Page 21

DANIEL

I regret yesterday. We won the match, but still, I wish yesterday didn’t exist. I screwed up. I have been able to hide my desire to hold her, be with her, and not just as a friend (which I am not by the way). I can usually control my urges, but yesterday when I heard her moan over that damn milkshake, looked at her lick her lips, her tongue darting out to catch a single drop of the damn drink, it was a sight that has been burned into my brain since then. I have played in the most intense games and faced some of the toughest opponents, yet nothing compares to that.

When she looked at me, a bewildered look on her face, I wanted to pounce on her. I wanted to take her right then and there. But I didn’t. I couldn’t. This is not the way I want things to be. I want her all to myself, not just her body. And I don’t want her to think I am just here for sex.

I ruffle my hair in frustration as I sit in the car outside her building. I want to see her, but I can’t find her on campus, so here I am. The only problem is I have no appropriate reason to call her, and I can’t just show up at her doorstep without any purpose; it will look weird. I pick up my phone, scroll through Instagram, and open her profile .

“I am sorry for yesterday.” I speak to her picture, words I might not be able to say to her. “I talked to you roughly for starters.” I rub my finger against her cheek. “And as much as I wanted to stop you, I didn’t.” I keep the phone in my lap. “But that’s only because I didn’t trust myself enough. I feel I would have done something about my situation down there, and I was not sure how you would feel about it,” I explain. Not that it matters because she won’t ever know.

I sigh. What am I doing? I close my eyes and rotate my neck to relieve tension from my shoulders. That’s what I get for not sleeping after a match. My phone vibrates. I immediately pick it up in the hope that she might have messaged me, but I see Professor Brown’s email and groan. I open it up.

My eyes widen. This feels like a blessing in disguise. I chuckle evilly. I can already imagine Anya’s reaction, knowing she’ll be stressed and probably anxious about the last-minute change because she is a perfectionist. But for me, this is a valid reason to reach out to her. I finally have an appropriate excuse to see her. I am so screwed. Aren't I?

I open up my contacts and dial her number. The phone rings for a while and then ends. I call her again, but she isn’t picking up. I guess the avoiding game is going strong then. I don’t blame her.

What should I do now? I grab the steering wheel, but her phone is unreachable. I think I should just text her and wait. What other option do I have?

Stop ignoring my calls, Firecracker. Shit has hit the fan! Our assignment submission is in two months!

I hit send, throw it on the passenger seat, and wait for her response. I know this assignment means nothing to me. Everything I am doing is for her.

I think I was enchanted the first time I saw her. She was strong-headed and bold, and then, when I finally got to know her, when she started showing her layers to me, I kept feeling drawn towards her, like a moth to the flame. And now I want to be hers. I want her to want me. And it’s weird considering how easily she could crush me, and I will happily let that happen, because at least she touched me that way, at least she saw me. That’s the effect she has on me. My phone buzzes. I immediately pick it up. It’s her. Thank God she took the bait.

Firecracker:

I am sorry I was busy.

I just saw the email.

I look at the screen as the three dots appear and vanish in seconds, and I hate that she has to think twice before texting me. I want her to speak her mind with me.

We can meet today if you are available.

I type, hoping it doesn’t make me sound desperate, which I am. After what feels like an hour—but has probably only been a few minutes—she finally responds to my message.

Firecracker:

Okay, can you come to my house?

I will send you the address.

Like I don’t already know that, but I let her send it to me because I don’t know the floor or apartment number. I contemplate and decide to sit in the car for five minutes, because if I went right now, it would look like I was standing right outside her door, which of course I am, but I just don’t know how she will react knowing it.

I feel a mixture of excitement and nervousness as I sit in my car, waiting for the five minutes to pass. I try to keep myself occupied by playing some music and responding to some other messages on my phone. Finally, after what seems like an eternity, the five minutes are up. I take a deep breath and start my car, feeling a flutter of butterflies in my stomach as I park the car in the basement garage. I am nervous to face her. I take the elevator up to Anya’s floor, feeling my nerves grow with each passing moment. I straighten out my clothes and try to calm my breathing, hoping that I don’t look too flustered.

When I reach her door, I ring the bell and wait for her to answer. There’s a beat of silence, and the door opens. I stare at her. She’s wearing a pair of sweatpants and an old T-shirt. Her hair is a mess, and she looks stunning. Damn, she should have mercy on me. I inhale sharply. So, she was busy with sleep, and a small smile makes its way to my face.

“Hey,” she says, looking up at me apologetically. “Sorry about the mess. I wasn’t expecting you so soon,” she adds, avoiding my eyes.

This is either going to be fun, or I am going to screw it up more.

∞∞∞