Bulldozer (Hard to Love 3)

“Goober, you’re already in love with him.”

My eyes fly to hers. “No. I’m not.” Lie. I’m such a filthy liar.

She gives me a sad, little smile. “How many times have you checked your phone?”

“That means squat. What if Sam called?”

“You have a special ring tone for Ronan.”

Harvest Moon by Neil Young. He was singing a cover of it the first night I saw him perform. Dang, she knows me way too well.

“He doesn’t do relationships for reasons I can’t explain, but rest assured he really believes he can’t be in one…I can’t be in love with him because that would be stupid and I’m done doing stupid shit. Besides, the Titans might trade him and he’s not retiring.”

I just drove a stake through my own heart.

“Is that your fight song?” says the most sarcastic person ever and I wouldn’t change her one bit.

“Yes,” I grumble.

“Tell it to your heart then––because it’s in your eyes.”

My heart doesn’t listen. Unlike my clam, my heart plays deaf. It does what it wants. Loves who it loves. Always has. Men that aren’t capable of loving me back. Men out of my reach.

Dev is still watching me with concern. “I’m not going to turn into a love zombie. I promise.”

Problem is, I’m halfway there already.

The first text comes in at 9 p.m. East Coast time when I’m about to hit the sack. I almost can’t believe the hole in this house without him here. It feels empty. Sad––like the rest of us.

Klutzy Knight: Hey.

I stare at the text as if all the answers of the universe are hidden there. This means something, I tell myself. Ever since the weird exchange we had, after the phone call with Titans management, things have been on ice between us.

And my feeling don’t do ice. They burn hot and fast, blazing forward at lighting speed. Consequently––it’s a small issue, a teeny-tiny one––they have a tendency to leave scorched earth behind.

Plopping down at the foot of the bed, I write back.

Me: How was your flight?

Klutzy Knight: Long. The seats are too small for me.

Me: Even in first class?

Klutzy Knight: Y

Me: You’re worse than a teenage girl in text. Stop being so gabby.

My phone rings and the thrill that snakes up my back is shameful. Shame on me. Shame. Shame. I can’t press the accept button fast enough.

“Hi,” he says tiredly.

“Hi yourself. Why do you sound so tired?”

“Long day––and I have to go out for some publicity thing tonight.”

“Oh.” That’s the best I can do while pictures of women throwing themselves at him run through my mind and my stomach sours.

“What have you been up to?” he asks with genuine interest.

Missing you. “In the eight hours since you’ve been gone?”

He chuckles. “Been counting, have you?”

Yep. “Hardly. Working. Cleaning. You know how glamorous my life is. Hanging out with famous athletes who snore and have a proclivity for nudity…”

“Proclivity. Hmm. Good word.”

“I’ll lend you my notebooks.”

He’s silent a beat. “I have to get in the shower,” he grumbles.

“Have fun,” I say and mean it. He’s entitled.

“Hey, Mandy?”

I put the phone back to my ear. “Yeah.”

“I miss you, too.”

Klutzy Knight: Good morning.

Comes in at 12 p.m. the next day.

Me: it’s noon, dear sir.

Klutzy Knight: What are you up to today?

Me: You ask that like you don’t already know. But just to give you a taste of what I had to deal with this morning when I returned from the farmers market…

I send him a picture of Roxy looking like the doggy criminal she is. I placed the bags of beautiful fresh produce on the floor, only to step away for a minute to hit the John, and returned to find most of the produce either eaten or scattered around the kitchen floor.

Klutzy Knight: ????

Me: Emojis? You are the perfect man.

Klutzy Knight: I’ll remind you of that next time you look like you want to punch me in the ??

Me: good luck tonight. Have fun. You deserve it. ??

That night we make a big thing of it. I buy snacks. Sam and I get set up in the family room where my brother’s television takes up most of the wall.

Feeling unusually courageous, I text him. I write and erase seven different messages. In the end, I go with this masterpiece––

Me: We’re all watching! ??

I so nailed it. When he doesn’t text back, I brush it off. He’s busy. He may not have heard the text notification. There are a million legitimate reasons and I go through each and every one in my head.

The show starts and they pan to Grant in the first row. He’s so handsome it’s a crime, wearing a navy suit that’s molded to his body, literally molded. My poor, poor heart takes off like a shot in the dark, running so fast it hurts.

A man that size should look freakish in a suit and yet this one doesn’t. He looks like he needs to be showcased on the cover of People’s Sexiest Men. Come to think of it, I think he has been already.