Page 49 of Puck You Both

Nothing.

Thirty seconds. One minute.

I put the phone on my thigh, last three seconds, and pick it up immediately. Still nothing.

Maybe this is the line. Photos and voice notes are games. The hands question had a joke tucked inside it. And the call night can stay safely unnamed if nobody points at it, and I have just pointed with both hands.

The dots appear.

My breath stops.

They vanish.

“No, no, no. Come back.”

Dots again. Gone again.

He’s composing an answer, deleting it, constructing another. My stomach climbs toward my lungs while I watch evidence of the decision appear and vanish.

The radiator knocks once and settles.

Still nothing. Patrick will be back with takeout soon, and he’ll read my face before the door closes behind him.

My phone buzzes.

Wall: Yes.

Yes.

I grab the nearest pillow, bury my face in it, and scream.

Chapter 10

WALL

Theo: :smiling_face_with_horns_emoji:

That's the entire response to my Yes. One devil, eleven minutes after I sent the most expensive three letters of my life. Then nothing. Two days of nothing now, from a man who answers emojis with paragraphs and one-liners with voice memos.

The silence feels strategic. Leave the door open, but don't stand in it. Patrick's technique, and Theo has clearly been taking notes, and the longer the silence persists, the more apparent it becomes that nobody is going to ask me anything. And nobody is going to offer, because the next move has my name on it, and both of them are ninety miles north, waiting to see whether I make it.

I tell myself I'm considering my options.

What I'm actually doing is drafting.

The first attempt happens the morning after, at a red light, four minutes from the practice facility.

Me: Regarding my last message

The light turns green. By the next red light I've read it eight times. There is no regarding. Regarding is for official emails. This is a cover letter stapled to a feeling, and I delete it at the third light and drive the rest of the way with the radio at full volume, hoping the sounds will soothe my racing thoughts.

Practice comes and goes. I stop everything, again, which has moved from streak to diagnosis, and Becker spends the whole morning watching me from the blue line with his eyes narrowed. Whatever he sees, I make sure it's boring.

The second attempt happens that night at my kitchen counter, between portioning chicken and labeling it.

Me: If a similar situation were to occur, I would not be opposed to

I sound like I'm consenting to a software update.