An hour passed. I’d gone from excitement to concern to depression. Where was he? I’d called his stupid phone three times already, but there was no sign from him.
I hadn’t eaten anything because I couldn’t stomach it and was still in my shorts and dirty T-shirt because I didn’t want to risk a shower. What if he called or rang the bell while I was in there?
“Oh, goddammit,” I whined, looking down at my brown feet. So, he’d obviously freaked out and changedhis mind. I roused myself off the couch. I’d take a shower.
I stood under the jet for ten minutes, dried off, and slipped on my old cotton shorts along with my favorite sleeveless white T-shirt. I fell onto my bed and flicked my reading light on. He wasn’t ready. He didn’t feel the way I felt. What we had was good anyway. Sex would ruin everything. He’d made the right choice. I was proud of his willpower.
As I opened my book, my phone buzzed on the nightstand. The blood rushed into my head. “Where are you?”