Page 41 of Please Don’t Go (The Midnight Strike #1)

JOSEFINE

I swore I was never going to watch a baseball game, but here I am, at Salty Rims Bar he looks placid, blithe, confident, and hot.

I never really paid attention to the sport, only tolerated it because of Bryson. After him, it was the last thing on my mind, and I made sure to stay away from it.

But now it’s different. Watching Daniel, seeing him in his uniform, how it sinfully molds to his body, especially his thick thighs, watching him dive to the base and adeptly rise, cockily flashing a crooked grin, dusting his pants off as if that’ll do anything to clean off the orange dirt staining them—it does things to me.

Things that I can’t explain, but I swear I’ve never found anything hotter or more interesting until now.

I semi understand the stats and half of what the commentators are saying, but I wholly comprehend that Daniel is wickedly talented. I understand why they fawn over him, praise him, boast about him like he’s already in the majors.

I get it, I really do.

The girls crowding the bar next to me feel the same way.

I should’ve gone home after my meeting, but the game had started shortly after I got done. So I stumbled into Salty Rims because I didn’t want to miss a second of watching him play.

They’re at the bottom of the eighth inning. I should go home now—they’re at the advantage and winning 9-3—but the conversation the girls are having next to me stops me from moving from my stool.

“Daniel and I had fun last time. Of course he’s going to reply to me,” the brunette brags.

“I know because I was there,” her blonde friend adds, drunkenly giggling. “But that was months ago. We haven’t talked to him in a while.”

“I still can’t believe you two and Daniel…” Their other friend trails off. “What was he like?”

I shouldn’t be eavesdropping or discreetly side-eyeing to find Daniel’s Instagram popped up on her screen or see her go to messages. She’s so close and the screen’s brightness is high, I can make out their conversation and see a nude picture she sent him.

His response makes me look away and green colors my vision. My stomach twists and dips painfully fast.

“I messaged him. You wanna tag along, Brenda?” the brunette asks the blonde who joined them.

“He hasn’t even replied. How do you know he’s not already going to be busy?” the blonde questions.

“Because I just know,” she haughtily answers.

I don’t care who he’s messed with. I don’t care how many girls he’s fucked at the same time. I don’t care. After all, it’s done.

His note meant nothing. I’m convenient; I was the closest thing around.

When I step into the house, I freeze by the entryway. It feels like I’ve been doused in floral perfume, but it doesn’t smell artificial, just organic.

After I left the bar, I went to the beach to clear my head. I wanted to stop thinking about Daniel, the threesome, and knowing he was going to see her message and reply to it.

The game ended about two hours ago. It’s only six, but I didn’t think he’d bring them here or at least not now.

He said he wouldn’t invite women over, but he did; they’re in my house.

I can’t move. I want to, but I can’t.

Taking one step back, I’m halfway in the house and halfway out. I don’t want to leave, but I don’t want to go in either. I don’t want to hear them, but I shouldn’t leave because this is my house.

Making up my mind, I step inside and slam the front door. Each step I take feels heavier than the last, but I somehow find the will to keep going. I wait for the inevitable moan or groan, but I hear nothing.

At least he has the decency to be quiet.

I bite the inside of my cheek, hating myself for letting this get to me. Who cares what he does, who cares that he brought them here, who cares that I?—

Everything comes to an abrupt halt. My thoughts, my legs, the ugly whirl of emotions just stops.

An explosion of yellow.

A variety of yellow flowers with the exception of a few whites scattered here and there litter my kitchen and living room. The last time I saw this many flowers was when Mom passed, but these aren’t those kinds of flowers.

Wait. How did they get here? There must’ve been a mistake.

“Daniel?” I shout. I know he’s here; his car is parked outside. I search around for a little note or card because there must be one; isn’t there usually one? “Daniel! Did you see the…”

My voice dwindles as I finally spot the envelope. The front says, Happy Valentine’s Day . Carefully I take out the card, and my breath catches in my throat.

