“So now what? Just sit back, relax, and wait?”
“Not exactly,” I say before taking a sip of my coffee. She rests her elbows on the table and leans toward me, wordlessly requesting that I elaborate. “I’ve still got more doctor shadowing I’d like to do this semester; I’m also planning on helping out with some research in the Bio department. Then, hopefully, a handful of schools will want me to fill out secondary applications and I’ll have to write a few papers. Then, of course, there’s the interview process—”
“Of course,” she says with an exaggerated eye roll. “How could I forget that?” she jests.
“Yeah,” I say with a grin. “But, today, I’m glad to have one thing accomplished.”
“I’ll cheers to that,” she says, lifting her coffee cup. I tap the rim of mine against hers and we both drink to my productive day. “So, before I lose you to that intimidating textbook, I just wanted to clear the air.”
“Okay,” I reply with a nod. Suddenly, the space between us feels almost just as awkward as it did the other night. I have no idea what she’s about to say, but I’m hoping that this won’t turn into a conversation that will lead to some sort of rejection.
“I won’t apologize for the kiss. It’s not my style. However, I am sorry if it made you uncomfortable. Still friends?”
I let out a breath I didn’t know I was holding. Just like always, the blonde haired, green eyed beauty who now sits across from me astounds. She’s so unapologetically Logan; so complex and layered and full of surprises. Almost everything she does is unexpected. Just when I think I know what she’s up to, she changes the game. I think that’s why I like her as much as I do. She's just…different. Right now, I appreciate that she only apologized for what she is sorry for, making her statement totally real and honest. I’m also glad she brought it up and that she reaffirmed that we’re just friends.
“Of course,” I assure her. “Thanks.”
She winks at me and then points at my book. “Okay. Continue being a genius. I’m sure I’ll think of something to bug you about in a few minutes.”
We sit together for the next couple hours working on homework. She keeps her promise, interrupting me every once and a while to talk to me about something that’s popped into her head, and we share a few laughs. I’m glad I decided to come out; partly because it’s enabled me to get away from the drama that exists at home, and partly because I think Logan and I needed it. By the time we leave, any lingering awkwardness is forgotten.
Open mic night falls on a Friday this time around and the theme is comedy. I was relieved to hear that Sarah wanted to go, which means that things will officially be back to normal between her and me. We still haven't talked about Roman, because I've decided that if she doesn't want to talk about it I will respect that, but being Avery's support team for the past couple of days has reminded us that we can never let stupid boy drama get in the way of our friendship. Some problems are just so much more relevant and real. Going out with the boy himself solidifies our unspoken pact. However, we came close to not coming out at all.
Avery is a mess. I've never seen her so down before. For three days, she's had her hair weaved into a braid that hangs over her shoulder. Three days! She only braids her hair when it needs to be washed. I guess I should be thankful that she's still showering at all. Aside from class, she hasn't been doing anything but moping and playing her cello. It wouldn't surprise me to find her beautiful instrument has been stained by the blood of her tired fingers. Okay, maybe that's an exaggeration, but not by much. Needless to say, neither Sarah nor I felt like it would be a good idea to leave her by herself while the two of us went out. I'm not sure how she did it, but Sarah talked her into coming with us. She couldn't talk her into wearing something other than a pair of leggings and one of Grayson's shirts, but she did manage to persuade her into a hoodie in order to hide the fact that the t-shirt she has on is a gazillion sizes too big. Bless Sarah's heart and her powers of persuasion—they were put to the test tonight.
Little Bird is impressively full. I didn't know there was this much excitement around here for comedy, but the increased student population now that school is back in session probably plays into that. I'm glad Ave will be in the company of so many people; hopefully the positive energy in the room will seep into her. Who knows, maybe someone will actually make her laugh before the night is through. I'm not holding my breath, though. By the way she's clutching her phone, I'm not sure she'll be doing much more than waiting on a call or a text from a different location than our apartment. Whatever. I'll take what I can get!
