Well Played (Well Met #2)(34)

I scoffed and reached for my wineglass. “Yeah, that would be a no.”

“Exactly. I’m needed here.” His tone was that of a world-weary general who couldn’t desert his troops. He peered at me over his pint glass. “I always thought you’d get out of here though.”

“You did?” I had no idea that Mitch had ever given me more than a trivial amount of thought.

“Yeah. I remember you in school. You were pretty driven.” His lips curved up in a nostalgic smile. “Cute too.”

Hello. “Now you tell me!” I put my glass down. I couldn’t believe this. “I had the biggest crush on you in high school, you know. Well, I’m sure you do know. Most girls did, right? You were the football hero.”

Mitch tried to look modest, but he failed miserably. Just like when we were kids, he was born to preen. “Well, someone had to take over for Sean Graham once he graduated. I still can’t believe that Simon wasn’t an athlete like his brother, you know? What a waste.”

“Simon ran track,” I protested.

Mitch scoffed. “Simon read books. Nerd.”

I rolled my eyes with a smile. “Whatever.”

He rolled his eyes back. “I almost asked you out a couple times senior year, you know.”

“What?” My jaw sagged. “You’ve got to be kidding me. I was way younger than you!”

“Well, yeah. That’s one reason why I didn’t. But you’d also just made varsity and wore that cute little cheerleading skirt on game days, so I was conflicted. I mean, sure, you were just a sophomore, but your legs, man . . .” He gave a wolf whistle that made me tingle with embarrassed pride and brought our bartender over so we could order another round.

“I can’t believe you’re just telling me this now,” I grumbled as I crunched down on another mozzarella stick. “High school would have been a lot more fun.”

“Tell me about it.” Mitch’s sigh was belabored as he took my last mozzarella stick. “We would have absolutely rocked prom.”

I stole an appraising glance at him as we got our second round of drinks, and I reached deep inside for the high school girl that I knew still lived inside me. That girl who would have shanked someone for five seconds of attention from Mitch Malone. But she lay dormant now, and any wild crush on Mitch had been replaced with affection. Once I’d gotten to know him, the real Mitch that lay beneath the gorgeous exterior, he’d become more like a big brother, a good friend, and wasn’t that better in the long run anyway?

When it was time to go and we settled our tabs, it struck me that the way I felt about Mitch was a lot like how I felt about Dex. While I certainly appreciated the outer package and had nothing to complain about there, it was that inner layer, the one he’d been showing me in his emails and texts, that really interested me. These past summers, it had been that Hemsworth-like body and nothing else. But I’d learned so much about him over the last few months that I realized it was his words I was attracted to now, and who he was inside. His Hemsworthiness didn’t matter to me anymore.

That was . . . That was a revelation. He was states away—I actually wasn’t sure what state he was in at the moment—but I needed to let him know. But not via text. Not from a bar. I had to get to my laptop. I couldn’t tap all this out on my phone.





Eleven



To: Dex MacLean

From: Stacey Lindholm

Date: June 5, 9:47 p.m.

Subject: Revelation (no, not the Bible)


I realized something tonight. I realized that I’m in deep with you. I guess that should be obvious, considering how much I look forward to every email and text. But that’s what I’m trying to say here. It’s your words. Parts of me have forgotten your touch, your face. But it doesn’t matter at all. It’s you that I miss. You’ve shared so much of yourself with me through these messages that what you look like doesn’t even enter into the equation anymore.

Is that strange? I know you’re proud of the way you look. And you absolutely should be—don’t get me wrong. But it’s just . . . that doesn’t matter to me anymore.

And now that I’ve typed this all out, it doesn’t seem like as much of a Deep Thought as it felt like it was in my head. Hopefully you know what I mean.


To: Stacey Lindholm

From: Dex MacLean

Date: June 6, 1:13 a.m.

Subject: Re: Revelation (no, not the Bible)


I do know what you mean. And it’s a much deeper thought than you realize.

Anastasia, there are things I need to say to you. Things I need to say in person. Words on a screen aren’t good enough. Even Skyping with you wouldn’t be enough. I need to see your face. Be in the same room with you, breathe the same air. Maybe even touch your hand, if you’ll allow it after you hear what I have to say.

I’m going to be completely honest, it’s a conversation I’m a little afraid to have. But it’s necessary. Our stop at Willow Creek can’t come soon enough. At the same time, I don’t want this to end. Our emails. Our texts. Getting to know you this way feels so much more honest than through the masks we wear on a day-to-day basis. That seems counterintuitive, doesn’t it? Face-to-face communication should be more honest, while we can hide behind words on the internet. But here we are.