My stomach drops. Shit. What if I missed a call from the kids or an emergency? I'd been so in my head about him and that night and my AA meeting, I didn't even realize my phone was missing. "Oh my gosh. Thank you."
I check it quickly for a missed call from Lindsey or the kids, but there isn't anything. If I remember right, they were both going to sleepovers, so they weren't home to FaceTime with me. It saddens me, but I obviously knew this was going to be a part of co-parenting. It hurts my heart to miss my kids, but it was more important for Lindsey and me to give them two happy, healthy parents. And that wasn't something we thought we could do together.
I slip it into my back pocket before we both stand there and stare at each other. He's not leaving. And that excites me more than it should. I know he said not to want more from him than a client-escort relationship, but he's currently standing outside of my apartment... and not leaving.
I won't push him into a relationship or ask him to cross any boundaries. He has to make that step. He has to choose me. I'm not sure what it feels like to be chosen – to have someone actively choose to be with me. Things with Lindsey felt easy, natural. But I'm not sure that she ever chose me, or if we just fell into each other. Then, when things got hard, she left. Rightfully so. My football and high school friends never put in the effort to stay in touch. My parents moved the second I graduated high school.
The only time I've been chosen is when I chose myself and decided to put my health and mental well-being ahead of the pain of getting sober.
"W-would you like to come in? Have a beer?" I ask, stumbling over my words. I don't have beer here. I forgot. "O-or water?" I add quickly, stepping out of the doorway and sweeping my handto show off my tiny apartment. I'm hit with a wave of anxiety at what he must think of my apartment.
But he surprises me when he agrees and comes in. I shut the door behind him and rush to the counter to throw a dish towel over the dirty dishes in my sink and sweep my mail into a drawer. I think the silverware drawer, but I don't freaking know.
The TV was on quietly in the background to help me not feel so alone, so I grab the remote from the counter.
"Wanna watch the game? You still a Steelers fan?" The words are out of my mouth before I can stop them, and I internally kick myself.
The only way I know he was a Steelers fan is because he wore a Steelers shirt, maybe three times, in high school.
I might as well get on my knees and confess that I'm in love with him - and maybe always have been.
When the silence makes my skin itch, I draw my gaze up to his handsome face. He's peering at me with a raised eyebrow and an amused grin. Jesus, he's so handsome it hurts.
I can see his jaw work back and forth as he drags his tongue along his teeth, stifling his amusement.
Heat prickles the back of my neck in embarrassment, and I choose painful honesty over a convenient omission.
I throw my hands up in exasperation. "Okay! I noticed you in high school. All the time. I had a huge crush on you!"
A chuckle finally escapes his barrel of a chest, and even mortified, I love the sound of it - deep, rich, and elegant. Since when is a laugh elegant?
He shakes his head. "I always wondered why you signaled me out. You know Kai was gay, too, right?"
I vaguely remember a skinny Asian dude, who was maybe in track? Or theater?
"Theater kid?"
He laughs and shakes his head again. "Choir kid."
"Oh, damnit. That's right."
I really did have tunnel vision when it came to him. He didn't come to my games often, but when he did, I always found him in the stands. And I always secretly tried to play my best games with him there - so he'd be forced to look at me. To watch me. To see how skilled I am. Was.
He rounds my second-hand couch and sits on it, putting his feet up on the small coffee table there. I'd scold one of my kids if they did that, but I'd let Trey do whatever he wants, as long as he stays.
I buy myself some time to do some deep breathing as I fill two glasses with water. When I can't stall any longer, I set the glasses on the coffee table and sit on the couch when my mind spirals. Am I too close? Too far away? Will he be offended if I'm plastered to the arm of the couch? If he accidentally touched me, I might combust.
Giving myself something to do, I grab the remote and flip through the channels until I find a replay of a Steelers game from the nineties. I have no idea why he's here and staying, but I have been meaning to ask him a question. When a commercial comes on, I turn to him.
"So... um... I was wondering. I didn't see on your website if this was a rule or something..."
He turns to me, too, and the intensity of his brown eyes makes me want to swallow my tongue. He doesn't react to my rambling. He simply waits patiently for me to find my words.
"I... um... want to respect your boundaries... and not, like, offend you at all..."Jesus Christ, Brockman, get to the point.I take a deep breath in and out and then blurt it out before I can worry about choosing the perfect combination of words. "The divorce and child support are expensive, and I don't have a ton of extra money lying around, so I could afford to hire you moreif, like, I didn't also have to pay for the hotel. Do you do home visits?"
His brow furrows as his gaze turns introspective. I ball and flex my fingers to expel some of my nervous energy. Images flood my imagination. Kissing Trey on my couch. Climbing into his lap and grinding against him. Bringing him into my bed. My pillow smelling like him.Jesus.
I adjust myself in my shorts, and the movement snags his gaze.