Chapter 7
YVAINE
Sometimes the decisions we make in life, even the microscopic ones, build a predestined path that zigzags through the forest of life, leading us to a precise destination.
First, my hospital shift had changed, and then I’d decided not to stay home with Amaia, since she just wanted to fast and meditate.
Next, chance—in the form of Tiziano—had dragged me out to The Baxter that evening.
Finally, I had let Ludmilla borrow my phone. Of all the people in that bar, she’d picked me.
Warm and cozy in the darkness of my room, I was drifting off when the infernal ping came again. I opened one eye, debating whether it was even worth the effort. Probably not. If it were family, they’d have mind-linked me.
I prioritized my REM cycle. With a half-smile, I rubbed my cheek into my lavender-scented pillow.
Sleep heals. Texts don’t.
Ping!
“Again?”
I snatched up my phone, cracking the screen. The strength of werewolves, too much to bear for human technology.
“Oh, great,” I huffed as I knuckled the sleep crust out of my eyes. Pushing up to lean against the headboard, my checkered blanket fell to my lap.
I unlocked the cracked screen. Three new messages from an unknown number.
A hint of curiosity joined the annoyance. I tapped on the first text.
I had to blink twice to make sure I was reading it right. As my slow, foggy mind absorbed what was written, I flinched.
Is this another number? Milla, I don’t have time to see you. And if I did, I wouldn’t anyway
I checked the second message and stared at it in disgust, reading the references to a part of his anatomy. The third text talked about the inadequacy of ‘my’ handling skills.
What a rude, insolent person!
I was fairly certain I hadn’t serviced anyone! Well, minus Sillas, but his number was saved in my phone. Clearly, these texts weren’t meant for me.
Ah. Ludmilla’s boy.
I checked again. There was no trace of Ludmilla’s texts, only the three messages from this vulgar animal. She deleted them. Not that I was curious to read her texts.
Well, I was 98% sure this was her guy. Odds were pretty high. Although, 2% of doubt remained, if only because I couldn’t imagine Ludmilla wanting to deal with such a primate.
Since sleep had already abandoned me, I decided to teach him a lesson. It was almost definitely a he, considering the remark about a certain body part.
Tapping my chin with a finger, I mulled over a good comeback.
Mr. Rude.
No. I deleted it and typed again.
Hi there.
I’ll gladly forward this message to your mother to show her what kind of a Neanderthal she raised. Do us all a favor and gargle some vinegar—or bleach, your pick—as the filth you’ve spewed must have contaminated your teeth.
I hit send after rereading it twice, then found myself typing a second text.
And please, delete my number.
Don’t ever text me again.
But I also added, ‘goodnight’, because I wouldn’t wish a bad night’s sleep on anyone.
Fourteen minutes later, while I was glaring at the glow-in-the-dark constellations glued sporadically across my ceiling, ping!
With a surge of energy, I opened his text, growling. A real growl.
If this is some sad tactic to get my attention, it’s not working. And I just gave you a little constructive feedback on your sucking skills. No need to get all sensitive, baby. Come back when you’ve leveled up
There was a second message.
Oh, and my mother says hi ;)
I gasped, fingers splayed across my mouth like a shield against his rudeness.
What a…a—
I fumbled to find the appropriate epithet.
Why should I want to get the attention of someone who probably flosses with barbed wire? YOU are sad. I’ll repeat: DO. NOT. TEXT. ME. AGAIN.
Goodbye.
Not even sixty seconds later, after telling him to leave me alone, he texted again.
Oh but you loved my dirty mouth on you ;) Where I come from, we say never spit on the plate you licked clean ;) And baby, you didn’t just eat—you devoured the whole table
My mouth dropped open, wide enough that I could catch a full moth, then snapped shut so hard my teeth realigned.
The smart, adult thing to do would’ve been to ignore him. But the baby really irked me.
NOT your baby, NEVER will be. Even if you had the last matcha latte on Earth. And believe me, I have no intention of ‘eating’ from your dish. Germ sharing isn’t something I’d do, even with my own mate.
Did I misinterpret his disgusting metaphor? Probably. Did I care? Not even a little.
His reply was already there before my thumb could lift..
I like this version of you. Feisty. Maybe we can find a moment this week ;)
Meeting you would count as charity work, and I’m saving that for actual causes, not ego rehab
Still not satisfied, I sent a follow-up.
I swear on Stephen, this is my last text. PS: I work in the field. Happy to recommend a therapist. Or two.
He was typing back before my fingertips left the screen.
Field? I knew you were a prostitute! How much did they pay you for this? And who’s Stephen, your pimp?
I almost crushed the phone in my hand. The audacity!
I was beyond sure that he was the boy Ludmilla had texted—and he seemed beyond sure I was Ludmilla. The girl had clearly left out a few key details, like the reason he’d blocked her, or perhaps the fact that this guy had the emotional maturity of an expired yogurt.
My acquaintance, Ludmilla, used my phone because apparently you blocked her. So, no, I don’t know you, and I don’t intend to. Stephen Hawking is a physicist—Google him, maybe learn something about black holes instead of sticking your head in one. I’m blocking you now. Have a nice life. Or not.
I went to the settings and hunted down the ‘Block this contact’ option.
Then—bzzz.
Clearly, my brain wasn’t at her best past midnight, as it took me a few blinks to realize what was happening.
Mr. Unknown was calling me! I dropped my phone onto the mattress and backed away. What was I supposed to do?!
Okay. Deep breath. No need to panic, Yvaine. You’re a future neurosurgeon. You fight literal brain diseases—and he certainly suffers from MALE: Massive Ape Logic Evasion.
You’ll answer. You’ll calmly inform this primate that there’s been a misunderstanding.
That you are not Ludmilla, and you are not interested.
You have twenty-three uncles and cousins, a father who could bench-press a pair of minivans, and a mother who played wereball so well that she redefined the meaning of violence.
So yes, you have backup if you need it, which you wouldn’t.
Ultimately, what harm could answering a call possibly do?