God, I miss him. More than I’ve missed anything in my life, and this aching won’t stop. I made a mistake—that’s all there is to it. I never should have ended things with Derek, and definitely not as coldly as I did.
And I’m going to get him back.
It’s late and I probably shouldn’t be here right now, but I don’t even care if I look desperate. I am desperate. Desperate to have him back and mend what I broke. I turn the corner in the little breezeway of his apartment complex and freeze. There he is…Derek. My chest tightens just from the sight of him. My mind drinks up the image of his broad shoulders. Shoulders I used to run my hands across, but never will be able to again if I don’t mend this break.
I’m one step from emerging out of the shadows when I realize Derek isn’t alone. He shifts slightly and there’s a woman standing there with him. Her little black dress barely covers her underwear and her long tan legs go on for miles. She is…opposite of me. I watch with a knife in my stomach as she angles her face up to Derek and plants her hands against his chest— blond wavy hair sliding off her shoulders down her back. Nausea builds in my stomach as I realize they’re going to kiss. No. We only broke up a week ago…how could he move on so quickly? How could he—
I open my mouth to yell his name as the woman rises on her tiptoes to kiss him. He bends his head to accommodate her, but no words will come
out of my mouth. Nothing but hot air releases as I try again and again to yell his name.
And now he sinks his hand into the back of her hair, and I want more than anything to say something or run to him, but heavy sand is growing over my feet and legs, keeping me from moving. My voice is still a whisper no matter how hard I yell his—
BURRRR. BURRRR.
My head shoots up from my pillow, hair curtaining my face.
“Derek!” I yell into my dark room, clutching my arms protectively around myself until I register the soft, worn fabric of the sweatshirt I’m wearing. I’m in my bed…not back in that hallway. And the sound is coming from my phone about to buzz off my nightstand.
I sag a bit and wipe my eyes with my hands, wishing I could wipe that dream out too. The dream that continues to slice me in two every time I experience it again.
Finally, I slap my hand onto my phone and drag it to my face. “What?
Hello?”
“Nora.”
It’s Derek—calling almost as if he knew I was dreaming about him.
Please tell me this man isn’t calling in the dead of night to ask me for something.
“It’s not the dead of night,” he says, because apparently I said that out loud.
I roll over onto my back. “I can’t be held responsible for anything I say at the hour of”—I pull my phone away to look at the time—“four A.M.? Are you freaking kidding me, Derek?”
I swear I hear a devious smile in his voice when he says, “Not a joke. I need you to meet me in my gym in an hour.”
I want to cry. In fact, I might be already. Tears are quite possibly melting down my cheeks. “It’s too early! What could you possibly need me to do for you at the gym? It’s been ten years since I’ve attempted a push-up.”
“That’s not good. Building muscle is important for your overall health.” “Know what else is important for your overall health? Sleep!”
“There’s a lot of complaining coming from my agent who’s needed to film my workout for social media.”
Okay, I’m torn. In one regard, I’m happy to hear him actually doing something for his career—because so far, the last few days (after fettuccine Alfredo night) Derek has had me doing nothing but running back-to-back errands for him and cleaning out his truck. Not a Thank you or Good job in sight. So the prospect of doing something that actually pertains to his career is tempting. Derek desperately needs to be focusing on building a strong positive narrative around his name for the upcoming season. He needs to be giving interviews, taking endorsement deals, and showing up to the events he’s invited to. And he needs a good agent to be leading the parade of his success, but I’ll never get to be that for him if he won’t let me do my real job.
So yes, I want him to film his workouts for social media. The issue arises in that my bed is oh so warm and cozy.
“Can you set your phone up on a tripod or something? Film it all and then I’d be happy to edit and post it for you later.”
“No thanks,” he says while definitely smiling. “It’ll be better if you do it. My agent.”
“Listen. I’m going to level with you in my moment of weakness, Dere- Bear. I only went to bed three hours ago.”
“Why?” He sounds appalled but not sympathetic.
I hesitate to tell him it’s because I’ve been staying up late putting in extra hours doing actual work on his behalf. This week, I’ve reviewed all of his contracts and put a plan in place for future re-negotiations on a few bad deals I spotted, as well as been in contact with his financial advisor, familiarizing myself with where all of his money is going to ensure that he has a good long-term strategy for when his income doesn’t stem from football anymore. But last night, I learned something startling:
Derek is a founder of one of the biggest foundations that helps struggling single moms pay their rent or mortgage, but he funds it anonymously. When I read that email, my heart stopped. Because I happen to know that Derek does not have a single mom. In fact, he comes from a
family with a mom and dad very much in support of each other. But I was raised by a single mom…and Derek knows this. He knows it because I talked to him repeatedly about how much I admired my mom and all she sacrificed for me. That I wished there were more funding for single moms to lessen their financial burdens so my mom could have been working toward her own dreams while also trying so hard to make mine possible.
I told my silly heart not to look too deeply into this. But it won’t stop jumping to assumptions that he did this for me. For other women like my mom. I can’t ask him about it, though, because then he’d know I’ve been working extra hours. And if he knows that, he might start finding a way to keep me busy at night too.
My stomach clenches at the thought.
Not busy like that, you traitorous body!
“I couldn’t sleep because I was too busy expunging all the bad press about you from the Internet to sleep.” I deliver the over-the-top lie to distract him from the truth.
He laughs for maybe the first time since I’ve seen him again and my heart leaps. I wish more than anything I were there to see his smile paired with that laugh. “If that were true—you’d still be working. Get your ass up and meet me at the gym, rookie.” He pauses for a minute, and when I don’t respond, he prompts, “Nora?”
I breathe in sharply through my nose. “Hm?” “You went back to sleep, didn’t you?”
“No,” I whimper pitifully. My eye sockets hurt. I want to slip right back into dreamland. The dreamland where I get to go to work at a normal hour. Work with a normal athlete who lets me do normal sports-related work instead of this monster who seems hell-bent on making my life a living nightmare. Or maybe not a nightmare, but definitely on an annoying loop where my talents are wasted, and I’m made to do chores 24/7 like Cinderella before she became fabulous.
“Better sit up so you don’t fall asleep again.”
“You’re mean,” I say, reluctantly tossing off the covers and throwing my legs over the side of the bed. The sun is not even close to perky yet. It’s still
snug as a bug in a rug.
“If you’re so miserable, feel free to quit. Or would you rather go back to sleep and have me fire you? I’m content with either option.” He’s enjoying this way too much.
“Monster,” I say.
“What’s that?” He definitely heard me the first time. “I said: Mister! I’ll be there lickety-split.”
“Do you have to say catchphrases like that all the time?”
You used to love my catchphrases.
“Yes—or I’ll die. Catchphrases are my lifeblood. Do you really want all that mess on your hands, Your Bossiness?”
He grunts. “It would seem you’re awake now.”
“I’m so awake I could charge the whole city with my brainpower. I’m going to take over the world, Pinky.”
“Can you just record my workout instead?” he says, not even acknowledging my wonderfully old-school Pinky and the Brain reference.
“Sure, sure. But after that—I’m going to be so ready for world domination. We’re going to have a blast together, just you wait.” I click brew on the coffeepot I thankfully preloaded with water and coffee grounds last night.
“Super,” he says, and I can’t figure out his tone. Is he angry or is he trying not to laugh? Probably angry.
“Okay, gotta go. Be there in a flash, mustache.”
He grumbles, “On second thought…maybe I don’t need for you to film for me.”
