Me: Duh, I’m amazing.
Avery: Of course, you are. You’re amazing at life.
Me: Preach it, baby.
Avery: Okay, so…I’ll see you soon?
Me: Yeah, I’m counting the seconds.
Avery: …
Avery: You’re corny as hell.
Me: But yet, you still swoon over me.
Avery: Every day.
Grinning at that, I click off my messages and check my Facebook.
I want to say I’m cool with Javery, as we’ve been calling it, but I want more. I want to be able to say she’s mine without her giving me that look. That “don’t label us” look. I kind of hate that look. A lot. But I can’t make her feel what I feel. I can’t rush her into this, I know that. But still, I want more. I want all of her, but it’s obvious she’s holding back. I’m pretty sure it has to do with that douche who hurt her. I get it, heartbreak sucks—I’ve been witness to it. But I don’t know how to be patient.
I’ve never been one of those guys who sits back and waits. I’m an all-in kind of person; I fight for what I want. Work for it. And I feel like I’m putting in extra hours with this girl and only getting half of her. Sometimes I think, why am I even doing that? I could have anyone I want. Or at least, I think I could, but I’m putting all my eggs in Avery’s basket, hoping she’ll feel it too.
It feels right, though.
And I can’t fight that. I’d be stupid to, but something’s got to give.
I’ve got to know she feels the same.
When my phone rings, I realize I wasn’t really looking at Facebook because I don’t even answer the phone right away. I’m too consumed by my feelings for her. By my confusion and uncertainty.
Shit, it’s my dad.
“Hey.”
“Hey, are you in class?”
“No, just woke up. Had to work early.”
He pauses. “You’re working?”
“Yeah, at the coffee shop.”
“Why?” he asks, and I can tell he’s confused. “Do you need more money?”
“No,” I say quickly. “I’m just bored.”
“So focus on hockey. You don’t need to work. I’ll support you.”
“I know, but I need to—”
“You’ve been talking to your brothers, I’m guessing, and they are the ones pushing this?”
“No,” I say even though they kind of are, but I agree with them. I’m not a spoiled brat anymore—I’m a man. Or at least, a man-child who is too insanely spoiled by my mommy. Not that I would ever admit that to anyone else. “I like it.”
“You like it?”
“Yeah.”