She has three galleries, one in New Orleans and two in California, and the more I click into her pages, the more impressed I am. I could never do anything like this, not with these hands. I’m too nervous, and I question too much. Every single piece she showcases has a story. There aren’t any words written with the photos, but I can tell—I can read the story in every nuance and bend of the metal.
33! Miss me already?
Nate’s message brings my attention back to the here and now, and the playful tone of his words has an instant smile on my face.
Not yet. Check with me later, maybe I’ll miss you then.
I start to rethink my message after I send it. After Nate told me he’d wait for me, I’m not sure he’ll appreciate my joke. I’m about to say that I’m kidding when he writes back.
Yeah, I don’t miss you either. I do kind of miss my shirt, though. That was a bonehead move—I should have given you one of Ty’s.
I’m so relieved he’s joking with me. I also can’t help but look down at the letters across my chest and run my hands over the fabric that was on his body before it was on mine. It still smells like him, whatever his cologne is, and I want to drown in its scent.
That would have been better. Maybe his shirts don’t smell so bad.
I pull the collar up and breathe in deeply while I wait for his response, unable to keep my lips from smiling.
Well, I did roll around in crap before I gave it to you. That could be what you smell.
He’s so damn fast with his response that I laugh out loud when I read it, quickly covering my mouth. I don’t want anyone interrupting me, and I would be content to lie here for the rest of the weekend and text back and forth with Nate.
I’m kidding. I don’t really roll in crap.
I laugh again. I miss him. I miss him a lot, and it feels good inside my chest to feel this way about someone. I wish I had a picture of him, so while I think of what to write back, I Google him on my laptop just to see what comes up. It’s mostly baseball pictures, and he’s usually wearing his mask, but I can still tell it’s him, and my head gets a little fuzzy looking at him.
Me: I just Googled you.
Nate: That’s creepy. I might have to report you.
Me: Just want to make sure you don’t show up in the tabloids with some bimbo while I’m gone.
Nate: Just Paige. I helped move some of her things.
Me: That was nice of you. No staring at her boobs.
Nate: Well, I am a bit of a boob man.
Me: Uh, yeah. I know.
Nate: You have nice boobs.
Me: Oh my god!
Nate: Sorry.
Nate: Not sorry :-)
Sometime during our texting, I crawled under my covers to hide. Nate has a way of making me blush in the most wonderful way. My heartbeat is kicking in every part of my body, but the rush is so addictive. I’m not sure what this feeling is, but I like it so very much, and I know Nate’s the cause.
Me: Can you talk?
Nate: Dialing you right now.
He really is, because my phone rings while I’m still reading his words. My heart skips a beat before I answer.
“Hi,” I say, biting my lip and burying my face into my pillow. I can’t wait to hear his voice, but I’m also scared because I have no idea what to say.
“Boobs.” He breaks the ice immediately, and we’re both laughing. I miss him even more. “Sorry, just had to one-up you. You know me.”
“Yeah, how’s that pink room working out for you?” I say back, falling easily into our routine.
“Splendidly, thank you very much. Ty and I are going to add more purple—we think it really POPS!”
“Did you just say splendidly?”
“Your issue is with splendidly and NOT pops?”
Oh my god, I love him. Oh my god! I love him! No, I don’t love him. But I could. I want to. Maybe I already do? I don’t know him enough. You’re supposed to know someone more, have dates and more kisses and hand holding, work up to love. I like him. There, that’s it. I like him—a lot. Shit! I’m not talking.
“Where’s your head at Thirty-three?” My head is up my ass, that’s where it is. I have to get a grip, so I sit up and carry my laptop over to my desk. Right, like a more formal posture will suddenly make me act normal.
“Sorry, I thought my dad needed something,” I lie. I hate lying.
“When do you come home?” His voice is suddenly softer, and I can tell we’re done making jokes, which suddenly has me sweating.
“Sunday, around three by the time the cab gets me to campus,” I say, my heart once again thumping loudly in my ear.
“Can I pick you up? I mean, I don’t really have a car. But I can borrow one. You know, from one of the guys? I’d…I’d really like to pick you up.”