I sit down and my knee is bouncing. My insides are crawling. I feel like a magnet, shaking with the need to move. Is this how addicts feel? I am beginning to realize what’s happening, but I can’t admit it to myself, not yet.
Has holding a phone and looking at a contact name ever been this terrifying?
Joshua Templeman
I should be sitting here looking at
Danny Fletcher
I should be giving Danny a call, asking him to meet me for a movie or a bite to eat. We could plot and plan my project. He’s my new friend. He’d meet me wherever I asked in twenty minutes. I bet he would.
I’m dressed. I’m ready.
But I don’t. Instead, I do something I don’t think I’ve ever done.
I hit the Call button.
Immediately I hang up and throw my phone onto the bed like a grenade. I wipe my damp palms on my
thighs and let out a wheezing breath.
My phone begins to ring.
Incoming: Joshua Templeman
“Oh, hi,” I manage to say lightly when I answer. I grind the heel of my hand into my temple. I have no dignity.
“I had a missed call. It rang once.”
There’s loud pulsing music in the background. He’s probably swilling liquor in a bar, surrounded by tall models in stretchy white dresses.
“You’re busy. I’ll talk to you about it tomorrow.”
“I’m at the gym.”
“Cardio?”
“Weights. I do weights at night.”
The response implies he does cardio another time. He makes a faint grunt, and then I hear a heavy metal clang.
“So what’s up? Don’t tell me you pocket-dialed me.”
“No.” There’s no point in pretending.
“Interesting.” There’s a muffled clothing sound, maybe a towel, and then a door closes. The obnoxious pulsing music gets quieter.
“I’m outside now. I don’t know if I’ve ever seen your name on my caller ID. Something happen at work?”
“I know. I was thinking that too.” There is a loaded pause. “No, it’s not work related.”
“That’s a shame. I was hoping Bexley had a fatal embolism.”
I make an amused honk. Then I fidget. “I was calling because . . .”
I haven’t seen you today. I’ve been feeling mixed up and desperately sad, and for some reason seeing you might help the weird pain in my chest. I don’t have friends. Except for you. Except you’re not.
“Yes . . .” He is not helping me out at ALL.
“I’m hungry and I have no food. And I haven’t got any tea, and my apartment is cold. And I’m bored.”
“What a very sad little life.”
“You’ve got lots of food and tea. And your heating is better than mine, and I . . .”
There is nothing but silence.
“I’m not bored when I’m with you.” I’m mortified. “But I’d better just—”
He cuts me off. “Better come over then.”
Relief floods through me. “Should I bring something?”
“What would you bring?”
“I could grab some food on the way.”
“No, it’s okay, I’ve got something to cook. Do you want me to pick you up?”
“I’d better drive myself.”
“Probably safer.” We both know why. It’d be too easy for me to stay the night otherwise.
I’m already holding my purse, coat, and keys. My feet are in shoes. I’m locking my door and jogging down the hall to the elevator.
“Will you show me the muscles you worked on?”
“I thought you wanted me for more than that.” I can hear a car start. At least I’m not the only impatient one.
“Race you there. I want to see you all sweaty. We need to get even.”
“Give me half an hour. No, an hour.” He’s alarmed.
“I’ll wait for you in the lobby.”
“Do not leave now.”
“See you soon,” I reply and hang up.
I start laughing when I start my car and pull out into traffic. It’s a new game, the Racing Game, with two cars at different points on a city grid, speeding toward a central location. It’s scary how I want to be in his apartment on his couch so badly I’m jiggling my knee impatiently at red lights. I’d bet anything he’s doing the same.