Three messages borders on desperation.
Four would just be pathetic.
Fuck, I wish she would text back. Or call. Or anything. At this point, I’d be thrilled if a carrier pigeon tapped its beak on my window and delivered a handwritten letter done in perfect calligraphy.
She’s not calling you, man. Deal with it.
Yeah, I guess she isn’t. I guess I really did blow it. And I guess I fucking deserve it.
I didn’t just lead her on—I led her right up to the point where she wanted to lose her virginity to me, and then I threw the offer back in her face and told her I was interested in someone else. Hell, I’m surprised I’m not experiencing random aches and pains in my body right now. You know, from the sharp needles Grace is poking into her voodoo doll.
My phone buzzes, and I hurl myself at the night table like an Olympic high jumper. She texted back. Oh, thank fuck. That means she doesn’t view me as the antichrist—
The message isn’t from Grace.
It comes from an unfamiliar number, and it takes me a solid ten seconds before I’m able to register what I’m reading. No, what I’m seething over.
Hey, this is Ramona. Just heard what happened with you and Grace. Need me to come over and comfort you? ;）
Winky face. She actually fucking winky-faced me.
I drop the phone as if it’s a hot coal. As if the message is contagious and the mere act of touching the device it came on will turn me into a person as contemptible as the one who wrote those words.
Why the hell is Grace’s best friend hitting on me? Who does that?
I’m so pissed off that I grab the phone and forward the message to Grace without stopping to question my actions. I add a caption—thought you should see this.
And then, since I’m already in this deep, I send another one that says, Can we please talk?
She doesn’t respond to either. Not now, and not by the time three in the morning rolls around, which is when I finally drag my pathetic ass under the covers and fall into a restless sleep.
*
Grace
I wake up at five-thirty in the morning. Not by choice, but because my traitorous mind decides it’s time for me to wallow in misery some more and forces me into consciousness.
The humiliation of last night slaps me in the face the moment I open my eyes. The clothes I was wearing are still strewn on the floor. I hadn’t bothered to pick them up, and neither had Ramona, who’d come home around midnight.
“Didn’t happen. He’s into someone else.”
That was all the information I gave her last night, and she must have seen the devastation on my face, because for once in her life, she didn’t nag me for details. She simply gave me a hug, a sympathetic squeeze on the arm, and climbed into bed.
Now she’s sleeping peacefully, her cheek pressed against her pillow, one arm flung across the mattress. Well, at least one of us is going to feel rested today.
Despite my better judgment, I check my phone. Sure enough, there are two unread messages flashing on the screen. Which brings the final tally to five.
Logan must really want to talk to me.
I guess guilt turns some guys into real chatterboxes.
A smart person would delete the messages without reading them. No, delete his number from the contact list. But I’m not feeling too smart right now. I feel stupid. So fucking stupid. For inviting him over last night. For developing feelings for him.
For reading the messages he keeps sendi—what the hell?
I blink. Once. Twice. Three and four and five times, but it doesn’t bring clarity to what I’m seeing.
Hey, this is Ramona. Just heard what happened with you and Grace. Need me to come over and comfort you? ;）
My head swings toward Ramona’s bed. She’s still out like a light. But that is unarguably her phone number next to the time stamp of the text. Twelve-sixteen a.m. Approximately twenty minutes after she’d gotten home last night.
I stare at her sleeping form, waiting for the fury to come. For my insides to clench and my blood to boil with a sense of white-hot betrayal.
But nothing happens. I’m…cold. And numb. And so frickin’ exhausted it feels like someone stuffed sand in my eyes.
My fingers tremble as I bring up the next message—Can we please talk?
No, we can’t. In fact, I don’t want to talk to anyone right now. Not Logan, and certainly not Ramona.
I suck an unsteady breath into my lungs. Then I stand up and creep toward the door. Stepping into the hall, I sag against the wall before sliding down to the floor and drawing my knees up. My phone rests on my knee, and I stare at it for several seconds before turning it over and accessing my contact list.