Defenseman No. 9 - Xavier Neal Page 0,57

starts, tone suddenly softening, “I won’t buy you shit to apologize for mistakes I make.” He lowers his arms to continue to demonstrate a more peaceful approach to the conversation I made hostile. “I will look you in your beautiful gray eyes, say I’m sorry, and express how I plan to do better.”

His words provide a breath I didn’t know I needed.

“I’m not cheating on you. I’m not interested in cheating on you. I have spent most of my fucking life waiting for this very shot to be with you, so I damn sure am not about to blow it.” He doesn’t wait for me to explain my reaction or provide any sort of remorse response before placing his hands firmly on my waist. “Now, would you like some flowers that maybe you can make one of those dance videos with by putting on a performance while placing them in a vase, or should we just head over to Simone’s veggie booth? She’s got some gorgeous tomatillos that I know are going to make great Salsa Verde and a good-looking eggplant I think Leif and I can use for our project this week about most people’s initial response to fixing their relationship with food.”

I can’t stop the sneer that comes to my lips.

He arrogantly chortles, inspiring me to smirk. “Why do I feel that reaction was about my time with Leif vs the fruit that, technically, is a berry by botanical classification?”

“Because I’ve made my opinion about that Hucci pair of slippers very clear.”

Another laugh leaps free.

I don’t know what he’s laughing about.

Leif Bush – terrible name – is like an overrated, predictable performance of The Nutcracker. Nothing he says or does surprises me.

I know his type.

Unfortunately, in two ways, I am the same type.

Relationship statuses don’t mean dick when you want that dick.

Boundaries are suggestions when blowjob offers are on the table.

What’s done in the dark can keep being done in the dark, and no one has to be the wiser.

It’s why I insist that they never work on shit at his place.

It’s also why I always, slyly, manage to show up when they’re working at Hugo’s.

Of course, my boyfriend doesn’t seem to mind.

He simply kisses me and pulls me to sit in his lap where he can never have me enough.

Once his snickers die down, Hugo offers me a warm smile and folds his hands at the small of my back. “What did I just say?”

I swallow down the insecurities choking me to sassily coo, “That you wanna buy me flowers to do an immersive video with.”

He happily nods and gestures his head at the selection for me to choose something.

Rather than waste any more time needlessly fighting, I slip out of his grip to admire the colorful options.

Fuck me, the random sweet gestures are still going to take a bit for me to get used to whether they’re in the form of flowers or changing his hand soap to one that has milk and honey in it for softer skin.

Actual dating is going to take some getting used to, but of all the people I get to figure it out with, I’m glad it’s with someone who has the patience of a preschool ballet teacher.

I appreciate that.

Hopefully, one day soon, I’ll learn to show more gratitude and less attitude.

Chapter 11

I hate texting.

I know.

Most people think it’s fucking weird that I do, but I was also brought up understanding that written communication, while effective, wasn’t always accurate nor was it always concise.

Tone is easy to misconstrue without the visual of a goddamn GIF, and I won’t pretend I love GIFs, stickers, or emojis that much more.

Call. Me.

I want to hear your fucking voice, so the sarcasm is clear. I want to hear your fucking voice, so I can easily spot the lie. I want to hear your fucking voice, so I can sense the sincerity or, maybe, the lack thereof.

Crash is, very much so, one of those “fewer the better” words people.

Of course, for him I’ll tolerate it.

For him, I’ll tolerate anything, apparently.

This includes him ditching me.

Again.

I try not to scowl at the set of symbols and emojis that are indicating he’s going to a snobby pool party hosted by a Kylie Jenner wannabe he became friends with last semester, instead of meeting me at the Game Galleria to hang out with my crew, something that’s an important pre-hockey game tradition.

Me: Can you go to it afterwards?

An additional thought hits me seconds before I put my phone facedown