Page 67 of Across the Boards

I hit send before I can overthink it, then immediately regret it. He’s probably asleep by now. This should happen in person, not over text when I’m emotionally raw and confused.

But my phone buzzes almost immediately.

I know. And you’re right. I should have told you. I was afraid you’d think exactly what you’re thinking now—that I was being creepy or manipulative. But keeping it from you was worse. I’m sorry, Elliot. Genuinely sorry.

I stare at his response, trying to read between the lines. It sounds sincere. It sounds like him and he’s making it very hard to maintain my righteous indignation.

I put the phone down with a groan, burying my face in my pillow. How am I supposed to be appropriately cautious when he says things like that? When he makes me laugh even when I’m trying to be upset with him?

This is exactly how it starts—the charm, the attention, the way he makes me feel seen and understood. Jason was like this in the beginning too. Different style, same outcome: me, falling harder than I should, faster than is wise.

But even as I think it, I know it’s not quite true. Jason never saw me—not really. He saw a smart, presentable woman who would look good on his arm at team events and not embarrass him in front of management. He liked that I was independent, not because it was good for me, but because it meant he didn’t have to worry about me while he was pursuing his own interests (and other women, as it turned out).

Brody seems to see me—the real me, with all my sharp edges and defensive mechanisms and passionate opinions about literature. He remembers details. He asks questions and actually listens to the answers. He notices when I’m uncomfortable and offers exits.

But he also withheld information. Made a decision that affected me without my knowledge or consent.

It’s not the same as Jason’s betrayal—not even in the same universe. But it’s a yellow flag, at least. A caution sign on this road I’m suddenly traveling faster than I anticipated.

I roll onto my back again, watching shadows play across my ceiling from the streetlight outside. A question forms in my mind, one I’ve been avoiding: what do I actually want?

Three weeks ago, the answer was simple: my quiet life, my work, my independence. Maybe a cat, eventually, when I’m ready for the commitment.

Now? Now I’m not so sure. Because mixed with all the doubts and fears and rational objections is something else: the way my heart raced when he looked at me tonight, the warmth of his hand against my skin, the feeling of being desired, seen, wanted.

It’s been a long time since I felt any of those things. And maybe that’s clouding my judgment. Maybe I’m so starved for connection that I’m ignoring red flags. Or maybe—just maybe—I’m so used to looking for danger that I’m seeing it where it doesn’t exist.

My eyelids grow heavy as exhaustion finally overtakes anxiety. The last thing I notice before drifting off is the faint sound of an early morning freight train in the distance, another Phoenix soundtrack I’ve grown oddly fond of.

As I slip toward sleep, one clear certainty emerges from the chaos of my thoughts:

Whatever game we’re playing, whatever story we’re writing, I’m not ready for it to end just yet. Even if it means letting a hockey player with a crooked smile and terrible bow tie skills back into my carefully ordered life.

* * *

Morning arrives with offensive cheerfulness,sunlight streaming through the blinds I forgot to close last night. I groan, rolling over to check the time: 8:47 AM. Not terrible for a post-gala Saturday, but less sleep than I’d hoped for given my late-night overthinking session.

My phone has two new notifications.

CALL ME IMMEDIATELY. I need all the details about last night. And don’t pretend you’re still sleeping, I know you’ve been up since 7 doing your weird morning yoga thing.

Good morning. I’m heading to practice, but I left something at your front door. No pressure to talk today if you need more time. Whenever you’re ready.

I sit up, curiosity overriding my desire to burrow back under the covers and ignore the world. What could he have left? Apology flowers? A heartfelt note? The deed to his townhouse in penance?

Pulling on a robe, I pad to the front door and carefully open it, peering out like I’m expecting an ambush. Instead, I find a small paper bag from Lux, the downtown bakery I mentioned loving during our coffee shop debate, and a cup of coffee in a to-go mug—still warm, based on the condensation on the lid.

Attached to the bag is a sticky note with his messy handwriting:

Real coffee this time. And a chocolate croissant because you mentioned once that they’re your weakness. No strings, no expectations. Just breakfast.

I bring the items inside, setting them on my kitchen counter and staring at them like they might contain hidden explosives. It’s a sweet gesture. Thoughtful. The kind of thing that makes it very hard to maintain emotional distance.

The croissant, when I peek in the bag, looks sinfully perfect—flaky and buttery and exactly what I want after the emotional rollercoaster of last night. The coffee, when I take a cautious sip, is prepared exactly how I like it: splash of cream, no sugar.

He’s paying attention. Remembering details. Being considerate.

It’s annoying how effective his strategy is.

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