Page 132 of Really Truly Yours

Immediately, the phone swooshes at me.

Donny: tell him yourself

A minute later, my phone, pesky thing, lights yet again.

Gray: Call me in the next five minutes or I’m booking a flight.

He cannot be serious.

I swipe right and dial. Gray picks up in the middle of the first ring.

“Sydnee Renee Carson, why are you ignoring me?”

“How do you know my middle name?” The thudding in my chest threatens its limits.

“Donny told me. Now you answer my question.”

How dare he order me around.

Dead silence lies like a wet blanket, cooling my ire and making me squirm. Fine. "You’re the one who went radio silence.”

Talk about dead air.

“One day, Sydnee. I had an early morning breakfast with management and an interview with the network at the ballpark. When I went to call you afterwards, I realized I’d left my phone at the hotel. It was a crazy day. I didn’t get back until after midnight.”

Alone?

I can’t afford to be naïve. Believing the best of people has rarely brought good into my life.

“Sydnee? You there?”

I trace a letter G with my fingernail on the surface of my laptop. “I’m here.”

The air between us dies a slow death. I can picture his face as he sighs. “Why are you shutting me out?”

Is the odd twinge in his voice pain? “You know this won’t work, right?”

“Sydnee.”

“Look, Gray. You’re you and I’m me. My life is here. Yours is…wherever. I don’t want to waste your time.”

No, what I want is to smack myself the second the words leave my mouth. Pathetic much?

A sigh fills my ear. “Is this going to happen every time I forget my phone somewhere? Because you might have noticed, I do it a lot.”

Every time? The phrase implies a future and I just told him—

“Please don’t do this, Syd.”

The pleading stops me cold. I lay my head back and fixate on a long crack in the ceiling. “Were you alone Monday night?” I have multiple fears, but this is the most straightforwardly addressed.

His groan feels magnified in my ear. “Sydneeee.” I picture him rubbing his forehead. Hurt resonates through his sigh. “That stings, I’m not going to lie, but I guess I can’t blame you for wondering. Yes, I’ve been guilty of that kind of thing in the past. You know that, but I’m serious as a heart attack when I tell you that’s not my life anymore.” He falls quiet. “You’re a believer, right?”

The question is rhetorical. We’ve talked about our faiths. “Of course.” Not the most awesome one, obviously.

“Right, well, you know that bringing women home does not jive with my faith. Our faith. I got a big head last year. I messed up. I wandered. But I’m not going back to that place. It’s not the life I want anymore. You know that.”

My heart jitters. The crazy thing is, during our calls this past week, he talks like I’m the life he wants. “Gray?”

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