Roman is, thankfully, already here saving us a table. Sarah spots him first and as we make our way toward him, he sees us and waves. He stands and greets Sarah with a hug. Then he notices Avery's disposition and hesitates. “How about we get some drinks?” I suggest, hoping to fill him in on the way.
“Yeah. Sure. Sarah?” he asks politely. While she tells him what she wants, Avery sits down. Knowing what to get her already, I head toward the line and Roman catches up shortly after. “She looks a little…"
I can't help but laugh as he struggles to find a nice way to say absolutely horrid. I save him by finishing his sentence. “Awful. She looks awful, which is exactly how she feels. But she needs to be out.”
“What's going on?”
“Her and Gray aren't speaking right now. It's been a long week.”
“Avery and Grayson?” His face expresses his disbelief. “The couple that never ceases to be all lovey-dovey? Has the honeymoon phase come to an end already?”
“That's one way of putting it.”
“Does he look like that, too? He's got a big game tomorrow.”
“Oh, my gosh,” I gasp, gripping his elbow. “Don't bring up the game, whatever you do!” Sarah made that mistake earlier and then felt compelled to make a batch of lemon bars in hopes that they would stifle Avery's tears. They didn't. But they taste delicious!
“Okay,” he says with a chuckle. “At least I know my team has the advantage now. A heartsick quarterback is definitely a handicap.”
I laugh again and playfully punch his shoulder. “Watch it, bud. You are so outnumbered right now. This is CSU country.”
“Yeah, yeah. You know I don't really care. I do have to give my alma mater my support, though.”
“It's a good thing you aren't going to the game tomorrow. You might get lynched or something.”
He gasps in jest, bringing a hand up to cover his heart. “You wouldn't protect me?”
“Little ole me?” I flash a wicked grin before I cup my hands around my mouth and yell, “C-S-U!” Everyone in the coffee shop responds with a resounding, “RAMS!” and I shrug my shoulders as if that answers his question. When he busts out laughing, I can't help but join in.
Laughing with Roman will never get old.
“Hey, you two!” greets Daphne from the register as we approach.
“Hi, Daphne. How are you?” I ask, still grinning. As usual, she looks incredibly like…herself, as there is no other way to describe her style. Under her apron, she’s got on a wide-neck, light weight sweater with some sort of retro pattern all over the front; it’s tan, orange, teal, maroon, brown, and yellow. On anyone else, it would be ugly, but somehow her quirkiness makes it anything but. Her earrings look like life-size, golden maple leaves and they shimmy every time she moves. Her pink bangs are french-braided away from her face and the rest of her waves hang in a drastic bob. Her eyeshadow is made up of different shades of brown, which make her matching eyes appear smolderingly dark.
“I’m good. Ready to get my laugh on. You?”
“The same.”
“What can I get for you?” I go first, ordering my drink and then Avery’s. Daphne’s head snaps up as I complete my order. “Is my sour puss here?” she asks with a sympathetic frown.
“Yeah, believe it or not.”
“Brandon? Finish this ticket. I’m going to make her drink extra special,” she says, switching spots with her pa
rtner for the evening. “Think if I went over to give her a hug she would accept?” She makes a face and shakes her head before I can respond. “Fu—” she interrupts herself, cutting her eyes at Roman, who is reciting his order, before she corrects herself. “Eff that shit! She’s getting a hug, regardless.”
“I love your sister,” I tell Roman as he joins me and makes room for the group ready to order behind us.
“Hey, what do you know? Me, too.”
“Oh! Corny, did you ask her?” Daphne gasps.
I look from Roman to Daphne and then back at Roman, hoping one of them will clarify. “I haven’t. I guess I will now,” says Roman.
“Ask me what?”
“Sooo—you know how they had a singer/songwriter open mic night at the beginning of the month?” asks Daphne, clearly too excited to wait for Roman. I nod, as I remember it quite well. There were a few really good acts. A few not so good, but—“Well, I found out when they’re having the next one,” she says, interrupting my thoughts.
“O-kay,” I murmur, now completely confused. “When?”
