I wish I could give my phone to someone and tell them not to give it back to me, but I tell myself I have more self-discipline than that. I have enough self-control not to text him now that I’ve unblocked his number. Hell, I had the self-discipline to keep his number blocked all this time when what I enjoy the most is talking to him, so I can handle not texting him when he’s not even texting me back.
I manage to, but it’s pure hell.
When I settle in and try to go to sleep, he still hasn’t texted me back. My messages aren’t showing as read, either, so maybe he didn’t even read them. Maybe he did, but he turned his read receipts off so I wouldn’t know and he could make me even crazier.
I’m too frustrated to fall asleep for a long time.
Even past the point of it making sense, I lie there waiting for my phone to light up. There’s little chance he’s going to text me at 3 AM when he’s undoubtedly sleeping, but I lie there tired and unable to fall asleep, just in case.
Friday is hellish, too. I’m exhausted. After sleeping for a few hours, I’ve cleared my cache a bit. I’m dragging and having difficulty staying awake all through school, but I manage to stop waiting for a text I’m clearly not going to get.
When I get to English class and Hunter’s sitting at his desk—with his phone in hand—I accept that there is no exceptional excuse for why he didn’t text me back.
He chose not to.
That definitely doesn’t feel good, but in a strange way, it helps.
As I sit there next to him in class, I pay less attention to Mrs. Dowd and more attention to hammering home certain truths in my stubborn head.
Yes, I love Hunter. I think I have since we were in middle school. I think he stole my heart the night he first kissed me, and it’s been his ever since.
But it can’t be anymore. It’s not fair to either one of us. I don’t know how to stop loving him, and I don’t even want to; I want to believe it isn’t necessary. I think we could still be friends even if we can’t be more, but he must not want that. If he did, he’d at least be speaking to me.
If he wants to be done, then I need to get on the same page.
I leave class that day without looking back at him, that’s the first step.
At lunch, I don’t look at his table.
I have a shift from 4-8, so work keeps me busy and I can’t have my phone on me while I’m at work.
At the end of my shift, I take my meager tips and grab my purse. I head home without even thinking to check my phone.
I take a shower to wash the smell of the restaurant off me. I don’t even take out my phone until afterward, when I curl up on my bed in comfy pajamas and finally set about doing some homework.
I only even take my phone out of my purse to put it on charge, but when I finally do, I see I have a new text message.
My heart sinks.
It’s from Hunter.
It’s not a response to anything I sent him. It’s just one simple question: “Where do you work?”
I frown at the screen, wondering why he’s curious about that. I criss cross my legs and text back, “I wait tables at a restaurant in town. Deb’s Diner. Why?”
It has been a while since he sent that message, so I give him some time to text me back.
I feel a little less tense as I study, figuring he’ll respond when he gets a chance since he was the one to reach out this time. But, as the night wears on, I don’t hear back.
I work again Saturday, then I close on Sunday.
Hunter never texts me back, but on Sunday night when I’m coming back from the kitchen with an armful of napkins and some silverware to wrap, I see a group of fine-looking football players walk through the door.
My heart jumps when I see Hunter’s face. A stupid smile claims my lips. I try to stop it, but I can’t.
I haven’t seen a trace of amusement on Hunter’s face since I sent him from my bedroom that night, but as he takes in the sight of me in my retro diner garb, his handsome face lights up with pleasure.
“Wow,” he says.
I flash him a big customer service smile. “You fellas want a table or a booth?”
“I want a picture,” Hunter says. “A series of them, with you in various states of undress.”
My face flushes and I bite back a smile, rolling my eyes at him. “Keep it clean, buddy. I’m at work.”