Page 33 of Tripped Up
“Not in a few days.”
“We talked last night. She’s doing well.”
“Good. I’m glad.” His voice is warm and familiar, lulling me into complacency. “I worry about her.”
“She’s a grown woman. She can take care of herself.”
“Yeah, but that doesn’t mean I don’t worry. Sometimes it’s the strongest people who don’t know how to take care of themselves. They’re go, go, go all the time, they don’t know how to rest. Or how to decompress. They put all their effort into being strong, so when they start to splinter, they fall apart and don’t know how to pick up the pieces.”
“What about you? Are you strong?”
“In some respects.” He pauses. “I’m careful about taking breaks. I check in with my therapist regularly. It’s hard with the demands of the season, but I take time off during the offseason and that goes a long way to helping me recharge. Resting on off days.”
“Oh. You’re off tomorrow. Does that mean you don’t want to hang out? You need to rest.” I bite my lip. Now that I’ve had some time to think about the idea, I don’t hate it as much as I thought I would.
“I’ll pick you up at noon. We’ll go to lunch and see where the day goes from there.”
I swallow. “Okay.”
Everything about this conversation makes me uncomfortable, but in a good way, like I’m stretching muscles I haven’t used in a while. I’m not used to feeling uncertain. I know who I am and what I want.
After everything with Stephen, I started to doubt myself.
No more. I won’t let that continue. Wyatt might be confusing me, but I honestly don’t think he’s trying to mess with my head. He’s a dick, yeah. But not cruel. Just an average asshole who says stupid things.
But if he spouts off about me to his buddies… That’s it. The gloves are coming off. No more Miss Nice Girl.
A knock raps on my door, startling me from my thoughts, and with a sigh, I rise from the couch and hurry to the door.
“I should go. I have—”
The words die on my lips once I’m face-to-face with a stranger. Not my cute neighbor. “Delivery for Elsy Alexander,” the guy says, holding out a bag of takeout.
Blinking, I take it. “I didn’t order anything.”
He shrugs. “I’m just delivering. Already paid for. Have a good day.”
Hmm. Bex must have ordered me something. Or maybe Mitch. He does that kind of thing.
“What it is?” Wyatt asks in my ear, sounding smug.
“I’m not sure.” Padding over to the counter and setting the phone down, I unbox the unexpected delivery.
There’s a tuna sandwich on a croissant, a pint of potato salad, and three whole pickles.
“It’s from the deli.”
“Hmm. Imagine that,” he says causally. Much too casually.
My eyes narrow at the phone, even though he can’t see it. “Wyatt Whitney, did you send me food?”
“You sounded hungry,” he says. I can practically hear him shrugging. “Can’t have you wasting away on me.”
“Thanks,” I say. “You didn’t have to do that.”
“I wanted to.”
Another protracted silence stretches between us. I don’t know what to say.
