Chapter Seven
Okay, what the hell? This stupid guy practically begged me to be his stupid friend and now I’m stupid waiting for a stupid text. I crawl into my unmade bed and pull the covers over my face. What on earth was I thinking last night? And why do I feel so…disappointed?
Something familiar is happening in my body—a tightening of my muscles, slither of darkness up my spine, a desire to curl up, close my eyes, and bear down until it passes. It’s small now, but it’s happened enough times that I know it will grow from my stomach to the tips of my fingers—it’ll grow until it envelops me whole, and the best I can do is endure.
The first time it happened was when everything went down with Sam. The darkness surrounding me, pulling me deeper and deeper into a pit that I couldn’t crawl out of if I tried. I dropped out of college, I stopped talking, I gave up.
I screw my palms into my eyes, trying to physically squeeze some dopamine into my brain. I can’t hold off the bad feelings forever, but I can try to distract myself.
I open my laptop and put on an episode of Criminal Minds . Garcia is trying to track the unsub by using his cell phone, but all the numbers he called were blocked. I know this show is wildly unrealistic and that technology hasn’t advanced enough to do half the fancy stuff Garcia does to find the bad guy, but I don’t care. I like a story that has a neat ending, one in which they always catch the killer.
Wait.
The cell phone numbers were blocked .
I blocked Henry.
What an idiot. Heart beating fast, I scroll through my contacts until I find Green Eyes Henry —Sonya named his contact in my phone. I select “unblock.” Just like that, messages start pouring in.
Hey, Bennet! I’m at the bar wearing a red rose on my lapel, so you know who I am. Also I’m wearing a top hat.
I’m joking about the rose btw.
And the top hat.
Unless you’re into it?
Oh my god. He’s insane. There are even more texts from later that night.
I’m not stalking you, I promise. I work at L’italiano. I was picking up my paycheck.
You left your wallet here. You’re lucky I’m not a thief or I’d steal all your money.
Jk there’s only like 47 cents in here.
I’m working tomorrow night if you want to pick it up.
At the bottom of the string of texts is the one I was looking for. Or not looking for. I don’t know.
Good morning, new friend. I know you’re supposed to become the President this week, but if you have a free day for an adventure, let me know.
I start to type. What do you even say in a situation like this? Do I even want to reply?
Sorry, I blocked your phone number before I knew we were going to be friends.
Delete.
Sorry, I had work all day and didn’t look at my phone.
Delete delete delete.
Sorry, I’m not sure if being friends with you is altogether a good idea considering I have a track record of disappointing people and myself along the way so it might be better to call the whole thing off.
Delete. I try one more time.
Apparently my stint as President has been postponed. Turns out there’s a pretty rigorous job interview for the position including a countrywide election? Did you know about this?? Seems unfair.
Send. Don’t think about it. He’s just a person.
I tiptoe into the bathroom and turn the shower on as hot as it will go. I slide the curtain open, drop my clothes in a pile, and sit down in the tub, clutching my knees to my chest, and I let the scalding water run down my back until it stings. I sit there long enough that the water’s heat tapers off and my fingers go pruney. Long enough that when I stand up, I’m lightheaded and dizzy.
When I get out of the tub, I wipe the steam from my phone screen.
One message.
Any idea where to start? Passion wise? Since you can’t be President :(
I wipe my hands on my towel so they’re dry enough to type the first thought I have, because if I think about it too long I’ll never respond.
I used to like to draw.
Sonya is the artist, not me, but there was a time when I’d doodle in the corners of every piece of notebook paper I had. I was never particularly good at it.
Hmmmmm okay. Noted. Indoorsy or outdoorsy?
I shudder.
Indoors.
He types for a second and then his message pops up.
Great. I have an idea for tomorrow.
My heart drops.
Tomorrow? So soon…
He types for another moment.
Your enthusiasm is palpable!
I roll my eyes. Before I can respond, he’s texted again.
Meet me at 2. Washington Square Park.
I tighten the towel around my body, the air cooling in the bathroom around me. I take a deep breath and respond.
No need to bring a rose.