14. Maisie
MAISIE
I should be asleep.
My eyelids ache, heavy from a full day of classes, tutoring, and skating, but instead I’m curled up in bed, wrapped in my fleece blanket, watching the phone screen light up every few seconds.
No new notifications.
I should be used to it by now. I’ve never really been the first person anyone texts when plans pop up. Never been the one people lean on or want around. I’ve never been the best friend or the person people call first.
But with Six… I don’t know. I kind of thought our friendship mattered to him like it does to me.
My mind keeps slipping away, no matter how hard I try to concentrate.
I should be outlining my psychology paper.
Or reviewing Austin’s latest stat sheet for our next session.
Or honestly, just sleeping. But none of it sticks in my brain right now.
Not when I’m waiting for a text that probably won’t show up.
My thumb hovers over the screen and I tap again. Still nothing. I let out a breath and drop the phone on my chest, staring up at the ceiling.
My legs burn from practicing the double lutz over and over. I only have three weeks until regionals, which means the extra practice is necessary—which is why I have been going to the rink late at night every night.
Austin hasn’t been back since that one time. Not that I expect him to—I don’t—I just… I can’t stop thinking about it.
And I hate that.
Because every time I think about him—and that night—I remember that this ridiculous crush I have on him is just that. Ridiculous. I promised myself I wouldn’t be one of those girls that fluttered my lashes and beamed at him, but the guy makes it impossible not to notice him.
And now, my heart thuds in my chest every time I think about him, or have to tutor him, or see him in class or in the rink. And I only have myself to blame.
My phone buzzes beside me and I roll onto my side, swiping open the text.
Six:
Hey. You still up?
I smile, the corner of my mouth twitching as I tug the blanket tighter around my shoulders.
Me:
Am I ever not?
Six:
I’m glad you are. You’re kind of my safe place.
My heart does this slow roll in my chest.
Me:
Yeah?
The typing bubbles flicker, disappear, come back. I tuck my feet under the blanket, the cold crawling up my skin.
Six:
You know you are, Cherry.
I imagine what it would be like to see my name instead of the stupid nickname I gave him on the screen. If it would make my chest flutter this much, or even more?
I roll onto my back, typing out a reply.
Me:
It’s kind of weird you didn’t start with a confession.
His reply comes back a few seconds later.
Six:
Alright.
Six:
Confession: I hate being alone.
I stare at the screen for a second too long, my heart aching for him.
Me:
I never would’ve guessed that about you.
Six:
I guess I’m good at hiding it. But I don’t want to hide from you.
Me:
You don’t have to. You can say whatever you want to me. That’s the best thing about the anonymity.
It takes him a while to reply back, but I keep my eyes locked on the screen until his message pops up.
Six:
I can walk into a room, say all the right things, make people laugh. But the second I’m alone, it feels like no one really sees me.
I pin my bottom lip between my teeth. It’s been just me for so long now, that I’ve gotten used to the quiet. I’ve gotten used to not being needed by anyone, or invited anywhere or thought of when making plans.
Me:
Here’s my confession. I think I’ve gotten too good at being alone. It’s practically muscle memory.
I hit send, and blow out a breath, squeezing my eyes closed. The whole reason we started sending each other these confessions was to be able to tell each other things no one else could. But this is different. It feels like letting him into my mind.
Six:
That makes me so sad. I hate the thought of you being alone.
My nose burns as I start to feel moisture building in my eyes, but I quickly shake it off, typing out a reply.
Me:
I don’t feel it as much when I’m texting you.
I curl further into my blankets and let out a long, slow breath.
Six:
I wish I was there for real. You’d never be alone again.
My chest pulls tight. I wish that could happen so bad. I wish I was brave enough to tell him who I am, and to meet up with him, and take this… friendship—or whatever it is we have—out of the texts.
Me:
What would you do? If you were here.
The second I send it, my stomach flips. Regret blooms in my chest, but it’s too late, because he replies almost instantly.
Six:
Right now?
Me:
Right now.
I watch the screen intently as the bubbles appear, my heart thudding in my chest once I finally read his reply.
Six:
I’d sit next to you, let you lean on me. Maybe hold your hand, if you wanted, give you my hoodie. Fuck, you’d look so good in it.
I let out a chuckle.
Me:
Giving me your hoodie implies we’re close enough for you to be hoodie-less around me.
Six:
Cherry, baby. I’d one thousand percent be hoodie-less around you, because my body would be burning up over how good you look.
