Total pages in book: 91
Estimated words: 90768 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 454(@200wpm)___ 363(@250wpm)___ 303(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 90768 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 454(@200wpm)___ 363(@250wpm)___ 303(@300wpm)
When it became sexual, expectations shifted.
I’m also trying not to follow my usual MO where I find a possibility of a connection with someone and hold on so tight I become suffocating.
It’s not fair of him to rush this, but it’s also not fair for me to string him along.
That’s not my intention. I want to meet him more than anything, but what happens if I see his face, and there’s … nothing?
What if this whole make a connection first theory doesn’t work out, and when I meet him in person, we have to start from scratch? I’m not saying I’m not willing to put in the work, but will he?
We’ve been talking since August, and he’s quickly becoming my favorite person. The one I go to when I want to share something fun or whine about something annoying. The one I want to wish good morning every goddamn day.
I need to fix this, fast.
As I cross the UVM campus, my eyes slide from one guy to the next. I’ve been doing it a lot lately. Wondering how many times I’m close to Richie and don’t even know it. Judging by his arms and thighs in the video, he has dark hair, a light tan, and muscles I can’t stop jerking off to.
So that narrows him down to, well, the majority of jocks on campus. I heft my bag a little higher. A shirtless guy jogs along the path toward me, and I immediately check for Richie’s tattoo, but there’s nothing.
Even if there was, what then? I’d freeze and gape like a carnival clown waiting for someone to put balls in its mouth. Which wouldn’t be entirely inaccurate.
Because my attraction to the man on the other end of my phone is on fire, and just like him, I really want to meet. I’d tested the waters a week ago and asked him what he thought I looked like. And who did he describe?
Dark hair, glasses, small.
Zach.
I couldn’t be further from the image he has of me.
Richie couldn’t even assure me that looks don’t matter to him and that he’d see me and still feel the same way.
It was stupid and naïve to expect that, obviously. Looks mean something. To most people. Just like being emotionally close to people means something to me.
I pause on the way back to my apartment and walk toward the nearest bench instead. There’s one thing I could do that would tell me who Richie is without me having to meet him. It’s not exactly fair which is why I’ve been holding off, but maybe if I find him first, the meeting will go better than a whole heap of useless nerves and date planning.
Less pressure, right?
Fuck it, it’s time. Four months is long enough.
Holding my breath, I pull up the UVM school page and navigate my way to the hockey team. My palms are getting clammy as excitement ripples through my veins. I’m about to see Richie’s face for the first time, and I swear he could have three eyes and I wouldn’t care.
The coaches are listed first, then the assistants, then the starting line. My pulse gets quicker as I scroll. Roman Jefferies, Blake Carter …
I hit the bottom of the screen.
Umm … what?
Frowning, I scroll slower this time, looking at every name carefully.
When I reach the top of the page again, a pit is growing in my stomach.
There is no Richie, Richard, or any variant of that name listed.
I close out of the page and open ChatUp, navigating to Richie’s profile. It definitely has UVM as where he goes to school, and I swear he mentioned he plays hockey right before he promised to never bring it up again.
Did he give me the wrong name?
Shit.
Am I being catfished?
I click on the message button so hard I could crack the screen.
Einstein: You know, I can’t stop looking out for you on campus.
Richie: You don’t even know what I look like.
Einstein: I have clues. And you play hockey here, so that narrows the list right down.
I hold my breath as he replies.
Richie: There you go talking about that thing you don’t like again.
And there he goes, avoiding what I was implying. What would he say if I told him what I’d done? That I’d worked out he’s lying to me about something? Or everything?
Jesus, I don’t think I could handle it. My heart thumps louder.
The idea that Richie might not be Richie is too much. I can’t decide what would be worse, this being some elaborate prank, or him being exactly who I think he is and not being attracted to me.
Fuck it.
Einstein: I want to meet.
I also want to throw up at the thought, but I hold off.
Richie: Are you serious?
Einstein: Yes. It’s clearly the next step. And we might as well figure out if you’re not attracted to me before we get deeper into this thing than we already have.