Hoax in One

| 18 |

A little after ten that night Tate finally texted me back.

I just got home and found my picture. Can I see you before I have to leave for Arizona tomorrow morning?

I gave Millie the side-eye, and she grinned without me having to say anything.

"I hope I get to run into him in the kitchen tomorrow morning." She paused our movie. "We can finish this tomorrow night. Make sure you get a little sleep." Then she got up with her huge Sherpa blanket wrapped around her tight and disappeared into her room.

I was the worst casual texter. I tried three times before I went with, Yeah :) I'm home, and I was still cringing.

Good. I'm already on the way. Be there in three.

Shit. He must have left as he was texting me. I jumped up and brushed my teeth before scurrying around my room trying to clean up the tornado. I stuffed the clothes I'd been wearing earlier that day into my hamper. I threw three pairs of shoes I'd tried on that morning with my dress into my closet, and I tried to make my bed in a way that said I didn't just make my bed because he was coming over.

But this was really ridiculous because Tate already knew how I was. This wasn't some new relationship where we were tiptoeing around each other and trying to show off our best selves. Tate knew my ugly self. And he loved me anyway, right?

I ran way too quickly to the door when he knocked softly, and when I opened it, he gifted me his best smile.

The one that made my heart clench so hard I thought I could go into cardiac arrest. Then I went into A-fib when he looked me up and down and I realized I was still wearing a ratty white tank top and oversized gray sweatpants.

He didn't seem to care. "Hey," he said, wrapping his hands around my waist and kissing me so lovingly my muscles gave out for a millisecond.

Tate caught me and carried me to the couch.

"I love my picture," he whispered happily, positioning my legs around his hips. "You're too sweet to me."

"I like making you happy."

"I love that you take my pictures now. It makes me ridiculously happy." Tate brushed my hair behind my ear. "Tell me about your day."

"Class sucks. Nothing new. I skipped the last one and developed some photos instead."

"What was your latest photo shoot of?"

I'd forgotten how content Tate looked when I talked about photography. Like he liked to see me talk about something I was passionate about. Tate didn't really care about photographs of himself or anyone else. He loved it because I loved it.

"Gus and I went around campus this week taking photos of all of the sports fields and stadiums. It was our project for our architecture photography section, so I tried some with film."

"Can I see them?" Tate asked hopefully.

"I only got to half of them. Matt interrupted me. I'll finish them this week."

That was the wrong thing to say. My waist cinched in regret as Tate's face fell a millimeter.

"I hate him," he mumbled under his breath. "He isn't worth your time."

"He sprained his ACL in practice. He's out for next week's game. He just needed someone to talk to."

Matt had texted me about two hours after his impromptu therapy session with me to tell me nothing was torn, and he might be back in two weeks. I'd honestly been relieved and happy for him. And he genuinely seemed thankful for me.