Me:
You can’t just say stuff like that and expect me to stay normal.
Six:
Falling for me, already, Cherry? You don’t even know what I look like. I could have buck teeth and glasses and wear a burlap sack.
I chuckle, shaking my head, picturing what six would look like. I imagine a quiet broody guy with curly hair, even though I know he likes parties, which could probably mean he’s more social than quiet and broody. I don’t even care.
Me:
You don’t know what I look like either.
Six:
Don’t need to. I already know you’re gorgeous.
My chest flutters, but doubt creeps in anyway. He says that because he’s never actually met me, but what if that changed and he didn’t like what he saw?
Me:
You’re kind of ruining other people for me, you know.
Six:
Good. I want to be the only one who gets this part of you.
My smile stretches so wide it physically aches.
Six: Be honest. Would you ever want to meet?
The smile slips from my face as soon as the message comes through.
It’s not the first time he’s asked, but every time it sends my stomach into a slow, spiraling freefall. And every time, my answer is the same.
Me:
I don’t think that’s a good idea.
Six:
Why not?
I stare at the message so long the words start to blur. My thumb hovers over the keyboard, frozen, thinking all of the reasons why it would be the worst idea ever.
Because… I’m scared.
Because if we meet, you’ll see me. You’ll see the soft curve of my stomach, the way my thighs touch, the roundness of my face, and I’ll see it happen—the moment your face changes.
The flicker of disappointment. The moment you realize that the girl you built in your head doesn’t match the one standing in front of you.
Because I’m more than just my body, but no one ever seems to look past it.
And I don’t want you to be one of those people.
Me:
It’s just better like this.
Six:
Better for who, Cherry?
I don’t know what to say to that. Not without telling him the truth. That it’s easier to be invisible than to be seen and rejected.
I drop my phone onto my nightstand and drag my laptop across the blanket, flipping it open before I queue up a rom-com I’ve seen more times than I can count. The opening credits start to roll, and I let out a content sigh.
I love love.
I always have. Even when it feels like I’ll never get to experience it myself.
I tuck my hands under my cheek as I watch the movie, wondering if anyone will ever look at me the way those guys look at the girls in movies?
Will anyone look at me and think ‘Wow. She’s beautiful.
’? Will anyone ever hold my hand in public, or press their forehead to mine like they can’t believe I’m real?
It’s the cruelest kind of irony. I hate men. But I still want one. I want to be seen. Held. Chosen. Just once. Just to see what it feels like.
My phone buzzes again, and I sneak a glance at the screen, but this time it’s not Six.
Austin:
hey ur in hawthorn hall right?
I blink, staring at the screen. His texts are always messy. No punctuation, no capital letters. Sometimes words are wrong. But they sound like him. I like knowing he put effort into texting me when he probably hates it.
Me:
Yes?
Austin:
whats ur room number?
Me:
Why?
Austin:
just tell me. please.
I freeze for a second, staring at the message. Why the hell is Austin Rhodes asking for my room number? My mind starts racing, running through every possible reason. Maybe he’s messing with me, maybe he’s had a few drinks, or maybe he’s here for some girl in my building.
Against my better judgment, I type it out anyway.
And five minutes later, there’s a knock at my door.
My stomach twists as I shove my laptop aside and stand up, tugging at my pajama sleeves.
I open the door and blink as Austin stands in my dorm hallway, his hair wild and messy as usual, and a half-empty Gatorade in one hand. He lifts his chin in greeting like it’s the most normal thing in the world, which is definitely not how I’m feeling right now.
“Hey.”
I blink. “Uh… hey.”
He exhales, lifting his chin to peek past me into the room, then back at me. “Mind if I come in?”
“Uh… yeah. I guess.” I step aside before my brain can catch up.
He steps inside, and I close the door behind him, leaning against it, wondering what the hell Austin Rhodes is doing in my dorm room.
He takes his time, his eyes roaming over the room—my unmade bed, the messy stack of books on my desk, the half-empty bag of chips next to my laptop, and the plushies scattered all over my room.
His gaze settles on a stuffed penguin perched on the edge of my bed.
“Wow,” he says, stepping closer, his fingers brushing the plush fabric. “You really like stuffed toys, huh?” He lifts the penguin, turning to face me with a teasing grin. “They’ve got names, don’t they?”
I feel the heat rush to my cheeks and cross my arms defensively. “Are you judging me?”