Superfan (Brooklyn #3)(39)

Kidding aside? You will always fascinate me. And I can’t wait to spend more time with you. So please tell me how that can be accomplished.

Signed, your love slave, Silas Kelly/Ralph.

I lean back against the seat and mentally compose my response.

Dear Ralph, your message is pretty hard to top. And that’s basically how I feel about you in general. You are smart and funny and kind, as well as…

I can’t actually type that. He makes me feel unworthy. If we actually tried to have a long-distance relationship, I suspect that I’d ruin everything. And how would that even work?

The car moves slowly through traffic, and I feel overwhelmed. Last night was incredible. It was so great that I’m having trouble putting my mask back on. And I need that mask right now—it’s going to protect me from the assholes in my life.

When I reread Silas’s message, it’s pretty hard to believe it’s really about me. So I don’t compose a gushing reply, even though he deserves one. I’m going to respond another way—a rock-star way. With a gift.

I send a message to Becky. Could you get Silas’s home address on the sly? I’ll bet that nosy female publicist would give it to you. I want to send him a gift.

On it! she replies immediately

“Change of destination!” I say to Mr. Muscles. “I have some shopping to do.”





Silas





“She didn’t reply to your texts?” my roommate asks.

“She did. But barely,” I puff as we jog past the carousel. It’s a humid July afternoon, and even the seagulls on the promenade look hot. But we decided to punish ourselves with this outdoor run, anyway.

“And you think she’s blowing you off?”

“Maybe.”

“That sucks, man.”

That’s putting it lightly. I feel…tortured. Delilah warned me that her life was complicated. She was very clear about that. But I thought our night together should change everything.

It did for me.

“Here’s what really bothers me,” I tell Jason. “I met her three years ago. We spent some hours together. They were casual hours but we had a connection and I felt it deep.”

“I know you did. Maybe she did, too.”

“But here’s where it gets confusing. She has this big career, right? And I got to listen to every note and follow along for three years.” I can’t explain out loud what that was like. Delilah poured raw emotion into my ears every night. “So, I’m still right there with her every step, but she’s not with me.”

Castro doesn’t say anything, either out of respect for my stupidity, or because he’s just winded.

“Back in California, I know she felt it, too. But now I wonder… Am I just another idiot superfan who thinks he knows what’s happening in her mind? Am I like my grandma who used to talk back to Pat Sajak while she watched Wheel of Fortune?”

My roommate laughs and then slows down to a walk.

I stop running, too. “Maybe I’m holding on to an illusion.”

“But maybe not,” he says. “All you can do is remind her of the parts that are real. You two obviously need to be in the same room together again. Evidence suggests that works well for you.” He snickers.

He isn’t wrong. But I’m well aware that I can pull off that kind of big gesture maybe one more time before I give up. “Eventually, she’s got to come to me.”

“Give the girl a chance. What’s it been, a week? You said her life is blowing up. She might not be ready for you. Timing is everything.”

“That’s not comforting. Timing has never been on our side.”

“Ice cream shakes?” Castro asks, changing the subject.

“Hell yes.”

“Here, or at home?”

“Home,” I grunt, because I can’t wait to get into the AC. It’s funny how I yearn for the fresh air during the hockey season. And now that summer is here, the heat is killing me.

I’m grumpy, and I have been ever since I kissed Delilah goodbye at the hotel elevator last weekend. I need her in my life, and I don’t even know if that’s possible. Meanwhile, my summer break is flying by at a rapid rate.

“Then giddy-up,” Castro says.

Like horses who can’t wait to get back to the barn, we run a final fast mile back to Water Street, arriving sweat-covered and panting in front of our building.

“Lookin’ good,” teases Miguel, the doorman.

“We’re not supposed to look good right now,” Castro pants. “We’re just supposed to hear the Rocky theme music inside our heads.”

“Are we?” I grumble. “All I hear is my fat cells crying out in pain.”

“You don’t have any fat cells,” Miguel says. “But you do have a package to take upstairs.”

“A package? I don’t remember ordering anything.” He waves me inside, where there is indeed a large box addressed to me.

It’s from “D. Spark,” with a return address in L.A.

“Oooh! Somebody got a present. I can’t wait to see what it is.” Castro actually jumps up and down.

“Help me carry it upstairs, would you? I don’t want to sweat all over it.”