Chapter Seven Evie #3
I laugh. The fact that they live together makes these texts all the better. God, they’re the best.
Me: I need to ease in, be clever but not too in her face. Right?
There’s a dirty joke in there somewhere . . .
Gail: That’s what she said!
There it is.
Gail is the comedian. All her jokes come from her fourteen-year-old grandson.
Joyce: Will you stop that nonsense. We told you it wasn’t funny.
Mimi: Oh shut up. Don’t be an old fuddy duddy.
Birdie: Maybe you should tell her a joke! You’re a funny guy, Chasey. We all think so.
That’s not a bad idea.
Me: Dirty or clean?
Mimi: No, be romantic. I was reading this book where the man told the woman he was convinced she was at the same place as him because he could smell her.
Gail: That book is about werewolves, so unless Chase has sniffed her ass we’re out of luck.
I can’t stop laughing as I scratch the scruff on my chin before I type back.
Me: This is hard. The problem is everything that comes out of my mouth happens to be the dumbest thing she’s ever heard.
Joyce: Oh honey, you can’t listen to a girl when she calls you dumb. It’s unreliable. Sometimes she means it . . . but Evie doesn’t. She wouldn’t have kissed you at the wedding otherwise. I vote to say the dumb shit.
I may have spilled the tiniest bit of tea to my gals. But it’s the Hookers. They’re my hall pass . . . in the most nonsexual of ways.
I’m typing back when Birdie’s message pops up.
Birdie: I second that. It doesn’t matter what you open with, baby. Just get your foot in the door. If she lets her guard down for even a second she’ll fall in love with you. Because what’s not to love? You’re generous and kind, thoughtful and irreverent.
Mimi: That’s right! And if she doesn’t we’ll hold a grudge.
Joyce: And slander her name in all our Facebook groups.
I’m smiling like a goofball, all hopped up on my faux granny pep talk, as I let out a deep breath. I got this.
Just get my foot in the door.
I flip my phone over in my hand one last time before I swipe it open to our messages—mine and Evie’s.
The very last one I sent her, the day after the wedding, still makes me wince. But I scroll up anyway, looking over the smattering of them, all beginning and ending in twelve hours.
Me: Where’d you go?
Me: Breakfast?
Me: or come here and I’ll cook and eat it off you.
Me: Why am I on read?
Me: Are you ghosting me? Answer with a ghost.
Me: Joke’s on you. You can’t hurt my feelings. I grew up with two sisters who told me if I spoke too much my tongue would fall out of my mouth. I was basically mute for three years. You’re gonna have to try harder, Evil.
Evil : I’m a fan of repeating some history. Let’s start with yours.
I audibly exhale, closing my eyes. It’s like a knife to the heart. Fuck it, I’ve been here before . . . on the verge and then over the humiliation cliff. I just have to rip the bandage.
Let me cook, girl.
I stop thinking and just type.
Me: Do you have any towels?
I hit Send before my brain catches up, but the second it does, I stare down at my phone, just blinking.
Aw, fuck, why did I send that? Do you have any towels . . . Of all the things I could’ve said, this is what I chose. I am a loser. That’s maybe the one wrong choice I could’ve made. Dammit.
But the moment the bubbles appear, I hold my phone above me.
I’m immediately strategizing out loud to the cat.
“It’s gonna be a yes or no, so I have to figure out where to take it. Maybe I ask to have one? Then I could see her in the hallway for a minute. Or maybe I talk about how there was none in her room the other day, and we can laugh about what happened?”
Peach meows, and I nod. “Yeah, I agree. That’s perfect.”
I’m deep in thought when my phone finally dings, and I drop it on my face.
“Fuck,” I groan, scrambling for it as I blink past the pain and fuzzy eyesight before I frown.
A thumbs-down.
She left me a fucking emoji. Come on. And it’s not even on its own. It’s as a reaction. Oh . . . that’s diabolical.
