Page 43 of Roleplay at Randy's
Just writing up some stuff today. Have some pictures from a few nights ago that need to go up.
I’m not sure why, but all of his replies seem curt lately. Not rude exactly but more withdrawn. It makes me feel like shit.
And sad. God, does it make me sad.
There’s music playing when I get back to the house, something light and soft but with the unmistakable cadence of what Matty usually dances to. He’s not now—no—he’s sitting at the dining table, hunched over his laptop, but he certainly isn’t stationary.
His head bobs, his fingers tap to the piano notes on the table, and he’s swaying softly while he types out words with his other hand.
I’ve missed seeing him like this.
I’ve missed him.
And I see him every day.
“Hey.” I rap my knuckles on the wall gently so as not to startle him.
He stills, staring at his screen for a couple of seconds before looking up and putting on a smile. “Welcome home.”
Just like that, he goes back to what he was doing, and the knot in my gut pulls tight.
“Whatcha writing?” I pull out the chair beside him and fold my arms on the table.
He glances over, lips twitching, but he cuts off the smile before it fully takes root. “A fantasy.”
I want to ask him what the fantasy is about, less because I know it’s sexual and more that I want to hear him talk. I want to lay my head on my arms, close my eyes, and just bask in the sound of his voice.
“I’m bothering you, aren’t I?”
He doesn’t answer at first, fingers moving over the keys at a rapid speed, and once they slow down he lets out a breath. “Distracting,” he mumbles.
Maybe this was a bad idea.
I stand up and head into the kitchen, grabbing a glass from the cupboard and filling it with water. Down it in three gulps and fill it again. This time I stare down into it and curse under my breath.
Things are awkward and stilted, and that’s the last thing I want.
Glass in hand, I walk back to the dining table and take my seat. Condensation drips down the glass, and I drag my finger through it as I work up the nerve to speak.
Finally, I clear my throat, and Matty’s furious typing comes to a halt.
But he still isn’t looking at me.
“We need to talk,” I say, watching as his brows scrunch. “Please look at me.”
Surprise fills his widening eyes, and when he tilts his head at me, there’s the beginning of a blush forming on his cheeks.
“Sorry. I was focused.”
I shake my head. “It’s fine.” The words hit me in the chest and force out a dry laugh. “Shit. No it isn’t.”
That gets his attention. His brows draw together, hepushes his laptop to the side, and scoots his chair out and over, holding his hand up on the table in invitation.
I take it readily, squeezing his fingers against mine.
“What’s wrong?”
I blow out a breath and dip my head. “Are you mad at me?”
