Page 62 of The Wrong Game

I laughed out loud again at that, shaking my head as the last little sliver of sun dipped below the skyline. The thought that I could be just friends with that woman was ludicrous, and yet somehow, I knew I’d take the torture. I knew I’d go to that game tomorrow and sit beside her, and try to be around her in whatever capacity she’d let me — simply because I wanted her that bad.

Fuckingpathetic.

My phone buzzed in my pocket, snapping me out of my pity party. I didn’t recognize the number, so I sent it to voicemail, content to sulk on my own for a while longer. I knew, eventually, I’d have to suck it up and move on. Doc was right — she was just a girl. There were a million others out there.

The problem was there wasn’t a single other one likeher.

That much I knew.

My phone buzzed again, and I huffed, frowning when I saw the same number. I answered this time, resorting to taking my frustration out on whatever poor telemarketer was on the other end.

“Whatever you’re selling, I’m not buying. Fuck off.”

“Whoa,” a soft, familiar voice said. “That’s messed up. What if I was like a single mom just trying to sell carpet shampoo and make ends meet, you jerk.”

I frowned. “Belle?”

“Indeed. You free to talk for a sec?”

I leaned a hip against the railing. “Uh, yeah. How did you get my number?”

“Well, I’m at the bar right now, but the cute little bartender who’s here said you’re off on Saturdays. She gave me your number.”

I sighed. “So much for protection of employees.”

“Oh, shut it, I would have stolen it from Gemma if I had to. Which brings me to why I’m calling.”

“Look, she already talked to me, okay?” I pushed off the railing, crossing the porch to sit on the swing Dad built for Mom a few years back. “I got it. Just friends.”

“Yeah, well… about that.”

Belle paused, and I sat up a little straighter.

“Here’s the thing, PITA Boy.”

“PITA?”

“Pain In The Ass. That’s how Gemma affectionately refers to you.”

I chuckled. “Why does that not surprise me.”

“Anyway, look, I like you, okay? And I know Gemma does, too. She’s too fucked up to admit it, and her favorite thing to do is shove anything resembling an emotion down into a basement full of boxes so she can continue living upstairs and ignore everything lurking in the dark down there.” She sighed. “I know what she told you, and I know shethinksthat’s what she wants — but, I also have the good fortune of knowing her better than she knows herself.”

“What are you saying?” I asked, leaning forward on the swing and resting my elbows on my knees.

“I’m saying that my dumb ass best friend likes you, and she’s scared of you because of it. And, I think we should band together to get her to open her big, beautiful, dumb eyes.”

I smirked, and though hope floated through me like a feather in the wind, reality snatched it in a fist, crushing it almost instantly.

“You’re sweet, Belle,” I said, voice low. “And I appreciate you reaching out to try to make me feel better. But, Gemma made her point very clear on Monday night, and she sealed it with her call on Tuesday. She seemed to know very well what she wants… and what she doesn’t. I think we should both respect that.”

“You’re right. We probably should. She told me she wants to keep going through with the new guy every game thing and I want to just support her in that but…” she sighed. “Well, the thing is, that even if it makes me an intrusive best friend, I don’t think I can do that.

I didn’t know what to say, so I just waited for her to continue.

“This is classic Gemma. She spiraled on Monday night, and then she felt like shit,” Belle said. “In a desperate attempt to gain back control over the situation, she took everything in front of her and looked at it as logically as she could. She packed the emotions away, tucked them in her basement, and focused on making lists, and plans. You’re not something she can easily fit into either category, therefore she had to push you into a zone she understood — the friend zone. There, she knows how to handle you. There, she thinks she’s in control. But I know her, and I know she likes you — more than she’s willing to admit.”

“How do you know?”