Once Zane was back at school, we texted less. Mostly because I had no time.
Zane, meanwhile, was in full peacock mode. Every day: one post-workout photo. Sweat-damp white t-shirt clinging to solid, filled-out muscle; even the joints showed a faint pink over that pale skin. Fine. It was a nice view.
My reviews stayed merciless, though: "Meh. Keep training."
He'd reply with a crying-cat sticker.
A week in, he texted: "Day 7 check-in. One wish to the fitness fairy: can you delete that guy now?"
I couldn't decide whether to laugh or strangle him. "Petty."
He didn't even argue. "Zo, you only just noticed?"
He'd made me laugh. And I was done hiding it. "We stopped talking ages ago. Derek and I never actually dated."
The crying cats turned into spinning cats—four of them, rapid-fire. "Zo!! So can you start liking me now?"
"We'll see."
Then, at the three-month mark, Zane appeared on my campus. From his city to mine: a five-hour drive. And Zane breezed it like it was nothing—said he missed me, said he was "in the area."
"You were in the area?"
He nodded, completely earnest. "Also, you should inspect the results in person. Photos never tell the whole story. I want you to verify the goods yourself."
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