Page 60 of Tripped Up

“Not really,” I admit.

She clucks her tongue. “I’m sorry. Want to talk about it?”

Exhaling, I release some of the tension in my shoulders. “Not right now. Still trying to wrap my head around it.”

“Well, if you want to chat, you know where to find me.” She gives me a tight smile.

“Thanks. I appreciate that.” A glimmer of happiness bubbles within me. I made a friend—an actual friend. It was so much easier in kindergarten. These days, it’s hard work; still, I did it.

On instinct, I reach for my phone. I need to tell Wyatt.

But I can’t.

I don’t know where we stand.

We hooked up a week and a half ago. He made me feel beautiful. Seen.

And then he went away for a week and didn’t call me.

The first time I saw him again, I was so wasted, I could barely see straight. But he took care of me, then gave me his puck. He called me babe and cuddled me in public.

It’s like he’s decided that I’m into him, so of course I’d want to be in a relationship with him.

And I’m not saying that’s not what I want. What I object to is that he’s decided all of this for me. I’ve had enough of the patronizing infantilization. I don’t need another man making decisions for me without my consent. Been there, done that, lost my job and had to flee the city because of it.

Never again. I’m not going there again.

If Wyatt had just asked me out… well, I don’t know that I’d have said yes, especially not right away. But he would have had a fair better shot of getting me to go along with this newly amped-up display of affection.

He remembers. All this time, he’s known we slept together thirteen years ago. So why did he let me think he didn’t remember who I was? Why did he let me hate him?

That’s what’s bothering me the most. He’s never apologized. If he acknowledges that we’ve hooked up, why did it take him thirteen fucking years to apologize for being an asshole in front of all his friends?

At least she put out.

If that’s what he’s saying in public, I can hardly imagine what he says in the privacy of the locker room. I’m not a timid wallflower, I’m not afraid to stand up for myself, but it’s a lot different when he’s saying the same things every other guy I’ve dated has said.

I’m boring. An easy lay. A sure thing. Not memorable. Not good in bed.

As much as I don’t want to believe them, the fact of the matter is, multiple men have said this to me now. Surely, if three separate guys think so, there must be a shred of truth to the matter.

We run through rehearsal, and I do my job on autopilot. Most days, I’m able to lose myself in the music, but tonight, my head is in the clouds. The performance goes off without a hitch, and even though I mess up some chords, nobody in the audience seems to notice.

The conductor does, though. Some people around me do too. And Anastasia raises her eyebrows at me during the break.

I shake my head. I’m not here, not tonight.

Heading home, I pick up cheap, greasy, drive-thru tacos and a milkshake. I’m in the mood to comfort eat my feelings.

But on my doorstep is a to-go bag from the deli. When I open it, I find a tuna salad sandwich on a croissant with a tub of potato salad.

Fuck him. Just… fuck him.

He said he’d give me space. Buying me food is not giving me space. He can’t do nice things like look out for me when I’m pissed at him. How dare he?

Pulling out my phone, I’m about to give him a piece of my mind. Instead, I find a text message that must have come in while I was driving.

I miss you, he’s texted.