Page 83 of Fight For Me

What if he’s never ready?

I groan in frustration, startling George who’s been asleep with his head on what I now consider to be Wyatt’s pillow. Funny how much I got used to him sleeping here in one week. “Sorry, buddy.” I say, scratching between his ears.

My sleep therapist always says that when you can’t fall asleep, you should get out of bed and go do something boring until you get sleepy. And I can’t think of too many things more boring than filing invoices, so I slide off the mattress—and promptly trip over a box of prototype cardigans that I have yet to go through. I stub my toe on the box then stumble to the side and crash my hip into the night stand. I somehow manage to keep the cursing on the quiet side so I don’t wake up the whole condo, but this fucking hurts.

My phone beeps on the nightstand and I pick it up while hopping on one foot, my stubbed toe throbbing.

Wyatt:What’s going on in there Fraser?

Me:Nothing.

Wyatt:Really? Sounds like you’re crashing around.

I glare at the wall that separates our bedrooms.

Me:Why are you even awake?

Wyatt:Probably the same reason as you. Can’t sleep.

I sink down onto the edge of the mattress, debating whether or not I should invite him in. It seems silly to be in two separate rooms when we’re both awake. On the other hand, if he turned me down, the rejection would make me feel even worse.

My phone beeps again, and I’m surprised when I see his new text.

Wyatt:We could get out of here for a while.

Me:You want to leave in the middle of the night?

Wyatt:There are some places we could go in the middle of the night.

My excitement at the prospect of hanging out with him is pierced by a little stab of bitterness.

Me:What about the stationary cameras? You want them to see us both leaving together at three in the morning?

Wyatt:We’re bringing George. It will just look like we’re taking him out to do his business.

I’m about to argue with that logic when his next text comes in.

Wyatt:I really fucking miss you, Alex.

My heart goes all soft and gooey. At least I’m not the only one who’s felt like the situation sucks.

Me:What should I wear?

Wyatt:Whatever you want. Shorts or jeans. But wear your bikini underneath.

Me:We’re swimming at three in the morning?

Wyatt:How about you stop asking questions and just let yourself be surprised for once, little miss control freak.

I’m grinning huge as I type my response.

Me:You suck.

I feel almost giddy with excitement as I fly around my room getting dressed and throwing some things in my bag. I figure a bathing suit means we’re going to be doing something outside so I grab sun screen, my flip flops, and a pair of sunglasses. I hear Wyatt move outside my door but he doesn’t stop and I assume he’s going to gather things for George.

When I meet him at the front door, he’s got a backpack slung over his shoulder and George’s leash in his hand. “We’ll take George out and then I’ll drop you off at your parents’,” he says, voice a shade stilted. Assuming he’s making up an excuse for the always-filming cameras, I nod and say thanks.

“I can usually sleep a little better over there,” I say. Now that the show already broadcasted me talking about my insomnia, there’s no reason not to use it as an excuse. “Cross your fingers.”