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The message, with its little green symbol shines up at me on the dark screen. Drew.
A grin splits my face. My hand shakes only a little when I slide the screen and read.
Baylor: Hey. You there?
Should I answer? Maybe I shouldn’t be “there” because I know what he means. Not am I by my phone. What person on this campus doesn’t have a phone on hand at all times? He means am I free to talk. Am I sitting around on a Saturday night pining for... I pause. If he’s asking then he too must be free.
I nibble the corner of my lip as I answer.
Me: I’m here
It only takes him a second to reply.
Baylor: What are you up to?
And then:
Baylor: I’m in my hotel room.
Like he needs me to know that he isn’t just checking on my whereabouts, but that he wants to chat. I am absolutely not grinning as I settle down on my bed and get comfortable.
Me: I’m in my room too.
Baylor: On the bed?
Me: Beats sitting on the floor.
Baylor: I love that bed.
The pig. I’m never having sex with him on this bed again. Maybe his bed—let him have memories haunting him every time he tries to sleep.
Me: Pig.
Baylor: I’m a guy. Porcine thoughts are indicative of our sex.
Only Drew would use words like porcine and indicative in a text.
Me: Knowing is half the battle. Why aren’t you out?
There. I asked. And it nearly killed me. It kills me more when he takes a few seconds before answering.
Baylor: Didn’t want to go out.
Me: Why not?
Stop. Stop now, you masochistic fool!
My phone remains still, accusatory. You had to ask, it seems to say to me. I jump when it dings again.
Baylor: Tired of it. Going out. The scene. The guys want to party.
He doesn’t say the rest. He doesn’t need to. No one on his team really drinks, which means there’s only one party option available. My stomach threatens to do an ugly, green slide into jealousy when I think of all the girls that would be hanging all over him were he out tonight. But he’s not. He’s texting with me. He sends another.
Baylor: And you’re not here.
My throat closes. Honest to God closes. I can’t swallow. I stare at the phone lying limp in my clammy hand. An insidious voice in my head shouts Danger, I’d Turn Back If I Were You! This is too close to a relationship. I don’t want one.
The worst part is, I’m lying to myself. He isn’t the arrogant jerk I thought he was. I want him. Constantly. I want to talk to him, laugh with him. A few texts and my whole night is brighter, the color and textures of my room richer, deeper. I can smell my body lotion, grapefruit and vanilla, when it had been a muted muddle before. And I can taste the sourness of fear in my mouth. It sharpens when my phone rings in my hand.
