Oh, hello jealousy, my old friend. I shouldn’t hate this anonymous girl who apparently doesn’t mind being a one-night stand. She isn’t less than me. In some ways, she’s more. What would it be like to feel that free? To seek pleasure or comfort in someone else? I only seek comfort between the pages of a book while tucked safe and sound alone in my bed.
Remington:
We didn’t have sex.
TypeWriterGirl:
Oh. Why?
My heart is in my throat.
Remington:
It didn’t feel right with her. The whole time I wished I were with someone else.
Is it possible he could be talking about me? His words make my heart race. I want his touch to do the same. I want to know if his hair is soft, his body hard. What would it be like if we were more than just words behind two screens?
My gaze falls on Nanna’s letter and her words. Risk, so you don’t regret. I can’t even tell a guy I like him or show him what I look like. And all at once, I get what Nanna is saying. Remington is out there every day, meeting other girls, hooking up with them. What if the next girl he meets becomes his girlfriend, and she doesn’t like us being friends? I could lose him.
I’m still not sure what makes me do it. Maybe it’s his words. Maybe it’s Nanna’s letter. Maybe it’s being tired of always playing it safe. Maybe it’s that, at twenty-five, I’ve never had a boyfriend, unless you count book boyfriends.
Maybe it’s just the bottle of champagne.
I pick up my phone, adjust a few camera settings, point it at me, and click.
I’m not glamorous. My hair is in a loose braid with tendrils escaping, my reading glasses are on, and I’m wearing a white “Write Drunk, Edit Sober” T-shirt, part of my ever-growing collection of writerly shirts. Though, given my champagne consumption tonight, it’s probably an apt choice of clothing.
I evaluate the picture, delete, and try again. Apparently, selfies are an advanced art form that I’ve yet to master, but eventually, I take one that I can live with. My face and chest are partially covered by my hair, which is probably why I like it.
Then I start typing.
I type for a long time. When I’m done, my hand hovers over the picture and message.
I’m poised on a cliff, and with the click of a button, I step over that edge.
The free fall is scary. Will there be a parachute? A tandem jump? Or will I hit the ground alone, with all my broken pieces shattering in the dark?
Dots on my screen appear almost instantly.
I wait. And I wait.
And as I’m waiting, it strikes me. Perhaps I shouldn’t have listened to my dead grandma after all.
CHAPTER 5
Chase
TypeWriterGirl:
I’m sorry, Remington. I need to break our rules. You see, I received an unexpected birthday gift. It was a letter from my grandmother, which she wrote before she died. She advised me to take risks, so this is my first.
TypewriterGirl
Tonight, when I blew out my candle, I wished for you. I want to know your name, see your face. But I’m tired of wishing. So, I’ll go first. My name is Olivia Evans and this is my photo. Make my wish come true. Give me anything. Your name, your photo, the hope that we can be real.
All I can do is stare at her selfie. Olivia.
The image, taken at an angle, shows a portion of a girl. Pretty in a delicate, natural way. Her skin is like milk—pure cream, with a dusting of freckles across the bridge of her nose, a contrast to the smooth fall of jet-black hair. Her arching black brows disappear into bangs cut straight across. Black-rimmed glasses frame eyes that appear gray, though it’s hard to tell exactly. Looking at her lips makes me want to trace their shape.
And that’s just her face. She’s wearing a white T-shirt with a saying that makes me smile and no bra. I can see the outline of generous curves. I admit it, I look closer. Nipples. She might be cold. Or turned on. She appears softer than the girls in LA, in a way that makes me ache to touch all that creamy skin, that makes me want to follow those curves and lose myself in her.
I can’t look away.
This is my Typewriter Girl. My pen pal. My best friend. This girl with pale skin, midnight hair, and haunting eyes.
Her photo is a punch to the gut, but her message is an even more direct hit.
She wants me to give her my name.
If I do, I’ll risk this house of cards we’ve built.
It only takes one push, one detail too many. And this safe space we’ve constructed between us will crumble.
I can’t even send a selfie. She’ll recognize me immediately.
She thinks she wants to be together but dating me could destroy her. I know she’s strong. She’s known death and loss, and like me, she has no family. But despite her survivor’s strength, she’s sensitive. She tries to hide her vulnerability, yet it’s evident in every message and conversation. The tabloids would rip her to shreds for clickbait.