70. Chapter Seventy
Chapter Seventy
Jordan
I told my therapist.
Not that she didn’t already know about Mac, but saying the words out loud only made them feel more real. Solidified them. Gave them a crackling of sunshine in the perpetual darkness.
She warned me to go slow. To take my time and make sure this is what I want. But also to be safe and enjoy myself for once.
Do the one thing I’ve wanted to for two and a half goddamn years.
It’s a date.
Holy mother of fucking all things … I have a date with Mac Thompson.
I’m nervous.
Jittery.
Excited.
I haven’t felt this high strung since … well … the last time I saw him. When I sat in his hotel room and hoped with all my being that he’d hear all the words I wasn’t saying.
He didn’t then.
But I think he will now.
Blowing out a breath, I reach for the shirt I hung on dresser’s knob and scrunch up my nose.
Wrong choice.
It gets added to the pile already taking up my mattress and I curse for the thousandth time.
“What the fuck do I wear?”
Cookie stares at me from her patch of sun on the carpet and huffs.
“I know he won’t care. Fuck, maybe I should just text him.”
The cat lays her head down, ignoring me, and I take that as a yes.
Me: Should I sneak you into a movie or kick your ass in pinball?
There.
His answer will answer my dilemma. Movies mean stealth mode, while pinball is right down the street from where he’s known to frequent, but crawling with security that isn’t me.
A flittering takes over my chest as the responding bubbles pop up almost immediately.
Vida: Like you could beat me at pinball.
An eye roll emoji pops up next and I laugh out loud.
Me: Bring your a-game, Vida.
I no sooner hit send that the phone lights up, the entire screen covered in a selfie of Mac that I didn’t put there.
Tingles .
It’s got him half-smiling. Like he’s fucking coy or some shit. While his hand is in his hair and his freckles stand out. Green-blue eyes that stare directly at me.
Something in my chest studders and I gasp when the pic disappears.
Vida: Answer me.
The picture fills my screen once again, another call, and I swipe to answer him this time.
“What are you wearing?”
His voice is deep, grated gravel that tickles right down my spine. It reminds me of mornings I spent attempting to sneak out of his bed to get to the gym only for him to draw my attention back to his sleepy mumbles.
Or late nights after a show with his voice destroyed and a mug of tea in his grip.
Movies that made him laugh so hard that he could barely talk.
The way he says Tyro with the roll of his tongue.
His wit and banter.
His will and strength.
He’s goddamn beautiful.
“What are you thinking?” he whispers over the line and it’s then that I realize there’s two boxes on the screen, the majority of it black, but the smaller rectangle reflecting back the soft smile on my face.
“About tea and sleepy mumbles,” I answer easily and raise the phone until the little frame fills with my head and bare shoulders. “I’m also undecided on attire.”
“If you’re not wearing pants, I’m coming straight over, and the date can wait.”
I snort and dip the phone to show my jeans.
Mac curses, but I can hear the smile in his voice.
It makes that flittering and tingling intensify.
Was it always like this?
No. I would have recognized this shit.
Wouldn’t I?
That cloud of self-doubt teeters at the edge of my subconscious, menacing and leering like it deserves the attention it’s starving for.
It won’t last.
I clear my throat.
Blow out a breath.
I deserve good things, I remind myself just like my therapist demanded I attempt in moments like this. Not everything is temporary.
Mac isn’t temporary.
“Come over.”