5. Jake
Jake
Imake it exactly twelve minutes after getting off the phone with Stellan before I convince myself I'm being a damn idiot. It’s just a message.
To a person I just met and like. Why am I being so weird about it?
Victor said he looked forward to hearing from me?
So he wants me to contact him. If he doesn’t answer, then oh well.
It’s not like he was my best friend and I’ll never see him again.
I’m sure in like twenty or thirty years I’ll have a casual run in with another man just as hot.
A silver fox even. A man already established in life, who knows just what he wants and doesn’t waste time worrying about how much time should pass before contacting you.
I’m just overthinking this too much.
Standing up, I take my plate to the kitchen.
I go ahead and wash it so I don’t have to later and place it in the dish drainer to dry.
A drink. One that’s non-alcoholic since my liver needs a break after last night.
One look in the refrigerator tells me tomorrow will be a grocery day since I only have two Cherry Pepsi’s left. One now.
I drop onto my couch with a sigh dramatic enough to earn an Oscar if anyone were here to witness it. I pop the lid and take a swallow, savoring every bit of it.
Okay, Jake, time to grow some balls and message Victor. Alcohol would make this easier, but my Pepsi will have to give me the liquid courage I need.
I pick up my phone from where it rests on the cushion beside me. I go right to my messages and see the one I sent to him.
Still no reply.
Am I an idiot? Surely, if he was interested in me he would’ve messaged. The metaphorical demon on my shoulder whispers. But then the angel sitting on my other shoulder whispers how hypocritical that is because I haven’t sent another one yet.
I worry my lip, going back and forth on what to do.
“Come on, Jake. All you have to do is type. Just say hi,” I say out loud.
I mean his number is right there. Waiting for me to make the first move.
“Just one message. If he doesn’t answer then I know it’s not meant to be.”
I'll send one text. Normal people text without having a freak out about it. If he doesn’t answer then I won’t message again and I’ll just delete the number. No harm. No foul. I shot my shot, and well, it apparently wasn’t a slam dunk.
My thumbs hover over the keyboard. Then I type out a message. Short and sweet.
Me: Hey
I immediately erase it knowing that it was far too casual. It doesn’t show him I have any interest. A message with more than a single three letter word.
Absolutely not. I bite my lip, thinking of something clever to say. Something that shows I care.
“I got it,” I whisper-shout.
Me: Hope you got home okay.
I stare at it but don’t hit send. My forehead wrinkles as I debate sending it.
While it does come off like I care, it sounds more like something a parent or significant other would send. Even a best friend. But someone you just met, I think not.
Why is this so fucking hard? It’s a wonder anyone ever communicates at this point.
I immediately hit backspace until it’s gone.
Maybe a message that shows a little more of my personality.
I start typing.
Me: I’m glad we met today and talked. I’m excited to take you out on a date. I didn’t know what the proper time was to reach out to you. But I’ve been obsessing over when to do it like a crazy lunatic.
Nope. That’s a little too honest and has me coming off crazy. He’ll definitely run in the opposite direction even after blocking my number.
I rub both hands down my face.
"Who let me have thumbs? Or a phone?" I let my head fall back on the couch in frustration.
Okay, the message wasn’t terrible. Maybe it just needs to be worded better. Here goes attempt number four.
Me: Just wanted to say I enjoyed meeting you today. You're really easy to talk to. Which is weird because I'm usually awkward around people I actually like, so congratulations on breaking whatever psychological curse I've apparently been living under.
I read it twice and immediately delete it. Somebody, kill me now. At this point my phone should honestly be charging me for unnecessary usage.
This is ridiculous. I’m a grown man with an honest job. One that runs into burning buildings to save lives for god’s sake. I pay taxes and can assemble furniture and cook. But for some unknown reason, I can’t manage to send one fucking text.
My phone practically whispers from the cushion beside me, taunting me with an eerie voice that reminds me of the Cryptkeeper.
Coward. Wimp. Loser.
I take a deep breath and blow it out, clearing my mind. One more attempt, and if I can’t get it right, then I’m not bothering with it anymore today. I’m not going to overthink it. Just type what comes to my mind.
My thumbs move across the screen before my brain has time to sabotage them.
Me: Hey, it's Jake. Just wanted to say it was really nice meeting you today. Hope the rest of your afternoon went well.
I read it. A few times. Debating on adding an emoji, but don’t. I take a deep breath. My thumb hovers over the send button.
"If this ruins my life..." I mumble as I press my thumb down on the screen.
Instant regret slams into me like a freight train.
"Fuck, fuck, fuck."
What have I done?
Delivered.
Shit. It’s out there now. He has it and now it’s all on him. He answers or he doesn’t. If he does, then it’s either going to be great or him telling me to leave him the hell alone. Or even worse it could be the dreaded ‘Who dis’ message confirming he gave me a wrong number.
I launch the phone across the couch like it's going to burn me if I keep it in my grasp. It should’ve known I’m a chickenshit and didn’t plan to send.
Oh my God, what am I going to do now?
If he doesn’t answer, then he really wasn’t interested and I’ve made a bigger fool of myself.
I try to focus on anything but my phone.
My eyes scan the room, going from the coffee table, to the television, finally landing on my blind and the one strip that has a broken piece on it.
When the fuck did that happen? Now I need to measure the blinds so I can replace them because all I see is the broken little piece.
Only a minute, if anything, has passed. My body leans to the side as my arm stretches out, my fingers grasping my phone because I need to see if he’s read it.
Nothing. Not the end of the world. He did say he was going home to work. I mean, I don’t know how long that video call was going to be, but he could’ve had other stuff to do. It’s not like I can be on my phone all the time when I’m on shift.
Then I spiral. What if he was fucking with me at the café and now he’s showing his friends the phone and the pathetic person who’s messaging him.
Nope not today. I’m not going down that defeating train of thought.
Over the next five minutes I go through a series of checking my phone and setting it down on the cushion.
I even power it off and on, just to make sure it’s not freezing.
It’s happened before and that’s what the call center told me to do.
Something about being hung up between towers or some bullshit.
Likely story. We can send someone to the moon and hear them clear as day but reception to talk to someone on the other side of town is nonexistent.
Don’t even get me going down my whole line of government conspiracies.
But there’s still no little check mark showing me he’s read it, or even looked at the message. Nothing to even show me he’s typing a response back.
I sigh so dramatically the lamp beside me looks concerned. Maybe Victor’s changed his mind. He was interested when he met me, but after thinking about it, he’s just not ready for anything. For a commitment. Maybe I gave off too much of a needy aura.
Then my phone buzzes and I freeze. My heart starts to race and I feel the same way I did earlier when Stellan called and I thought it was Victor.
Slowly I turn the phone over and look.
There’s a reply to my message. Carefully, I open the thread and look at what he wrote.