Whisper to Me(85)

That first week, I also couldn’t help running my fingers over the damn hickey on my stomach that she gave me before leaving my room. I imagined her lips there and wished it would stay on my skin forever.

And now, as I thought about Rachel’s smile, her struggles and determination, the blood rushed through my ears with a thunderous roar. Fuck. It was time, goddamn it. To be brave and present in my own body.

I needed to go after what I wanted and not let some other guy have her. Maybe my goals were shit compared to goals someone like Andrew had. Maybe she wouldn’t think I’d measure up. Hell, even I wasn’t sure if I measured up, but fuck, I needed to at least try.

If I professed my feelings for Rachel and the moment fell flat, then at least I would have given it my all.

So while I worked on my strategy, I kept texting her, in an effort to send her daily reminders that she was still in my thoughts, even though I was a whole world away.

Me: Got to sit in with a new band today.

Rachel: On bass?

Me: Yeah.

Rachel: Very cool.

Me: So . . . those upstanding college boys keeping you on your toes?

Rachel: Ha ha. Bet there are enough Dutch woman to keep you busy over there.

Me: The only woman I’ve been busy with recently has been you.

Holy shit, I had actually confessed something over text. My heart was bouncing inside my chest. My fingers shook on the keyboard.

It seemed to take her forever to respond. Had I professed too much? Suddenly I was doubting myself. Again.

Rachel: Yeah? Been working too many hours at the studio? Not enough play time?

Me: IDK, something like that.

As soon as I sent that dismissive response I wanted to take it back.

So I followed it up with one more text.

The night before I left was intense, Rachel. And despite what you may think, I’m not jumping from bed to bed. Anyway, gotta run. Talk more, soon.

Her response back had been a vague Okay and came way late, like maybe she’d had no clue what to say. The following day we resumed texting normal, friendly stuff about our days.

***

Before long, I was sitting in my parent’s office at the casino. I’d been home a couple of days and had sworn Dakota to secrecy. But I knew that wouldn’t last long. She’d already informed Shane, which I’d been cool about. He was my best friend, after all.

And despite giving my sister and best friend my blessing, I still wasn’t ready to hear the nitty-gritty. Just like I was sure Dakota wouldn’t want to hear how I couldn’t get Rachel’s beautiful body, soft voice, and warm lips out of my head.

I’d shocked the shit out of my sister by returning and asking if I could stay at her place for a while longer, until I got my life in order. I didn’t tell her about Rachel, not yet. I wanted to reserve that information for Rachel’s ears alone.

If she wanted me, then we could tell everybody, together.

I was afraid she was either already in deep with Andrew or still wanted to remain unattached, but given the personal nature of our recent texts, I was hoping my intuition had been right. That maybe she was missing me as much as I was missing her and would be willing to take it to the next level. To give us a fair chance.

But I needed to be looking her in the eye when I said everything I wanted to say.

I needed to see deep inside her heart—inside her soul. Even if fear, uncertainty, or guilt was hiding beneath those emerald irises.

If I had to—no matter how hard it would be—I’d walk away.

As I made my way into my father’s office that morning, Stuart spotted me near the lobby. Eyebrows raised, he asked, “You okay, son?”

“Yep. Just back in town. . . . to make my own peace,” I said, throwing his famous quote back at him. “To live with the choices I’ve made.”

A gigantic smile draped his cheeks right before he gave me two good clunks on my back. “Make Chief Red Hawk proud. And your father.”

Something that felt a lot like pride bubbled inside my chest as I stepped inside my father’s office. Only to have it be deflated instantly.

“Have a seat, son.” My father’s voice was biting, stern. Disappointment was mapped across his face. My mother stood to the side of his desk, worry etching her brow.

He waited until I was seated before he said, “What happened in Amsterdam this time?”

“Honey . . .” my mother began, but my father held up his hand.

“No,” he said. “I’m not going to go easy on him.”

My stomach was all twisted up in knots. I had this desperate need for my parents to see me navigate my life without being such a fuckup. To show them that I had a real plan, one that I was excited about. But it would take some convincing.

“Mom and Dad,” I said. I felt like I was giving the speech of my life. “I know I’ve really screwed up the past few years. Please know that you’re really great parents.”