The front of the card has one smiling piece of toast and it says, I Knead You To Know…

And the inside of the card has two pieces of toast, holding hands. One has what looks like strawberry jelly and the other I think has grape jelly and it reads, You’re the best toast mate ever! On the bottom, he wrote, I’m happy you’re here, Jos!

It’s corny but I’m such a dork because I’m smiling so big, my cheeks start to ache. I’m not sure how long I stand here looking at the card I know he made for me.

He did this for me. He got me flowers. Tons of them. This is insane? Wait?—

Everything comes to an abrupt halt again. Why did he buy me flowers? This is a lot of them. Does he want something? Did he do something? I’ve only ever been given something to make up for something. Mom and Bryson did that a lot—well, Bryson did; Mom just liked to pretend it never happened.

“Daniel?!” I shout again and take the stairs two at a time. It’s safe to say those girls aren’t here. Still, I knock on his bedroom door, but I don’t get an answer. “Daniel, I swear if you don’t open up, I’m going in.”

Still nothing.

“Fine, I’m going in!” I make a show of twisting the knob to give him some time to cover up in case he’s naked or something, and after a few seconds, I open the door.

There’s no indication that anyone but him has been here. The room looks more lived in than the whole house ever has. His stuff takes over every inch of the room—vinyls, cassette tapes, and CDs in one corner, and other random stuff scattered about.

I snap out of it, knowing I’m being nosy and need to find him.

I check his bathroom and don’t find him in there either.

Then I check every other room, except Mom’s office, and still nothing.

He wouldn’t go in there because I told him not to and he promised he wouldn’t.

Still, I take a quick peek and see nothing.

I’m back in the living room, about to call him, but stop when I spot someone outside from the corner of my eye. I’m quickly moving in that direction but slow when I hear him sniffle.

“Daniel?”

He’s sitting on the grass, legs pressed to his chest, arms circled around them, forehead pressed to his knees.

“Oh.” He quickly sits up, looking away, and gingerly uses the sleeve of his hoodie to wipe his face. “Hey, Josie.”

“Hey,” I cautiously say, standing behind him. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah.” His voice is hoarse, but he clears it and nods.

“Yeah, I’m good. Just came out here to get fresh air.

The wind picked up a bit, and I got something in my eye.

Pretty sure it was sand,” he explains, wiping his face again, still not looking up at me.

“Yup, it was sand. Maybe you shouldn’t be out here; you might get it in your eye too. ”

“I’ll take my chances.” I settle down beside him, but I don’t look at him.

“You sure? The wind is kind of aggressive.” He rubs his eyes and sniffles. “Trust me, you don’t want to get sand in your eyes. It’s a bitch to get out.”

“I bet it is, especially when it gets in your hair.”

“Yeah, so why don’t you go inside. I’d hate for you to get it in your hair.”

“If I get it in my hair, you can help me get it out.”

He goes quiet for a moment, then I hear him swallow.

“Thank you for the flowers.” I try to bite back my smile, but it slips, making it hard to hide how giddy they made me feel.

I hear him wince and feel him go taut. He stifles a laugh, dragging his fingers through his hair.

“I made a mistake.” My lips fall, oh … “I didn’t mean to order that many.

I mean I wanted to order all the flowers that are in there, but not two dozen of each.

I hope you don’t have any allergies; I didn’t think to ask. I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay.” I’m smiling again. Why am I like this? “Wait, so you’re telling me you were probably charged a ridiculous amount of money and you didn’t think of disputing it or asking questions? You just let it be?” Who does that?

“It was for you. The price didn’t matter. I figured they’d be worth it.” He pauses and this time I feel his eyes on me. “I hope they were. Were they worth it?”

I look up at him and my fingers twitch to touch him, to embrace him, to ask him what’s wrong and who I need to fight because his eyes are bloodshot and rimmed with unshed tears. The tip of his nose is red, and his hands are shaky.

