Onward from that, he asked me a half a dozen times to meet up. Again at Mustard’s. Out for a beer at Lincoln’s Roadhouse. For black bean dip at Reivers.

He also asked if I was around to talk, either on the phone, or he’d come by my place with a bottle of wine and a six-pack.

I either ignored these texts or texted a day or two later, telling him I was sorry for the delay in reply, I’d been busy.

And then came opening night of Smithie’s Revue.

I didn’t even get home before (along with three missed calls I hadn’t picked up) I got:

Babe, WE NEED TO TALK.

Obviously, I totally ignored that.

Though the “babe” part gave me a little shiver.

Which meant, not long later, I got:

Hattie, this is serious. You know it.

You made that clear. And I’m taking

it serious. But so you know, I already

was taking it serious.

We have to talk this out.

I didn’t reply to that either.

Therefore, before I was even awake the next morning (not that I slept great, but I did eventually get to sleep), I had on my phone:

I don’t think you understand where

I’m at. And for me to explain that to you,

it can’t be over a text.

I want to see you, Hattie.

You’re driving me crazy, seems you’re

doing the same to you.

We have to put a stop to this.

Annnnnnd…yes.

I didn’t reply to that either.

And that was the last text he sent.

I kept staring at that one, specifically the “I want to see you, Hattie” and the “You’re driving me crazy” parts.

Liking the first, not liking the second (but still kinda liking it, in a very feminine, stupid, maybe even mean way that still gave me a hint of a powerful thrill), wondering how that fit in with him having a woman in his life.

I continued to do that until the phone was slipped from my fingers.

I watched Brett, wearing striped pajama bottoms, and nothing else, sit back in the turquoise Adirondack chair that was angled across from mine.

The minute he was settled, he scrolled my texts.

Important note: I was right. Brett had a great body.

Another important note: Brett took that “whip your ass” phone call more seriously than I did. Case in point, he’d slept on my couch last night and the night before.

Semi-important note: He was a big guy, and my couch was comfy and deep-seated, but it wasn’t huge. And he didn’t complain. He also refused to switch places and take my bed while I slept on the couch, seeing as he was the one doing me a favor, so I shared I thought that was only fair. He’d still declined. Which I thought was incredibly sweet.