Chapter 22 #4
“Petra,” he purrs. “You shouldn’t be feeling exhausted like that if you’re sleeping enough. Are you sure you’re not sick?” The concern in his voice is endearing.
“I don’t feel sick. Just tired. Like hard to even get out of bed in the morning tired.”
“You’re not pregnant, are you?” His voice is suddenly incredibly alert, and . . . what is that tone? Hopeful?
I think back to the incredibly painful period I had the first week I was here. They seem to be getting worse as I get older. “No, I’m definitely not.”
“You’re sure?”
“Positive. I got my period right after I arrived in LA.”
“Then you need to see a doctor. Get to the bottom of why you’re feeling like this.”
“I’m feeling like this because I have a grueling schedule that consists of like eight hours of hair, makeup, and filming a day, plus I’m still running my business too.”
“That shouldn’t make you feel like you can’t get out of bed after a good night’s sleep.”
I know he’s right. “I don’t even have a doctor here.”
“Then go to Urgent Care. This isn’t rocket science, Petra.” He apparently doesn’t like my Hmm response because he asks, “Do I need to come out there and take you to the doctor myself?”
The thought of seeing him again, feeling his arms around me, has more tears streaming down my face.
I want him so badly. But also, I feel like I need him.
And isn’t that exactly what Sierra warned me about?
That I should want him in my life, not because I need him, but because I don’t need him and my life is better with him in it anyway?
These emotions and this confusion, this is why you don’t do relationships, I tell myself. Too much angst. My happiness should never be tied to another person’s presence.
“You don’t need to take me to the doctor. If I don’t feel better soon, I’ll go. I promise.”
He clears his throat. “What if I want to come out there just to see you?”
My heart does a little flip. “You know I want to see you,” I tell him. “But there’s no time. It would be a wasted trip for you. Even when I’m not filming, I’m still working. My only day off is Sunday.”
“You know I’d fly across the country even if it was to see you just for one day, right?”
Cue my heart melting, my breath frozen in my lungs. “Sasha,” my voice warns. This is too much. “I’ll be back there in a few weeks. It’s not worth wasting your whole weekend for a day together.”
“I’m sorry you think that would be a waste,” he says, but I can’t tell how he’s feeling. Disappointed? Sad? Angry?
“That’s not what I meant.”
He lets out a long sigh, and the sound carries through my phone speaker like a big whoosh. “When you left, we said we weren’t going to say goodbye to this relationship. And yet this is the second week you’ve been gone and only the second time I’ve talked to you.”
“I’m sorry,” I say, burrowing my head into the pillow and wishing I could close my eyes and succumb to sleep.
But he deserves to have this conversation.
We deserve it. “I am not trying to ignore you,” I say, and wince a bit at the tiny white lie.
I have definitely held him at arm’s length since I left, because I know how many balls I can juggle and I’m already maxed out.
“I can’t over-emphasize how busy I’ve been.
And I do want to see you, I really do. But I think that only having a day to spend with you while you’re here would make this harder.
I’d rather wait until I can really focus on you, devote more than twenty-four hours to being together.
This past week and a half has been hard, but it has also flown by.
Only a couple more weeks until I’m back in New York. ”
His silence gives me hope that he understands. “I’d be thrilled to have even one day with you right now. But I don’t want to make things harder for you.”
“We can revisit all of this when I’m back for your party.”
“That feels like forever from now.”
“It will pass quickly,” I say, hoping I sound persuasive. “You’re about to start your next round of playoff games. You’ll be so busy you won’t even have time to miss me.” I try to laugh to pass that statement off as a joke, but it falls flat.
“I’ve missed you for fourteen years,” he says. “I hardly think I’m going to stop now.”
And suddenly I can’t breathe. The part of me that wants to demand he tell me why he told me he didn’t see me “like that” and then cut me out of his life, wars with the part of me that isn’t sure I can even form a coherent sentence right now.
This moment, when I’m too exhausted to keep my eyes open for even a second longer, feels like the wrong time to start a crucially important conversation like this one.
Instead, I say, “Good. Don’t stop.”
“Petra, I couldn’t stop thinking about you and missing you if my life depended on it. Is that what you wanted to hear?”
That certainly wasn’t what I was expecting to hear, but it’s what I needed to know.
“Yes.” The word is a whisper escaping my lips. I don’t know what the future holds for us, but I need to know he’s in this as much, or maybe even more than I am. “I have to go now. I can’t stay awake any longer.”
“Are you in bed already?” He sounds so much more alert than me, even though I woke him up from a dead sleep only minutes ago.
“I’m on the couch.”
“I wish I was there to carry you to your bedroom and tuck you in.” His voice is so gentle and I’m so worn out that his words have my eyes stinging as tears threaten to fall again.
“Me too.”
“You’re not going to get off that couch tonight, are you?” He chuckles.
“So comfy,” I tell him.
“Set your alarm on your phone right now,” he says, “so you don’t oversleep in the morning.”
“So bossy,” I say, even though he’s right. I set the alarm, then put the phone back down next to my face.
After a moment’s pause, he asks, “Did you do it?”
“Yes.”
“Okay. Good night.”
“Night.” I don’t even disconnect the call, I just assume he’s going to do that, and I close my eyes, relieved when everything fades to black.