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CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

Marissa

It’s been nearly a week since the infamous movie and kiss incident. Six days without talking to Dozer.

I’ve spent that time immersing myself in work and my project car so I’m not tempted to call him when I’m home alone in the evenings. Even so, I’ve been tempted to call him so many times, I haven’t even tried to keep track. Distraction is key, though watching sports highlights tends to have the opposite effect. Which really sucks because I’ve always loved watching sports highlights. And since meeting him, I’ve gotten into hockey. I’m invested in the Emeralds’ season, and I want them to do well. Sure, it started because of Dozer, but I can just be a genuine fan now, can’t I?

The real trick to not talking to him, though, is opening up the last texts he sent me.

Dozer

I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it. It was a mistake.

Please talk to me.

It was a mistake. Those words gut me every time. Those are the words I didn’t want to hear that night, the reason I fled the scene as quickly as I did. I knew that’s what he was going to say. He was acting so cagey and weird as soon as the kiss ended, that was the only option.

The worst part is the endless loop of self-recrimination that plays every time I see those words.

You must be a bad kisser. Why else would he have kissed you and then done a complete one-eighty? Chad told you that you were a cold fish, after all. You chalked it up to him being an asshole—his name’s Chad after all—but maybe he was right. Sure, he was definitely trying to be hurtful too, but maybe it was based in harsh truth. Maybe that’s why Peter wouldn’t commit either. He didn’t want to be shackled to a lifetime of bad kissing and bad sex. Because if you can’t even kiss properly, how can you possibly be good in bed?

Sure, I’ve answered that incessant voice with facts like, Dozer’s always said he doesn’t want a relationship right now. Maybe kissing anyone would be a mistake because he’s not prepared for more than that.

And while the logical part of my brain acknowledges those facts, the hurt, scared, wounded part can’t let go of the idea that it’s somehow my fault. That I’m not good enough. That, once again, I don’t measure up.

So I can’t talk to Dozer. I can’t face him. I can’t reply to his text, though my Texas upbringing is also raging at how rude I am for not responding.

Is this the reason people ghost? They can’t muster the guts to be honest with someone else because they can barely muster the guts to be honest with themselves?

Is what I’m doing even really ghosting?

Yeah, sure, I’m leaving him on read, but he knows what he did. It’s not like everything was fine and normal and I just stopped responding out of nowhere. There’s a clear cause and effect here.

What does it even matter if I meet the technical definition of ghosting or not, though? And why am I also mad that he gave up so quickly and easily?

Because it means he really doesn’t want you , that oh-so-helpful little voice butts in.

Gah!

I’m driving myself crazy. I’d hoped that after a few days, the distance would help me get some perspective, or at least quit replaying it over and over and over. If anything, though, it’s gotten worse.

In a fit of pique, I throw on a sweatshirt, stuff my arms through my jacket—it’s raining, as always, so I need a waterproof layer—step into my rain boots—someone told me at work that wearing rain boots or using an umbrella indelibly marks me as Not From Here, but I don’t care—grab my keys, and head out the door.

I make it as far as the lobby before I stop short.

Dozer’s right in front of me. I’d wonder if he somehow orchestrated this, but he looks as shocked to see me as I am to see him.

“Marissa,” he says, my name sounding tentative, but then he seems to warm as his surprise dissipates. He smiles widely. “How have you been? I have an extra ticket to our home game tomorrow. Do you think you can make it?”

“Oh, uh …” I … what? He’s acting like everything’s normal. Like we just haven’t seen each other because he’s been gone—though he hasn’t—or because I’ve been busy. I blink at him a few times.

“You know what? I’ll just send you the ticket details.” He steps smoothly to the side. “Tina told me to let you know that you’re welcome to hang out with her at the next game you go to. I’ll text you her number, too. That way you can easily connect up with her.”

I’m still blinking at him as he gives me a friendly wave and another smile before heading for the elevator.

I turn to stare after his retreating back as he heads into the elevator alcove, but shake myself out of my stupor before I gawk after him for too long. If he has to wait for the elevator for more than a few seconds, he’ll know I’m still standing in the lobby, rooted in shock. I can’t let him realize that.

Head down, I barrel out the door into the parking lot, doing my best to keep my focus on placing one foot in front of the other until I’m in my car. As soon as I close the door, though, my phone alerts with a text from Dozer. As promised, it’s the ticket information and Tina’s phone number. Nothing more, nothing less.

I stare at my phone like it might contain the answers to the mysteries of life—or at least the mystery of what the fuck is up with this behavior—before eventually powering it off, tossing it in the passenger seat, and driving to my garage. Good thing I’ve made this drive often enough now that I don’t need to use the map on my phone anymore.

I bury myself in the work on my car, blasting music on the old radio I keep there so that I couldn’t think even if I wanted to. And when it’s so late that my eyes feel gritty and tired, I finally put things away and clean up before heading home, keeping the volume up on my stereo as well and singing along at the top of my lungs to whatever’s familiar that I can find on the radio. Normally I’d plug my phone in and select one of my playlists, but I’m keeping my phone off until … well, until I can decide what to do. And since I won’t even let myself think about what happened, much less the best way to respond, it’ll just stay off for the rest of the night, at minimum.

It’s the shower that gets me, though. Since I’m keeping my phone off, I can’t turn on a playlist, and no matter how I rush to scrub the grease and grime off me, there’s too much time for my mind to wander.

Sinking to the floor, I wrap my arms around my knees, letting the water pound on my back while I figure out what I’m supposed to do now.

But the longer I think, the more it seems like there’s really only one option at this point.

He wants to pretend like nothing happened, like everything’s normal? Fine. We can do that.

For now.