Chapter Eighteen
EMERSON
Sanchez: Quick, take a picture of your panty drawer. I want to win a bet.
I rolled my eyes and yawned as I swiped away from the book I was reading and started typing in messages.
Me: Don’t have one.
Sanchez: “Dead” Where the hell is that emoji?
I couldn’t suppress my laugh.
Me: How much have you had to drink?
Sanchez: Clearly not enough if the thought of you not wearing panties is giving me a boner the size of Texas. I would send a picture, but I’m afraid it won’t fully fit in the screen, and that wouldn’t be fair to you.
The guy was insane! Like a psychotic, wiggly hot worm that worked its way into your life and refused to let go. I relived his stupid kiss about as many times as I relived Miller’s heated look.
I was in deep.
And the worst part was that I didn’t remember how I ever got there. What had I done to gain Sanchez’s unwanted attention? And why was Miller so pissed at me? Especially when he seemed to think I was the one who put him on a friendship time-out? I wanted to ask him, but I was afraid that the more I dug into his past . . .
The more he would dig into mine.
And I wasn’t quite ready for that conversation. I wasn’t sure I would ever be ready for that conversation or for the emotional wreckage that came with it.
Me: How sad for me. I’ll draw a stick figure and use my imagination. Happy?
Sanchez: STICK FIGURE?
I yawned again. I was exhausted.
Me: What? Is that not the same thing?
Sanchez: Let me come over.
Me: No.
Sanchez: I’m sorry. That’s one of the 5 words I don’t recognize in the English language.
Me: And the other 4?
Who was this guy? Seriously? My stomach flipped a bit as I waited for him to respond back.
Sanchez: Go on a date with me this week and maybe I’ll tell you.
I groaned out loud.
Me: I see what you did there. Hook, line, and sinker, yeah?
Sanchez: This isn’t my first rodeo.
I grinned.
Sanchez: Say yes.
Honestly, he didn’t need to bribe me; I’d already decided to give him a chance. I needed to put all thoughts of Miller as far away from me as possible and actually come to terms with the fact that whatever we’d had in the past was over.
And it was time to stop living in the broken pieces of what was left of us.
Me: Yes.
Sanchez: I just screamed in the parking lot. I think I scared a lady. Don’t worry though. I told her I was just really excited that the prettiest girl in the world said she’d have sex with me.
Me: I didn’t say sex.
Sanchez: I’m very optimistic.
Me: Tone it down or I’ll say no.
Sanchez: Deal. So . . . Saturday night?
I chewed my lower lip. It was the last Saturday before preseason games started, so if I wanted to go on a date with him, that would be the best time. Especially with both of our grueling schedules. Besides, the guy was letting me use his car. It was the least I could do, right?
My stomach did that little flip thing again at the thought and then dropped when my eyes fell to the manual on the floor. The one that included a solid chapter about not fraternizing with the players. But that same manual also talked about how long my fingernails should be, maybe they just liked to cover all their bases? The more I thought about it the more I tried to justify the fact that I was texting him back my answer and risking everything for a guy who said he just wanted sex—but pursued me like he actually cared about me.
Me: Deal.
Sanchez: See you soon, Curves.
I fell back on my bed, my phone somewhere near my fingertips as I stared up at the cheap ceiling. It had stains from water damage. My room really wasn’t any bigger than most people’s closets, modestly decorated with a desk, a nightstand, and a cute pink chair that Miller had gotten me for my sixteenth birthday after he saw me lusting after it at Target.
I winced at the thought of that stupid chair.
And the fact that he used to sit in it because it made me laugh to see his giant body in such a tiny spot.
Memories had such a painful and annoying way of popping up when least expected, especially when I was trying my hardest to focus on Sanchez.
On the good.
On my future.
Groaning, I slammed my fists against the mattress a few times then grabbed my phone, only to see the screen light up with an unknown number and a text.
The message was long—longer than most text messages should be.
Unknown caller: Do you remember State finals our junior year?
My heart froze in my chest.
I quickly typed back.
Me: Who is this?
Unknown caller: Who do you think? Miller.
I had a choice. Text him back or tell him it was late and I needed to go to bed. Somehow it felt wrong, finishing a text with Sanchez only to start texting Miller. His teammate. Building mate.
My ex-best-friend.
Suddenly hot, I threw the covers off and texted back.
Me: How did you get my number?
Miller: I stole it.
Me: From?
Miller: Doesn’t matter. It’s mine now.
I knew he was a possessive guy, but he had rarely shown me that side, maybe because he didn’t really have a reason to in high school, until he finally admitted he had feelings. A chill erupted down my spine.
Me: Of course I remember State. You caught for a touchdown, defense held their offense at the 40-yard line with 8 seconds left, and they couldn’t get close enough for a field goal. We went to IHOP to celebrate. And you ate two orders of pancakes.
Miller: With whipped cream.
I licked my lips as my stomach clenched.
Me: And strawberries.
Miller: Good memory.
Me: Yeah, well, I like pancakes.
Miller: Want to know what else I remember?
I was afraid this was going someplace we couldn’t return from, but I was stupid enough to fall for it, stupid enough to still care.
Me: What?
My throat was dry as I waited for him to respond. I could see he was typing, but beyond that, nothing.
Miller: You dipped your finger in my whipped cream—and I sucked it off.
My jaw nearly dropped to the floor. Was he flirting with me? After he’d agreed to be my friend? And had basically given his blessing for me and Sanchez?
Me: You bit me too.
Miller: On purpose.
Me: Because you wanted to draw blood?
Miller: Let’s just call it accidental over-aggression because of the fact that I had you in my mouth.
Okay, and we just jumped over that line and pounced.
Me: Oh?
Seriously, what was I supposed to say to that?
Miller: You busy tonight?
Me: Yup, sleeping.
Miller: Not hanging out with your new boyfriend?
Me: Not my boyfriend, and no, we’re going to go on a date later this week though.
I don’t know why I said it. I wasn’t trying to make him jealous; maybe I was just desperate to lay down the boundaries of our relationship again—because Miller had way too much power over me. A simple conversation had me holding my breath . . . a heated look had me clenching my thighs . . . and it wasn’t fair.
Not to me or to Sanchez.
Not even to Miller.
Miller: Have fun.
He didn’t text again.
I tossed and turned for the next two hours until finally giving up and padding over to my pink chair with my blanket. I imagined the chair was Miller’s arms.
I hated myself for needing the comfort that fantasy brought.
Almost as much as I hated the fact that when I needed his arms the most, he’d all but dropped me from a cliff.