Tyed

So on Saturday, when I know I'm ahead of my game with the MMA assignment and well prepared for an upcoming exam, have already finished scrubbing the apartment clean and have ticked every single to-do-list box I have hanging on my fridge, I text him back.

Sorry, had a busy week. What's up?

The ball is in his court, but what if he's already headed to a different court, playing with someone not as uptight?

He doesn't answer. I know for a fact that Saturday is not a busy day for him. I learned his training schedule by heart back when I hung around The Grind.

To make matters worse, I have the weekend off from Ned's. I booked it in advance long ago so I can concentrate on my assignment. Now I have nothing to do but sit around and think about the fact I might have lost him. Lost him because I'm a coward. The one guy I actually liked in a very long time.

I barely get any sleep between Saturday and Sunday.

In the morning, I wash my face, examine the dark circles underneath my eyes and throw on a red plaid shirt, black leggings and deep-red chucks to match my bloodshot eyes.

Before I have the time to regret it, I make my way to Ty's place in my pink Mini. Sunday is a relatively free day for him, with a sparring session at noon and nothing else. He may not be home—or worse, may be home with someone else—but something in me can't seem to stay away.

I pull to the curb in front of his house and slam my car door, still debating whether to do this or not.

I breathe hard, my chest hurting from excitement and fear, when I notice the fence. I blink the surprised sting out of my eyes.

The fan mementos? Gone. Everything, from undies to bikinis. The mailbox has been emptied. I rush forward, peeking through the slightly ajar gate, and I take it as an invitation to walk in.

The bra on the Harley is gone.

Everything I hated, vanished.

I can stand here for forever and study it in wonder. The fence, so clean, so pure, its gate so inviting for me to walk through. My feet hurry into his front yard, and I rap on his door twice.

"Yeah?" Ty opens the door and stares down at me, aloof. I expect his expression to defrost into one of those smiles he saves especially for me.

When it doesn't happen, I bounce on the balls of my feet nervously and look down. "Hey." I've missed his face. "Your fence looks nice."

His jaw is still tense. I get it. I get him. I disappeared for a week. So why can't he get how intimidating it is to date a guy like him when you're so used to being alone, so used to the nickname Boring Blaire? MMA fighters don't exactly have a reputation for being the best boyfriends.

"Guess I'm not the slob you thought I was, after all."

Touché.

"Wanna hang out or something?" I shoot him a hopeful glance.

He folds his arms on his chest, still unimpressed. "You want more stuff for your interview, huh?" he asks coldly.

Double touché. This is turning out to be more painful than I thought, but I guess I deserve this. "No."

"What do you want?"

I lift up my iPod with one hand and flash him an apologetic grin. "To educate you about good music. You badmouthing Neck Deep was seriously out of line, and I won't take this kind of attitude from a guy who listens to Soulja Boy."

And that's all it takes for him to fight that cute grin of his. Heart starts beating normally again.

"Unless you have other plans, of course," I say.

"My plans can wait." He doesn't budge from the door, though. I'm standing on the threshold, peeking inside, hoping that he'll get the hint.

"Can I come in?"

He clears the path for me. Was he just staring at me without talking or moving for ten seconds straight?

"Mi casa, es su casa, Barbie. Just don’t bring any boys here if you want them to get outta here in one piece.”

I order pizza while he eats steamed broccoli and salmon. I sit on his floor and browse through my YouTube playlists on his laptop. We've been doing this for nearly two hours, and so far, he hasn't kicked me out yet, even when I played him the really abstract stuff no one seems to like but me. Now I ease back into familiar territories to wrap up the session.

"And that was ‘Jumpers’ by Sleater-Kinney." I look up from the screen, awaiting his verdict.

He taps his chin with his finger, hmmphing with one arched brow. "Play the local band again, the one from Sacramento. I dig their stuff."

"‘My Soul is Empty and Full of White Girls’ by Slaves." I double click on the song. "Good choice."