73. Rosalyn
SEVENTY-THREE
ROSALYN
I turn the faucet on with my elbow and stick my hands under the water.
I’ve been slathering and skewering chicken for the last thirty minutes, but I’m finally done.
The TV was playing some reruns in the background while I worked, but I’m pretty sure my phone vibrated with several texts.
Hands clean, I turn off the water and grab a hand towel.
I have a feeling it’s Nathan texting.
Not that the pool of candidates is large, but I’ve messaged with Nathan every day this week.
It’s been… unexpected. But at the same time, so Nathan.
I brush back the strands of hair that have escaped my ponytail and pick up my phone.
My pulse jumps at his first text, asking if I’m home, thinking that he might be on his way over.
Then I keep reading, and my heartbeat changes for a different reason.
He’s worried.
Me: I’m home.
Me: Was elbow deep in raw chicken.
I read his last text twice.
Me: And what do you mean track my phone?
He can’t really do that, right?
Nathan: Good.
Me: Nathan, can you track my phone? Is that what Catch Tech does?
Nathan: I’m going through a tunnel. You’re breaking up.
I snort.
Me: You’re absurd.
Nathan: Losing signal. I’ll text you later.