“The end of October,” she says with a grin.
“Cool,” I chuckle. “Am I missing something?”
“I’m thinking about doing a song,” pipes in Roman. Daphne squeals and my jaw drops as I look up at him. “I thought maybe we could do it together.”
I have to shake my head to focus my thoughts. He didn’t just ask me—“What?” I mutter lamely.
“I know you sing. And, well, I’m not that great,” he says with a self-conscious shrug. As he continues to speak, I realize that I’ve never seen him this nervous before. It’s actually kind of adorable. “But I figured, if we teamed up, we might not be too bad.”
“I’m sorry, rewind! You told me you played the guitar, but you never told me you were a songwriter.”
“You never asked,” he replies with a smirk.
“So, will you do it?” asks Daphne as she places two drinks on the bar.
“Uh.” I don’t know what to say. I’m still trying to wrap my head around the fact that Roman is a songwriter. “I don’t know,” I manage.
“Dammit, Addie, just say yes! Do you know how long I’ve been trying to get this guy to share his music?”
“Don’t listen to her,” he says, batting away her comment. “Just think about it. We have time to decide.”
“Okay…” I know that I sing in front of lots of people all the time, but singing worship songs at church is not the same as singing—whatever it is that Roman writes—in front of a bunch of strangers who are looking to be entertained. Just considering it gives me butterflies.
Then I think of what Daphne said, about getting her brother to share his music. I wonder what it is that he writes about; and I’ve never heard him play before. Maybe I really should think about it.
“Brandon, I’ll be back in a second,” says Daphne, pulling me from my thoughts as she picks up one of the four finished drinks and makes her way out from behind the bar. Roman and I grab the rest of our order and follow Daphne back to our table. I watch as she sets Avery’s drink down and then plops herself in my sister’s lap. She wraps her arms around Avery and pulls her in for a hug. When she whispers something in her ear, I hear my sister laugh and for a second, I think I might have died and gone to heaven. Of course, her laughter turns into crying, but hey—I’ll take what I can get!
Daphne holds Avery—or is Avery holding Daphne?—until her tears have subsided and then she heads back to work. I don’t know how long Gray is going to give my sister the silent treatment, but I seriously hope they sit down and talk very soon. If they don’t, I’m calling Beckham and we’re staging an intervention. I contemplate whether or not we should just call it a night, seeing as how Avery just had her own public meltdown number one, but when she reaches for her coffee, I know that it’s okay to stay. I don’t question her, I simply give her knee a squeeze, sit back, and enjoy another open mic night tradition.
My Shorty: Sonny, I’m so sorry!
My Shorty: Please, call me…
My Shorty: I love you, so much, and I never meant to hurt you.
My Shorty: Sonny, are you okay?
My Shorty: Will you please call me back?
My Shorty: I’m sorry, Sonny. Please believe me.
My Shorty: I miss you.
My Shorty: Will you please say something? Anything?
My Shorty: Sonny?
My Shorty: I love you…
My Shorty: I know I hurt you. I don’t know how else to say that I’m sorry…
My Shorty: But you should know that THIS hurts, too.
My Shorty: Your silence is killing me.
My Shorty: This is torture.
My Shorty: I miss you so much.
My Shorty: I love you. Don’t forget that.
My Shorty: I know you’re hurting and I’m so sorry. But I did it for you.
My Shorty: You must know that…
My Shorty: I won’t stop. I won’t stop fighting for you.
My Shorty: Do you hear me, Grayson?
My Shorty: I love you.
My Shorty: Sonny?
My Shorty: Please…
My Shorty: Talk to me!
