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Colby couldn't get that day out of his fucking head. Hearing the strain in your voice, seeing the tears well up in your eyes, watching you try so desperately to hold back your sobs—God, he felt like such a dick. It had been months since you walked out of his life. He had moved from his apartment to the new Trap House, but he swore it still felt like you were supposed to be lying beside him in bed. Like you were supposed to be telling him about your day, running your fingers in his hair as his head rested on your chest. Like you were supposed to be giggling at the dumb jokes he loved to tell you. But he had to be a fucking idiot and ruin one of the best damn things that had happened to him.
He still remembered the day he met you like it was yesterday. He had gone on a rare grocery run and was browsing the snack aisle. As he grabbed some Airheads, he turned and saw a cute girl struggling to grab one of those giant bags of mini Reese's Cups. He wasn't sure what came over him, but he came up beside you and grabbed the bag for you before gently placing it in your hands. You looked up at him, a smile stretching across your face.
"Thanks, stranger," you said. God, it was like your voice was a song that he wanted to listen on repeat for days on end.
Colby smiled back at you and before he could process what was coming out of his mouth, he had said, "You know, if you ever need me to get things off of high shelves again, I can give you my number."
You laughed so hard you snorted and he slowly realized how fucking shitty of a line that was. "Oh my God," you laughed, "did you really think that was going to sweep me off my feet? Holy shit, we're going to need to work on your lines."
"Does...does that mean you're giving me your number?" he asked dumbly.
You laughed even harder, pulling a scrap of paper and a pen from your purse. "Wow, sweetie, you're lucky you're cute. You're gonna need some serious help in the flirting department."
He watched as you jotted your number on the paper then passed it to him. "Well, it worked, didn't it? I got your number after all."
You thought for a moment. "Better, but still needs some work."
During your first date, Colby realized that you had no idea how he was and what he did for a living. He kind of liked that. It made him feel like he could trust that you were't some gold-digging clout-chaser like so many other people in Los Angeles. It gave him a lot of room to learn who you were. You were a writer, and a damn good one at that. You had just turned twenty-one, and you already had two New York Times Best-Selling novels under your belt. Your work was critically acclaimed, and for good reason. You had a sort of way with words that he could only dream of achieving. Every time you spoke, he listened so intently, loving the way each word came out so poetically. Though he wasn't super big on reading novels, he promised himself that he would pick up at least one of your books one day.
