Page 2 of Let's Get Textual

Caleb sighs. “I’m sorry.”

“Me too.”

“Do you…” He gulps. “Do you want me to leave?”

“Can you stay? Can you hold me one last time?”

His smile is sweet, and it reminds me of the day I first met him at the campus coffeehouse.

With a backpack slung over shoulder, his hair disheveled, and a wrinkled dress shirt partially unbuttoned, he gave me the same smile he is now and asked if he could share my table with me. I had glanced around the shop, certain it had to be a joke.

I was a nobody. Everyone knew he was a somebody.

“Why?”

“Excuse me?” he asked, surprised I was questioning him.

“Why do you want to sit here?”

“Uh, my backpack is heavy as hell.” He hiked it up for show. “And there’s nowhere else to sit in the entire shop. Everyone’s here working on their finals and I’d like to do the same…if you’d be kind enough to let me sit with you.”

I peeked around, noting he was correct in his observation; the place was loaded with students, heads bent and noses stuck in books.

With reluctance, I caved. “Fine,” I said on a sigh. “You can sit here…on two conditions.”

“Name ’em, pretty girl.”

“Amendment: three conditions. No calling me pretty girl. No talking.” He bobbed his head like he’d known that was coming. “And no asking me out.”

He smirked, and it was one of those stop-you-dead-in-your-tracks smirks. “You assume that’ll happen?”

Waving a dismissive hand, I said, “With my sparkling personality, it’s bound to. Now sit and be quiet, mystery man.”

“It’s Caleb.”

I pinned him with a glare. “No talking, and I know who you are, Caleb Mills. You play baseball.” His eyes lit up, so I added, “And I hate baseball.”

Caleb chuckled, took a seat, and didn’t say a word the rest of the afternoon.

Our “accidental” study dates continued for a week, then he asked me out. I said yes and we’ve been together since.

Until now.

I wish with everything I have I could say Caleb is the one, but he’s not. I’ve known for a long time now, but I’ve been too scared to do anything about it. He’s a great guy—smart, kind, focused—and above all, I know he cares for me. I know he loves me, but it’s not in the kind of way we both need him to. I don’t love him that way either. We both know it. We’re better as friends, as Caleb Mills and Delia Devlin, not as Caleb and Delia, the “cutest campus couple to make it” as we were voted for the school gossip ’zine last spring.

“You promise we’ll still be friends, Delia?”

I smile against him. “I couldn’t imagine anything else, Caleb.”

Liam: I’ll need to reschedule our meeting and move it to next week.

Meeting? Reschedule? Why does my brother sound like a big business mogul and not the middle school teacher he is?

Ignoring his weirdness, I shoot over a quick response.

Me: Works for me. Let me know when you want to meet.

Liam: I’ll be in touch.

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