Slow Play (The Rules #3)(95)

“How am I supposed to know if what I had with Alexandria was right?”

“If you’re having a hard time breathing, eating, sleeping, and functioning in your daily life, then I’d say those are all pretty strong signs,” Gabe says dryly.

Shit. She’s all I can think about. The sad look on her face when I dropped her off at her house, her eyes full of longing. How angry I’d been when I figured out who her father was. She can’t help who gave birth to her. She isn’t the one responsible for her dad’s actions.

So why did I blame her?

“Since when did you become so knowledgeable about this shit?” I ask him, irritated that he’s actually doling out decent advice. I’m f*cking irrational I know, but I can’t help myself.

“I know a kindred spirit when I see one,” he says. “I’ve been in your shoes. And it’s no fun.”

“So what do I do?” I run a hand through my hair and turn away from the window. I don’t care about snow or Christmas or any of that bullshit. I need to talk to Alexandria. I need to make this right.

“Talk to her. Call her. Go to her. Tell her how you feel.”

My automatic reaction is f*ck that. I don’t grovel. I don’t apologize. I don’t bother trying to make things right. I never have.

But Gabe’s right. I miss her. I want her in my life. The only one holding me back is—me. If I want her, I have to go after her.

“She probably won’t take my call.”

“Text her.”

“That’s bogus.”

“How else are you going to talk to her? You’re in Colorado, she’s in California.”

I blow out a harsh breath. “You’re a pain in the ass.”

Gabe chuckles. “You’ll thank me later, I promise.”

“I gotta go,” I mutter, making Gabe laugh a little harder. “Hey, dickwad.”

The laughter stops. “Yeah f*ck face?” Gabe asks cheerily.

“I’m going to thank you now,” I say quietly, hoping he understands just how much I appreciate him and his friendship. That he reached out to me when no one else did.

“You’re welcome. Now go figure out how to get yourself out of your mess.”

Later that night I’m sitting in bed, my phone clutched in my hand as I contemplate how to approach her. Talking on the phone won’t cut it. I’m fairly certain she’d ignore my call anyway. But she can’t ignore a text, can she?

She could never reply and that would eat me up inside, but it’s the chance I have to take. At least I could get out what I need to say.

I start texting, hitting the back button countless times, erasing what I type. Rewording it. I need to get this just right and it’s hard. I don’t want to f*ck it up. I don’t want to risk losing her.

I can’t.

Laying it all on the line isn’t my style. I don’t say flowery words. I’m not a romantic. I’m straightforward to the point that my words tend to do damage more than good. I don’t even mean to be an * most of the time. I just have no filter. I say what I want when I want.

Sounds like an excuse, but it’s true.

With Alexandria, I need to be honest. Open. Real. But not blunt. Never blunt. I’ve done that before and hurt her. So bad I might not get her back.

And I have to get her back.

Determination filling me, I start typing once more, my thumbs flying over the keyboard.

I was out to dinner with Kelli, where we both made a vow we wouldn’t check our phones for the rest of the night. It was tough at first but after a while, I was thankful for it. I’m way too dependent on my phone. And it’s not like anyone is texting me.

It was Kelli’s last night here—she’s leaving tomorrow so we wanted to hang out. Drinks and dinner and shopping. I had no one to buy a gift for so I just tagged along, which was actually a lot more fun. The gift giving pressure was off so I could just enjoy myself.

When we got back to my house I gave Kelli her present from me—a Vuitton cross body purse.

“I absolutely cannot accept this,” she says as she turns the purse this way and that, her mouth hanging open, happiness sparkling in her eyes.

“You absolutely can,” I tell her sincerely. “I want you to have it. You’ve been such a good friend to me.” I confessed to her when she forced me out of the house a few days ago how I sell all my expensive handbags on consignment websites and that I was dwindling down to my last purses. Thankfully most of that money is stashed away in savings for future tuition payments but that lucrative gig was about to dry up.

“You’ve been a good friend too. The best.” She tackle hugs me, holding me close, hopping up and down as she practically shouts in my ear, “Merry Christmas to me, whoo hoo!”

Kelli gives me a basket of fun, girlie goodies like lotion and candles, plus a Starbucks gift card because we seem to live there. We are the epitome of the white girls in our yoga pants lovin’ our PSLs. I don’t even care. I’m embracing the cliché wholeheartedly.

“I need to go,” she tells me after we’re done ooh’ing and aah’ing over our gifts. “I’m going to stay the night at Steven’s.” She actually starts blushing.

“Have fun.” I hug her goodbye fiercely, overwhelmed with a wave of emotion I didn’t expect. I swear I’m going to cry. Ridiculous. “Merry Christmas.”