Phoebe sighed and settled back against the base of the sofa. “It doesn’t matter. I’m not going to see Duncan again.”
Starting the braid over, Margot asked, “Why not?”
“He doesn’t want to start something, and I don’t want to be a booty call.” That was the truest explanation, and she needed to take it onboard herself: he wasn’t an asshole, and she wasn’t an idiot. They were merely in different places.
“All you’ve wanted since you got back from ...” Margot let the sentence fade out; she had a hard time saying any of the words that would finish it: got back from Afghanistan, from the Army, from war, from a coma, from re-learning how to be a human. “All you’ve wanted is easy hookups. If you don’t want that now, is this guy that special?”
“I think it doesn’t matter what I think. He’s not interested.”
“Are you sure about that? Did he say those words specifically?”
“What is your deal?” Again, Phoebe turned to glare at her friend. Margot was holding Phoebe’s new phone; she must have left it on the sofa cushion when she scooted down for a hair-brushing.
With a wry smirk, Margot handed her the phone. When the screen woke back up and the phone recognized her, she saw a preview of a text from the outlaw in question: Hey. I’m sorry about this morning.
“What did he do this morning?” Margot asked quietly.
Phoebe stared at her phone, wanting to see if there was more to the text but not wanting to put it on read. Not yet. She needed to think. “He didn’t do anything. He just didn’t answer when I asked if he’d be in touch again.”
“Well, I guess he’s answered now.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
No need to be sorry.
Duncan stared at the text for a while.
His father was already asleep in the other bed, snoring in the way only a late-middle-aged man whose nose had been broken multiple times could snore. Duncan had his AirPods in and was watching motorcycle travel videos on YouTube; Phoebe’s text had popped up over the latest one.
He’d sent his latest text about an hour earlier, and it was an hour later in Tulsa than in Tucumcari. After midnight there. Though his time with her didn’t support the assumption, he’d figured her to be a habitual early-to-bed, early-to-rise chick. Farmer’s hours.
Well, whether she was not an early-to-bed type or she just couldn’t sleep tonight, she was awake now, and a sense of urgency tweaked him. He wrote back.
I got the sense you were mad when I left.
The message went read at once, and dots popped up. Her phone was in her hand. It was stupid how much that charged his blood.
Not mad. You could have just said no,
tho. You wimped out on that
Little disappointing tbh
Was his leaving the disappointment, or his freezing up when she asked if he’d keep in touch? The evidence of the order of her thoughts suggested the second, so he went with that.
Didn’t wimp out. Just didn’t
know the right answer.
Again, she read his message as soon as it was sent and began at once to reply.
You didn’t know if you
planned to be in touch?
Was there someone else
you needed to consult with?
Duncan laughed. Some girls might attempt a complicated linguistic dance, trying to draw out the words they wanted him to say without putting too much of themselves out there first. He thought he understood why they did it; his mom and sisters had riffed often enough about the challenges of being a woman dealing with men. He would play the game and try to make things easy on them, but he preferred just being straight. It got tiring to constantly try to figure out what they meant, like every interaction was a puzzle to solve. It was probably equally tiring to try to create that puzzle. Relationship shit was hard—one reason he’d been planning to avoid it for a few more years.
Phoebe was always straight, usually with a side of snark or sass. That was his favorite kind of woman. Maybe it meant that she didn’t care enough to start the game, but he didn’t think that was it.
So he was straight right back.
No, snarkypuss. I didn’t know what
I wanted this morning. Felt like we
were at a
He paused for a second, trying to come up with the right word, and eventually decided on
threshold, and I needed to think if
I wanted to cross over.
Though she read him right away, this time it took her a little longer to respond.
I’d say that was pretty poetic
if you didn’t also just call me snarky
puss. Lolwtf
So ... not charming?
Maybe in an “aw, so helpless” way.
Before he could respond to that barb, she sent another message.
Well, I guess you decided to text.
What does that mean?
Did you decide to cross over?
I don’t know. You were not in my
plans, snarkypuss.
Let’s hit the kill switch on snarkypuss, please.
I do not consent to nicknames yet. And that one
will never happen.
Yeah, he really did like her. Each interaction with her charged the spark he felt—even texting with hundreds of miles between them as well as some tension.
Noted
Thank you. As for my question?
What does this convo mean?
What did it mean? Why had he reached out again? Why did it flood him with serotonin that she’d responded? Was he ready to try settling down? Was that what was going on here?
He still did not fucking know. The thought of being with Phoebe more—a lot more—excited him, but the thought of being settled, of being limited, soured his stomach. He liked her, and he liked his life. Couldn’t he have both?
Even as the question occurred to him, he knew that was the road to Asshole Central. Unless she’d be interested in something open.
Okay, but he didn’t like the thought of sharing her, either.
Yep. Asshole.
Because he’d left her on read for a few minutes, he typed the only thing he could think to say.
Does it have to mean something?
Hey, you’re the one who choked this
morning because texting me might
mean something you don’t want.
Okay, fair. But I still don’t know.
What do you want?
Dude.
What
You’re seriously gonna
play that game?
Shit. Was he trying to do that dance? No. No. He just wanted to know where she was in this.
Not a game. Just asking.
Okay then.
What I want is not to get jerked
around by some game-playing asshole
who won’t say what he fucking
means. Bye, Duncan.
Fuck! He’d fucked it up, and he was going to lose something—someone—he might actually want. Adrenaline shot through his body as he hurried to catch her if he could.
Phoebe, wait.
She read that right away, so at least she hadn’t dropped the phone like dropping a mic. And it didn’t take more than a minute for her to start writing. If he were playing games, he’d read something encouraging in that.
Her actual text wasn’t encouraging, but it wasn’t an ice bath, either.
It’s late. I’m over this talk.
So say something real or don’t.
Afraid if he took the time to think and compose, she’d bail and then block him or something, Duncan jumped in and wrote out his thoughts.