Chapter Nineteen #2
The words light up a marquee in my mind. I’ll dream of them. I’ll say them on accident when I mean to place a coffee order.
Come back here .
Suddenly my eyes snap open.
What if he can’t tell I was kidding? What if he thinks he’s upset me? He was so worried about my age and the power dynamic between us that first night.
Oh, God, he’s probably freaking out. Thinking he made me uncomfortable.
I send the next text without thinking.
Clementine: So…what are you wearing?
There. It’s flirty, it’s playful.
He’ll know I’m joking even though I’m kind of not. What is he wearing? Does he sleep naked? I don’t think I could withstand that information. My brain might pop like a cherry tomato under someone’s shoe.
Amid the quiet rumbling of wheels on pavement, I hear a low chuckle through thin walls.
Tom Halloran: The chronic sexter cannot be stopped.
Now I’m the one laughing. I use the sheets to cover my mouth. He replies again before I can think of something witty.
Tom Halloran: Nothing attractive I’m afraid.
Clementine: Try me.
Tom Halloran: Trinity College sweatpants that have lost all their elastic. I drag them around like a pauper in a barrel.
Goddamn him.
Clementine: Oh no.
Tom Halloran: That bad?
Clementine: No…That’s the hottest answer
Tom Halloran: WHAT
My laugh threatens to wake the entire bus. I’m sure he’s heard me.
Clementine: Loose sweats show off the V thing! Women love that.
Tom Halloran: Women or you?
Tom Halloran: What is the V thing?
Clementine: You know those defined lines on the sides of men’s abs
Clementine: The ones that kind of point down
Clementine: Nvm let me google it one sec
Tom Halloran: I’m fascinated.
I abandon our conversation to google the name of these muscles. Though they’re apparently where the obliques meet the transversus abdominis, they’re more colloquially known as something else.
Clementine: Oh God it’s terrible.
Clementine: The word for the V lines.
Tom Halloran: We’ve come this far.
Clementine: No, you’re gonna hate it.
Tom Halloran: Come on. Spit it out.
My cheeks heat at the double entendre he doesn’t even know he’s made.
Clementine: …
Clementine: Cum gutters.
Now I’m certain I can hear him laughing. I grin, too, alone before the glow of the phone screen.
Tom Halloran: The dreadful things I could do with that information…
Clementine: I warned you!
Tom doesn’t say anything after that and I stare at my phone until the screen fades to black.
But I’m buzzing. Practically caffeinated by our exchange.
His cleverness, his subtle yet bald flirtation—I’m a greedy addict.
I’d do appalling things for just one hit more.
But I jump-started the conversation last. So if it dies here, so be it.
The bus grumbles over another dip in the unpaved road, and the springy mattress depresses beneath me. Then my phone vibrates in my palm and illuminates the bunk in pale blue.
Tom Halloran: Your turn.
I hold my breath.
Tom Halloran: What are you wearing?
It’s so much sexier coming from him. I’m warmed like the AC’s been shut off.
The truth is I’m not wearing anything to write home about.
A big T-shirt and underwear like every night.
I debate lying: Silk nightie. Garter belt.
Knee-high socks, if you’re into that. Then consider taking the shirt and panties off so when I say nothing it’ll be true.
But all options reek of desperation and while I type and erase about six different answers, he messages a third time in a row.
Tom Halloran: Clementine. What are you wearing?
Holy shit. My stomach dips as I type.
Clementine: Tattered high school theater T-shirt (Cabaret) and a thong (lacy & very small)
And then I hit send, toss my phone down toward my feet, and bury my face into my pillow. For long, torturous minutes, the silence drowns me. I regret every moment that led me to this point. That response was not sexy. Or was it too sexy? Trying too hard? Not trying hard enough?
I’ve accepted that he’s never going to respond and made peace with my future in the witness protection program when a notification vibrates against my big toe.
Sheets fly as I dig through the tiny bunk for my phone, hit my head, locate it, and slide open his message faster than socks along hardwood.
Tom Halloran: Jesus fucking Christ, Clementine.
My entire body lights up like it’s Christmas.
I read the text fifteen times at least—I can hear his thick, Irish accent. Husky and rough in the quiet blackness of his bed. Jaysus fokin’ Christ, Clementine.
Tom Halloran: You’re killing me with that.
Clementine: Should I make it worse?
Tom Halloran: Please, yes. Make it worse for me.
Clementine: No bra
Tom Halloran: I’m having an ice-cold shower. I surely won’t be thinking of what’s beneath your Cabaret T-shirt. Get some sleep you cruel, cruel woman.
My thighs press together and I swallow a stupid, satisfied grin. It’s almost five in the morning and I’ve never felt less tired. Perhaps I’ll never sleep again. The pipes of the en suite shower creak on and water rushes out directly behind me.
Tom is actually showering.
All lean-muscled, chocolate-haired, six foot six of him, because of me. He’s naked in there, taking a middle-of-the-night rinse-off just a foot away because of words I said.
Tonight has not been good for my ego. I tamp down the urge to flee my bunk and slide in there with him.
I’m tempted to send him a racy picture to drive him mad post-shower but decide against resorting to sadism—another con of genuinely liking the guy.
My entire outlook on our flirting has warped.
It’s rooted now in something that’s a little frightening.
It’s possible I’ve never had the kind of sex we’d likely have—if we were to sleep together, I’m confident it would ruin men for me altogether. I’d never be the same.
I’m even more terrified that I don’t seem to care.