Text Me, Maybe - Jolyse Barnett Page 0,12

his shoulder.

Matthew cleared his throat, feeling like a used towel. “Well then, maybe go home and take a hot shower and stretch a bit more before bed.”

“Yep.” She gave him a half-wave before turning to join the flow of pedestrians heading east.

She was leaving, all right. He took two steps toward the gym entrance then paused. “Lexie?”

She stopped and looked back.

Aw, fuck. Was she crying?

She threw him a watery smile. “See you Friday.”

“Yeah,” he muttered. Matthew blew out a breath and stepped into the building, a cold pervading his bones that the blasting heat from the overhead air ducts couldn’t thaw. Holding her might’ve been a screw-up in more ways than one. What if she shut him out for good?

He shook his head, refusing to think negative. He’d be damned if he’d give up on her without trying one last time.

Chapter Eight

Lexie and her fellow commuters swayed with the car’s rocking motion, crammed together like clothes in a washing machine. She grasped a thick vinyl strap overhead and stared absently at the back of a broad man wearing camo, while trying to ignore the pair of kids snapping bubblegum and talking behind her at top volume about whatever entertaining photos they were checking out on their smartphones.

There was one stop until freedom when her phone vibrated. She sighed. That was the second missed call in fifteen minutes. Had to be Mom. She’d have to return the call, of course, and make sure her mother was okay, but that would have to wait until she could hear herself think.

Walking with Matthew had been a bright spot in a dreary day, but then she’d gone and ruined it—by almost getting run over. Worse, she’d ditched him outside their building, and now she was left wondering what his lips would’ve felt like on hers. She shivered and shook her head. No, Matthew might want her, but he didn’t even know her.

And he won’t.

Because God help her if he did.

The floor beneath her shook as the train slowed, and Lexie braced for the stop. She followed the human current flowing out of the car and up the narrow flight of stairs. At street level, she pulled out her phone. “Hi, Mom.”

“Lexie?”

“I’m here.” She forced herself to sound cheerful. “You okay?”

Her mother sniffed. “We just got in. Aiden brought the flowers for the grave.”

Lexie sucked in a breath and clapped a hand over her mouth. Guilt weighed on her like wet cement, and her shoulders drooped. “I am so, so sorry.” She slogged toward her apartment. “Is Aiden still with you?”

“He’s right here. I’ll put him on.”

“No.” She forced out the words. “I mean, uh, I can’t talk right now.” Numb, Lexie ended the call.

I’m so sorry, Dad.

Then it hit her—that black cloud.

Blinded by tears, she half walked, half ran the last block to her building.

She was sitting alone in the dark an hour later, unmoving and uncaring, when a ping sounded from her purse. Zombie-like, she slid the phone onto her lap.

How was your day?

Leaning her head back on the sofa cushion, she groaned. If only she could vent to him.

Nope. Stupid idea.

She texted Sam.

No response.

The clock ticked and the fridge hummed. All was quiet overhead at the neighbors, too, though it was still early by city standards. Even the Chihuahua was mute. She sighed again. Her father had been the world’s best listener.

I miss you, Dad.

Lexie glanced at the phone next to hers.

Before she could examine her reasons too closely, she jotted Steel’s number on the back of her notebook, and entered it in her cell. Hi. It’s me. That other number was my work phone. This one’s my personal.

Bad day?

She exhaled. The worst.

What happened?

Today’s my father’s birthday, but I forgot. I’ve never forgotten. I’m a horrible, horrible daughter.

It’s only eight. You can still call him. He’ll understand.

He’s dead. It’s my mother I’m worried about. I should’ve remembered. She shuddered. No wonder her mother had been calling more lately. April was always a difficult month for her.

I’m sorry. But it’s okay to move on.

Lexie wiped her eyes.

I feel so guilty. I hung up on my mother. I mean, who does that? I’m a terrible human being. I just miss him so much. I don’t like talking about it. And that seems to be all she wants to talk about. I’m rambling.

Don’t be so hard on yourself.

He was too nice, too forgiving. She didn’t deserve sympathy. She sniffled.

What was your dad like?

Memories of her dad flooded her, of him laughing and twirling her around