27. KAVI

27

KAVI

In the morning, I snort myself awake, having fallen asleep in an old sweater from high school I haven't worn in forever. The oversized cottony arm was going up my nose until I wheezed it away.

Turning to my side, I see my hand curled around my phone like the little addict I am. Relaxing before bed by watching a few seconds of about fifty videos.

My mouth falls open as my screen blinks on again.

Sputtering, I sit upright.

Alarmed by the level of stalking I've been doing, I was going to delete his number. I didn't, but the contact screen stayed on and somewhere around six this morning my thumb must have pressed it somehow, dialing DMITRI LOKHOV.

There it is. The outgoing call.

Unanswered.

He didn't pick up.

Good. Great. I laugh out loud. Of course, he's done with me. There's no car-sickness-like-sensation that I'm feeling at the idea of him seeing my call and rejecting it.

Forcing myself up, I brush my teeth, shower, and then realize there's nothing edible in my fridge. The smart thing to do is get groceries, but I can't find the will to comb my hair.

There's a moment, I assume, in everyone's life when they know they shouldn't spend money on takeout, but they do. This is my moment. I call Jessima's Diner, a specialty meat shop downstairs. I place an order for a breakfast sandwich, because they'll deliver it to my doorstep.

While waiting for the food, I decide I'm going to do it. What I didn't have the strength to finish last night, I'm going to accomplish now.

I'm going to delete Lokhov's number, not watch his games, or re-read our text messages, or think of our time spent together in the dead of night, pretending it doesn't count.

His hands in my hair.

You really know how to bother a man, don't you?

How many inches can you start with?

Face on fire, my thighs clench. I'm blocking flashbacks so hard I've got a headache brewing.

Before I can delete the contact, my phone rings.

NO.

IT'S HIM.

He's calling me back.

My hand shoots out, gripping a kitchen chair for support. My body bends.

Okay. Yes. I should ignore it.

"Princess."

Shit, I answered.

"Heyyyy," is the dragged out greeting from my crusty voice which has gotten little use this week.

"Did you get home okay?"

God. Why does his voice sound like that? A professional sex operator would kill for this level of huskiness.

"Mmn. I did. Get home."

My answer came out garbled, which he notices.

"Why does your voice sound like that?"

I cough. "No reason."

"What's wrong, Basra?"

Don't. Please don't.

He can't care or pretend to care.

"I'm good," I squeak out even as my lip trembles, because there's no way I'm falling apart over him asking me what's wrong like it matters.

"Kavi."

My hand goes over my eyes. I'm wiping. "Nothing—it's nothing. Just a touch of homelessness, but that's nothing . I'll figure it out."

My doorbell rings.

"Oh! That's my breakfast. I should get that. I don't want the bread to get soggy, because I probably won't order from them again when I leave."

I trudge to the door, still talking because I can't seem to stop. "Jessima's Diner. Great food. Really convenient since they're downstairs in my building and they deliver even though I should go down to get the food, which I normally do, but not today."

I grab the food. "Weird how I haven't left the apartment. I thought I had a life, but it seems I don't. Not outside hockey or my parents."

"Homeless?" The edge to his voice cuts cleanly through my rambling.

Wait. What am I going on about? This is so much oversharing! Lokhov isn't my therapist.

"Just a joke!" I cry out. "You know me. I'm good."

My last words are muffled because I'm crying, which I hate. But I'm in despair. Everything has hit me all at once, suddenly. I won't have a home for much longer. I have nowhere to go, unless I give in and go back to my parent's house.

"I have to go because my sandwich calls!" is the last thing I get out before hanging up on Lokhov, so I can have a proper cry alone.

He calls me back.

I don't answer.