I should eat. I know my body needs it. I look around the room at the rest of my team as they eat and talk loudly amongst themselves. Everyone is hyped for the game tomorrow. Practice this week has been rigorous as we’ve tweaked plays here and there, but we’re ready. The coaches have been on my ass the last few days, but I honestly don’t mind. It helps keep me focused. That’s my only goal right now, is to stay focused. I refuse to think about anything else. I can’t. I just can’t. If I do…
Tomorrow is the last big rivalry game against CU Boulder that I’ll ever play. As a starter, I can’t choke. If I think about Avery or Rhonda or the letter or…my siblings—I’ve got to keep my head in the game. It’s because of the game that I know I should eat. My plate is piled full of chicken, vegetables, fruit, pasta, and salad. All I’ve managed to consume so far are a couple bites of my dinner roll. It didn’t taste like anything. Nothing tastes like anything lately, which has totally killed my appetite. The ache in my stomach isn’t for food—it’s for Avery.
I shake my head and cut off a big piece of chicken breast before shoving it into my mouth. I don’t taste it, I simply force myself to chew and swallow. Appetite or no appetite, my body needs the fuel.
My phone vibrates in my pocket and I feel like I might throw up. I know it’s a text. I know it’s from Avery. I know I should ignore it and not even open it, but I can’t help myself. I reach for the device and slide my finger across the screen to open my new message.
My Shorty: I love you.
Jackson nudges me with his elbow and I’m pulled from my trance. “Finish chewing that huge chunk of chicken you have in your mouth and then text your girl back, man.”
I shake my head as I continue chewing. “I can’t,” I reply, talking around my food.
He snatches my phone out of my hand before I know what he’s doing. “Give me the damn thing.” I try and reach for it, but the effort is halfhearted and he’s up on his feet and out of reach in an instant. I follow suit but, before I can chase after him, he’s walking back with a satisfied smirk on his face. He hands me my phone and sits back down. “Now eat,” he demands.
Speechless, I sit. Unsure whether or not I want to see what he’s written, I opt to take a bite of broccoli instead. It doesn’t go down easily and I know that I have to read what he sent. When I look, I’m amazed at what I find. He said exactly what I couldn’t.
“Come on, O’Conner. Don’t make me feed you myself,” he mutters with his mouthful.
I cut off another bite of chicken and proceed to eat it. I look at my phone one more time, needing to see the message. I didn’t write it, but it feels like it came from me, and the truth behind the statement seems to make it easier to breathe. Even after I put my phone away, the words circle my brain as if they’re circling a drain.
; Me: I love you too. It’s why it hurts so much.
“I don’t care what she wants, she’s going!”
“But, Claire, maybe—”
“If she doesn’t go, she’ll regret it. Tell me I’m wrong?”
I wake to the sound of their arguing. I’m not sure what they’re talking about, but I know I don’t have any desire to get out of my bed to find out. It’s Saturday, I don’t have class, and my boyfriend—he’s still my boyfriend, right? He said he loved me last night. That counts for something, doesn’t it?—is still not speaking to me, so there really isn’t any reason to get out of bed.
My gaze flickers to my door as soon as it opens and Claire comes barging in. Before I can open my mouth to say a word, she’s ripped my covers off of me. “Get up and get in the shower—oh, and wash your hair, because I’m not letting you leave here looking like that.”
I just stare at her. She looks incredible, which makes me want to stay in bed even more. Her honey brown hair is loose and hangs to her shoulders. Her makeup is minimal, but she’s got CSU painted on her cheeks in green letters and gold trim. It’s delicate and feminine but screams of her school pride. The t-shirt she’s wearing looks impeccably homemade and fits her like a dream. The fabric is dark green and there are yellow varsity letters with white trim sewn onto the front. In the center, the letters are big and spell out CSU; across the top, in smaller letters, is reads “Davis’s,” and across the bottom, it says, “Future Wifey.” She grins when she notices me eyeing her attire and she spins around so I can see the rest. Jack’s number, twenty-eight, is sewn onto the back. Instead of his name above the numbers, it says “My Man.” It’s so great that it makes me want to cry, but I’m not sure I have any tears left.
“Perfect, right? My mom made it for me. But enough about me, let’s talk about you! The girl who needs to get her ass out of that bed and in the bathroom before I drag you by that disheveled braid, strip you down, and throw you in the tub myself!”
The Promises We Keep (Made for Love Book 1) Page 39