Me: Can you talk?

Nate: Dialing you right now.

He really is, because my phone rings while I’m still reading his words. My heart skips a beat before I answer.

“Hi,” I say, biting my lip and burying my face into my pillow. I can’t wait to hear his voice, but I’m also scared because I have no idea what to say.

“Boobs.” He breaks the ice immediately, and we’re both laughing. I miss him even more. “Sorry, just had to one-up you. You know me.”

“Yeah, how’s that pink room working out for you?” I say back, falling easily into our routine.

“Splendidly, thank you very much. Ty and I are going to add more purple—we think it really POPS!”

“Did you just say splendidly?”

“Your issue is with splendidly and NOT pops?”

Oh my god, I love him. Oh my god! I love him! No, I don’t love him. But I could. I want to. Maybe I already do? I don’t know him enough. You’re supposed to know someone more, have dates and more kisses and hand holding, work up to love. I like him. There, that’s it. I like him—a lot. Shit! I’m not talking.

“Where’s your head at Thirty-three?” My head is up my ass, that’s where it is. I have to get a grip, so I sit up and carry my laptop over to my desk. Right, like a more formal posture will suddenly make me act normal.

“Sorry, I thought my dad needed something,” I lie. I hate lying.

“When do you come home?” His voice is suddenly softer, and I can tell we’re done making jokes, which suddenly has me sweating.

“Sunday, around three by the time the cab gets me to campus,” I say, my heart once again thumping loudly in my ear.

“Can I pick you up? I mean, I don’t really have a car. But I can borrow one. You know, from one of the guys? I’d…I’d really like to pick you up.”

“I’d like that, too,” I say, my forehead flat on my desk now. I should not have left the comfort of hiding under my blanket.

“Hey, Rowe?” His voice seems nervous, not like him.

“Yeah?” I’m not like me either.

“I gotta go. But…” I can hear him breathing. I can actually hear him thinking, and I’m with him, on the edge, just waiting for his words to be what I want. What I think I want. “I miss you. That’s all.”

“I miss you too,” I say, hugging my body tightly with the sleeves of his shirt.

This…is falling.

My head is trapped with thoughts and fantasies about Nate. We texted a few more times after his tournament Saturday, but nothing as meaningful as the words we exchanged that morning. I let down my guard with him, and it was scary, but I survived. And I want to let him in more. I want to let him in completely.

The Stanton Sunday morning routine is much like Saturday’s. My dad has my laundry folded nicely in my suitcase, and my mom and I are quickly polishing off my dad’s breakfast, being sure to gush about his amazing cooking abilities. It’s part of our shtick, pumping my dad’s ego so he’ll continue to take care of everything in the house. I don’t think we really need to do it, because my father is the kind of man who would do anything in the world to see his women happy. But we do it anyway, maybe more for us than him.

“Hey, washed that McConnell baseball shirt last night,” my dad says, and my heart sinks a little knowing that Nate’s shirt will now smell like Tide and Downy.

“Thanks,” I say, standing and moving to the trash to clear my plate. I can feel both of my parents’ eyes on me.

“Friend give that to you?” My dad’s almost winking at me, and I’m so uncomfortable I want to scream.

“Uh huh?” I ask, doing my best to avoid eye contact.

“They’ve got a good team this year. Bunch of new kids; some really good ones.” My dad is fishing. My mom put him up to this. It has been two years since I have dated a boy. Hell, it’s been two years since I’ve been social with anyone outside of this house other than Ross, my pharmacist, and the occasional run-in with the mailman.

“His name is Nate,” I say, rolling my eyes while I turn to face them, over-exaggerating my exasperation so I can act full teenager.

“Nate Preeter?” Now my dad is interested. He’s a baseball coach, and he’s had a few players go on to some pretty great things. Of course he knows Nate’s name.

“Uh, yeah,” I say, wishing like hell for an exit.

“So this Nate…is he, a friend?” My mom has entirely different interests in the conversation, and the longer we dwell on the topic—the more I want to poke my head inside my own body like a turtle.