe spending the next nine months with him in my life is worth that utter devastation, just to play second chair to another woman or share him with someone else.

Me: You did, but things change when you get home from vacation. Reality sets in. You face the woman you live with. Is she still your girl, too?

I brace myself for his answer—breath halted, heart pounding. My stomach clenches a tiny bit more with each second that passes as I watch the three little moving dots indicating he’s typing out a long response. After what seems like an hour, but is probably more like three minutes, his message pops up on my screen.

Tavian: I told her about you last night. It wasn’t pretty and there’s a long story that goes along with it that I’d prefer to tell you face-to-face, not over text messages. But to answer your question, no. She’s not. She’s coming tomorrow to get her stuff. It’s over.

An unexpected wave of guilt washes over me, and the confident bravado I just felt washes away. I don’t know anything about this woman, and I’m now responsible—well, partially responsible at least—for her and Tavian’s breakup. He made it seem things have been over with them for a while, but I have no idea how she viewed their relationship. She could’ve still been madly in love with him. And I’m responsible for their end.

Tavian: Stop whatever it is you’re thinking over there. You aren’t to blame for this. She is. I am. We should’ve ended it a long time ago… if not before she left me for a year, then definitely when she came back.

Me: I’m not sure everyone else will see it that way.

Tavian: Fuck everyone else. I know the truth and I live this life for me, not them.

I worry my bottom lip between my teeth, hoping he’s right. It feels right—when we’re together, we feel right—but what do I know about this kind of relationship stuff? Absolutely nothing. Hell, I haven’t even had a friend since Beth Blackmon in fourth grade except for my one photography friend, Clarice, who lives states away. I suck at people.

Tavian: Don’t make me get on a train to NYC right now and come convince you of the truth. My tongue can be very persuasive.

My thighs instinctively squeeze together as my pulse quickens at the idea of him being here. In bed. With me. Naked. I went twenty-three-plus years without having sex, but now just the mere thought of being under Tavian’s strong, imposing body as he slides in and out of me gets me flushed and flustered and makes me forget about my social shortcomings.

Me: I think you may need to do that. I’m not feeling very convinced.

My thumbs type out the flirtatious reply and hit send, and as I read over the delivered message, I’m shocked at my own brashness. It’s like Tavian brings out this whole new person in me I never knew existed. And I think I kind of like her.

Tavian: Oh, how I would love to, Buttercup. But I’ve gotta get my lesson plans together. Class starts on Monday. Soon though… I need to see you again real soon.

Me: Okay.

I’m disappointed even though I have no reason to be. It wasn’t like I was expecting him to come to New York a day after we returned home, but after he teased with the possibility, my hopes soared. I need to focus on the fact he officially ended things with Annie and said I’m his girl.

I never thought I’d be anyone’s girl in this lifetime.

Tavian: Any chance I can get a picture of you to hold me over until then? You’ve got thousands of me. That doesn’t seem very fair.

I chuckle aloud and shake my head like he can see me. Selfies aren’t my thing. I prefer to be the photographer, not the photographed. Especially not with bedhead and puffy morning face.

Me: Life is rarely fair. With all your fancy statistics, Professor West, you should know that by now.

Tavian: My fancy statistics say you should send me one. Your panties I stole remind of the delicious way you smell, but I need a picture of your gorgeous face, Lyra.

Me: I’m sorry… I thought that said you stole a pair of my panties. Surely, I must be reading it wrong.

Tavian: Nope, not reading it wrong. I took the purple leopard print ones with the lacy stuff on the side. They were on top of your suitcase when I snuck my T-shirt back inside, so I pocketed them for safekeeping. And so I’d have to see you to return them.

Gasping in disbelief, I leap out of bed and rush over to the washer where I dumped my dirty clothes from the trip last night. I start digging around, searching for the thong in question, but before I make it very far, he sends me a picture of them ensnared in his large fingers.

I try not to remember the way those same strong, dexterous fingers masterfully worked my body until I was writhing with ecstasy, but my nipples harden and my sex pulses, and any irritation I briefly felt about him stealing something of mine is gone. And because he keeps mentioning seeing each other again soon. He’s apparently not the only one who needs that to happen. Stat.

Get a grip, Lyra. Use your damn vibrator. If you can find it under the dust it’s hiding under.

Without realizing what I’m doing, my phone is outstretched in front of me, the self-facing camera mode on and aimed at my face. I scrunch my nose up and glare at the screen with my best pissed-off face and press the button, capturing my very first selfie. Before I can critique and analyze every individual pixel of the picture—because Lord knows if I start, I’ll end up with at least fifty different shots and hate each one more than the last—I send the photo to Tavian with an accompanying message.

Me: This is the only picture you get until I get my panties back.

I begin to move the wet load of clothes into the dryer as I wait for his reaction, and thankfully, he doesn’t make me wait long.

Tavian: You’re beautiful even when you try to be ugly. Thank you for the picture, and I’ll see what I can do about setting up the return. I’m about to shower and then run up to campus for a while to get everything ready for next week. Will you be around later?

Rolling my eyes, I pretend to myself that his sweet words don’t affect me, but I’m a bald-faced liar. I’m falling hard for this man, and I don’t want to stop. Screw his numbers. Fuck Fate.

Me: Yeah, I’ll be here. I need to check my mail and go to the grocery store, but that’s about it. Maybe start editing some of the pictures from the trip if my right hand cooperates.

Tavian: Sounds good. How’s the hand feeling btw?

Me: Improving every day, still a bit stiff and sore at times.

Tavian: Don’t overdo it! Talk soon, Buttercup.

Tavian: Nice shirt btw.

The goofy grin on my face never wavers at him noticing it’s his shirt I’m wearing while I run my errands around the city. While at the market, I purposely make eye contact with the cashier and offer a small smile. When jogging in the park, I nod my head and meet the gazes of people I pass. It’s hard to not look at the numbers, but I find the more I try, the easier it becomes. Much like with my camera lenses, I adjust my focus until the bad blurs away.

My stomach growls as I lug the sacks of food into my apartment and dump them onto the kitchen counter, reminding me it’s lunchtime. I quickly put everything away where it goes then stand in the middle of the kitchen, staring blankly into the refrigerator, wondering what I’m going to eat. I must be the only person in the world who comes home from the store and then thinks nothing looks appetizing.

I wish I wouldn’t have been such a pig last night and would’ve saved half my sandwich to warm up today. But every bite reminded me of Tavian, so I couldn’t stop until there was not a single crumb left for me to consume.

Gluttonous much, Lyra?

Closing the door of the fridge, I hesitate when my eyes sweep over the list of numbers for food delivery and land back on Rayna Rae’s Café. Am I really about to order another Philly cheesesteak sandwich? Am I really going to be that girl?

“Yes, yes I am,” I answer myself aloud while reaching for my phone on the bar.

However, before I’m able to place the call, a loud, demanding series of knocks on my door echoes through the loft, causing me to freeze midmotion. Seconds later, I hear a familiar voice call out, “Special delivery for Lyra Jennings from Brooklyn.”