Still, I need to answer quickly, try and coax a response while I have her attention. But I’m at a loss for words, just looking around the room, dumbfounded, because I feel like I’ve been checkmated.
“Just thug it out, thug it out, thug it out,” I breathe out, rolling onto my side, and type.
Me: Do you know where I could find extras?
It felt embarrassing the first time, and yet the second might be worse. But she has to use words this time, so I’m doing okay.
Bubbles, then no bubbles before bam, a fucking shrug.
Is she kidding? Just say you hate love already. Jesus.
No. I don’t accept this. We’re speaking tonight. I will not throw in a white flag.
Me: Where did you get yours? Because when I took a shower in your room, there were none. Are you just air drying?
An eye roll. I mimic it in real life.
She’d be an outstanding villain. My foot’s bouncing a mile a minute under my covers as I shake my head, staring at the phone.
I don’t need this. If she doesn’t want to talk to me, fine. Whatever. I toss my phone on the bed before swiping it right back up and texting quickly.
Me: Are you really just gonna answer all my questions with , or ?
A ding.
My brows draw together as I stare down. Is that the fucking flag of Denmark?
I literally have to swipe out and look it up, only to confirm it is, in fact, the flag of Denmark.
So you want to be a smart-ass, huh? You think I can’t figure out how to make the best of this emoji shit? Baby, you better stop underestimating me.
Me: Funny story about Denmark, I spent a month there with my family when I was sixteen and became a local hero because I saved an old woman and kitten from a burning house. It’s also the first time I thought I might want to be a chef.
The one thing I’m certain of is she immediately called bullshit, then texted her sister to see if that’s true.
“Every word,” I whisper, petting Peach.
I’m smiling as I wait for the next emoji to pop through. Because it will. She’s not shying away from this fun.
Come on . . . take the bait. You know you want it.
Ding.
Yes! She never disappoints.
It’s a roach.
Me: Once I ate a chocolate covered one on dare from my sister, Poppy.
She didn’t tell me it was a roach tho. She lied and said it was black licorice which I hate.
Crimson, my oldest sister had bought them from some specialty chocolatier and neither of them wanted to try it so I was dared.
I ate one, puked when I realized the truth.
Then stole the box, cleaned the chocolate off all the rest and hid them in their shoes and clothes. They hated me for months.
My head swings over my shoulder to the wall behind me because I swear I heard her giggle through the wall.
So I do a little celebratory dance before the ding owns all my attention again.
I chew the inside of my cheek because this time it’s not a reaction. It’s a message with two emojis—a parrot and Santa Claus.
“Hmm,” I hum, looking up at the ceiling and trying to recall a memory to match, not that I’m opposed to lying to keep this game going, but it’s more fun if it’s the truth.
A chuckle pops from my chest as I remember my trip to Costa Rica three years ago.
Me: I’m glad you brought this up. I was just thinking about that Christmas in Costa Rica.
I’ve never had a better time in my life.
It may have been because of all those chiliguaro shots on the last night.
But I highly recommend dancing ’til you drop at bonfires on a beach with a parrot on your shoulder like a fucking pirate.
Like Pavlov’s dog, I grin as another ding comes through, and before I know it, we’re four more deep. She’s sending, and I’m answering. It’s heaven. This might be the best nonconversation conversation I’ve ever had.
But I want more. I want to know her. So I try and flip the script.
Me: My turn . . . tell me something now. It’s only fair.
I choose an easy one for her to start with.
Me:
Damn, the bubbles stay up forever, but all I get back are Z’s, the ones that mean sleep. A tough nut to crack.
“Sweet dreams, Evie,” I whisper to myself before sending back a half-moon and placing my phone on the nightstand.
“Man,” I breathe out. “I almost had ya.”
Just as I close my eyes, my phone dings.
Evil : Extra towels are in the closet at the end of the hall.
The smile on my face is fucking obnoxious, because you know what? Hell yeah.