“Her!” Dillon pointed to Bobbi. “Told you. Our boy is back!”
Bobbi shuddered. “Uh, no. Fuck boy Nathan is your boy. Not mine.”
Nathan waited until they’d settled into another debate before picking up his phone.
Nathan: Anytime you feel like running away just say the word.
Those marching dots taunted him as she typed her response. He suddenly, intensely hated text messages.
Rachel: I feel that way every day.
He reread it, lifted his thumbs to type, and then lowered them again. He wanted to say, So do I. I’m not sure why I never could. But you didn’t put big things like that in a text.
Nathan stood and loudly announced, “I’m making a beer run. You guys need anything?”
Dillon looked confused. “Uh… more chips?”
Nathan took the steps down into the laundromat two at a time, barely reaching the stoop before dialing Rachel’s number. She answered on the first ring.
“I know that last message was pathetic, but you didn’t have to call.”
Her voice washed over him, soft with a hint of huskiness and smoke. He might never text her again.
“It wasn’t pathetic.” He leaned forward and propped his elbows on his knees. “I like hearing your voice.”
She was quiet long enough to give him palpitations. “I actually hate texting,” she admitted. “I’m too slow.”
“That’s because you care about punctuation.”
“Commas increase readability, and I will die on that hill.” She laughed. It was like audible honey. Nathan rocked forward, leaning into the sound.
“You’ve got a good laugh.”
“Really?” She laughed again, but this time it was muffled, like she was covering her mouth with her hand.
He groaned. “Did I make you self-conscious? Don’t be. Yours is sexy.”
She didn’t respond. Fuck. The filter between his brain and his mouth had been smoked down to nothing. “Rachel? Are you still there? Hey, I didn’t mean it like that.”
She cleared her throat. “It’s okay if you did.”
Nathan leaned back on the stairs and stared at the empty parking lot. His body felt heavy and light at the same time, like any minute, all the darkness weighing him down would fall away.
“God, this house is so empty,” she said. “There’s an echo.”
“You’re not alone. I’m here.” He could also be there if she wanted, even though he probably shouldn’t. But what was the point of playing by the rules while everyone else broke them? What would he get from standing still? “You know that, right? You can talk to me whenever you need to.”
“I do,” she said quietly. “And you can do the same.”
He wanted to. But their situations were different. Rachel’s big secret was that beneath that shiny, Instagram-ready exterior, she was chaotically sexy, smart but reckless, and viewed the world like a cynical poet. Meanwhile, scratching beneath his surface would be a disappointment. Whatever mysterious persona she’d conjured in her mind was better than the reality of how little was there. Bobbi was right. Having everything handed to you on a silver platter made it hard to know what to value. Which made it all worthless. Except his art. Money couldn’t make it easier to put his vision on paper. The starving artist was a cliché for a reason. The only time his life had meaning was when there was a risk of failing.
“You’re so quiet,” she said. “I didn’t mean to ruin your mood. Ignore me.”
“That is impossible.” He pictured her legs, smooth and bare beneath that cocktail dress. “Believe me, I’ve tried.”
She didn’t respond, but she didn’t hang up. She also didn’t say what she should have said, that he was out of line, and whatever this was, wasn’t happening. Her silence sparked the air like a dangling live wire.
“Nate! I thought you were getting beer!”
He whirled around as Dillon clattered down the stairs. Nathan made a shut the fuck up motion across his throat.
“You should go,” Rachel said.
He gripped the phone tighter. “Hey, no—”
“Go spend time with your friends. I think my housekeeper just drove up.”
He heard a sound on her side, the soft slam of a door closing. Rachel said goodbye and rushed off the phone.
“Sorry I ran off your supersecret mystery woman.” Dillon lifted both hands in a helpless shrug. “But you did say you were getting beer.”
Matt sent Rachel a message the morning of the Vasquez anniversary party, asking to meet downstairs at eight. They hadn’t spoken since he’d left town after the ambush interview for a series of solo appearances. It was clear avoidance, but Rachel liked the idea that he was afraid of her. She had learned about the focus group while he still needed her around and Matt didn’t know how she would react or what she was capable of. She wasn’t sure if she knew herself.