As much as I want to do that, I don’t because I don’t want to push and make him uncomfortable. So, I focus on his question.

I nod, not bothering to hide my smile from him. “Yeah, they’re worth it. I’ve never been given anything just because. I’m sorry I didn’t get you anything.”

His lips stretch as his gaze darts to mine, but then his brows knit together as if he’s registered what I said. “I didn’t do this because I expect something from you. I did this because I wanted to. It’s Valentine’s Day and well, what can I say, I love a good holiday.”

“Did you accidentally get everyone dozens of flowers too?”

“Just my toast mate.”

My heart stutters.

“Wait, are you telling me Bryson never—” At the shake of my head, he scowls. “Fucking piece of shit.”

“I know. My standards were low,” I embarrassingly admit even though he knows that. “I was stupid and?—”

“You weren’t stupid.”

“Trust me, I was. He treated me like shit and yet there I was.” I shrug. “Stupid.”

“Then I was stupid too. My ex-girlfriend didn’t treat me like shit, but she did shitty things.” He scrunches his nose.

“Look at us, bonding over shitty exes.” I bump my shoulder into his.

“Exes that will…” He pauses, gaze flicking away, fingers drumming along this thigh. “Stay exes, right?”

“You don’t want Amanda back?” I don’t know why I asked; it’s obvious he doesn’t.

“Fuck no.” He doesn’t miss a beat and winces. “Was that too harsh?”

“No. I don’t think you sounded mean enough. Fuck Amanda. Fuck Bryson. Fuck them both.”

“Yeah, fuck them.” He nods, a smirk on his face. “So, I can assume you don’t want Bryson back, right?”

“No. I blocked his number and everywhere on social media,” I admit.

His brows lift and I swear for a moment he looks like he’s relishing this news. “Really?”

“Yeah, he’s doing too much. Never thought something like that would make me cringe, but it does.”

Daniel presses his lips together to muffle his laugh, but it still slips out. “I’m so proud of you. I should do that too.” He fishes his phone out of his pocket, goes to her contact, blocks her number, then goes through all his socials and does the same.

Wow.

“I thought you were here with someone,” I admit and cringe a second later. Maybe I shouldn’t have brought it up.

He stares at me, confused. “Who would I be here with?”

I twist my ring. “I was at Salty Rims and overheard a conversation about…” Why did I bring this up? I proceed to quickly tell him and attempt to hide my mortification because he knows I was eavesdropping if I heard that much.

Sex doesn’t bother me. I have no qualms about it, but it’s talking about it to a guy who I’ve been dreaming about and getting off to that makes this weird.

“I told you I wouldn’t bring anyone here and I meant that. I’ve also just not been in the mood. Even if I was, they’re not who—I’m just not in the mood.”

I tuck my hair behind my ear. “Do you want to talk about it?”

“About sex?”

“No, but if you want to, we can. I meant about the sand in your eye.”

All the humor drains from his face. “Not really. It was just sand.”

Sucking in a breath, I wipe my palms on my thighs and stand. “Get up,” I demand. “Now.”

Daniel doesn’t hesitate to do as I say, just stares at me, bemused. “What are we going to do?” The sun is setting behind him, casting a glow around him like a halo.

“You don’t like talking about yourself and neither do I, but you need someone and while I’m no therapist, I’m here.”

“It’s okay. I’m fine. I promise.” He smiles.

I shake my head, anxiously fisting my hands at my sides. “I was homeschooled all my life and I think that’s why I’m socially awkward and can’t make friends. And Mom told me having them would hinder my focus on swimming. Take your hoodie off.”

He gapes at me, voicing a disbelieving quiet, “What?”

“I gave a little about me; now you take something off. You give me a little something, I’ll take something off.

I don’t interrupt or ask questions and neither will you.

Deal?” My heart careens and my palms sweat.

Scary alarms blare in my head, warning me to not share any more, but I want to help him open up.

Hesitantly, he strips off his hoodie and drops it on the grass. “Okay, deal.”