From the cylindrical cider surface, my somber reflection stares back at me, oddly disfigured and misshapen. That's the face of rejection. That's why he chose Lucy over me.
“That doesn’t mean you aren’t in his league.” Chelsea opens her second packet of snacks. “I’m sure he likes small women with rusty hair.”
What a compliment. “Chelsea, you have such a way with words.” I stick out my tongue.
“Ugh! Put that slug away. If a bird flies by it will pinch it right from your mouth.” Chelsea stops chewing and pretends to duck from a low flying imaginary bird.
“We’re indoors.” I point out.
Chelsea laughs, shaking her head. “Jonah used to fall for that all the time. He’s shit scared of crows now.”
My attention falls to my phone. A message alert blinks. ‘N Adams has sent a message.’ Hold on! Wait a minute. What? Stop the bus—I’ve got on the wrong one.
I inhale in so fast I almost choke on cheesy debris. “Chelsea. What the hell?” My eyes are so wide they dry quickly. “Does that say what I think it does.”
Chelsea peers over the rim of her pint glass and squints. “N Adams sent you a message?” She sounds just as confused as I do. “What did you do?” she asks in a rush.
“I replied to the story - like a personal message.”
“Whose story.”
“The one I showed you.”
“Noah's story, with her repost?”
Oh shit, shit, shit, shit. “Did I message him directly?”
“You must have—” Her words are hidden behind the palm trying to hide her nervous titter.
I lean forward in the seat and clutch my stomach. “I’m such an idiot. He not only thinks I’m stupid, but now he’s aware that I’ve thought way too much on his belly button fluff.”
Chelsea reaches for my phone. “Read the message before I die of embarrassment for you,” she protests.
I snatch the phone from her grabby hand and press the screen to my boobs. The overbearing curiosity propels her from the opposite seat. She slides in beside me, practically roosting on my shoulder like a bird.
My pulse flickers, making me dizzy. I tap on the bold letters and hold my breath.
N Adams:
Hey. I think you were trying to reach that girl, not me. For the record, my fluff is phenomenal. N
“I’m dead. Literally on the floor dead.” My shoulders recoil like a turtle trying to hide in its shell for safety. “I must apologize to save face.” And maybe keep the contact going for a longer.
Chelsea does not speak; she just stares at the message. “He replied to you, Rowan.”
“It’s irrelevant when he’s trying to justify himself as having nice fluff. He thinks I’m a clown.” My cheeks blow out in a slow jet of disbelief. A swell of tension builds in my ribs, pushing its way to my face with more blazing heat. I’ll soon be a sweaty mess if my hammering heart survives this catastrophic calamity. I debate replying, antsy and uncertain, perched on the edge of the seat, hanging in limbo. Will I or won’t I?
Rowan Hudson:
Insert blushing face emoji, so you can see how mortified I am. I’m sure you have perfectly proportioned toes that are well aligned, and your fluff smells laundered. I didn’t mean to offend you.
Chelsea grabs my wrist. “Stop typing, Rowan. You’re making it worse.”
“Ugh!” I grunt, adding an R to the end of the long ass reply that he won’t read because he already knows how odd I am. “I can’t make it any worse than it already is.”
“You can bow out and unfollow him.” What a preposterous idea. I can’t break up with him now, not after he replied. It makes him a little more attainable. Who the fuck am I kidding?
“No!” I gasp dramatically like she’s just suggested I lop off an arm. “I can carry on observing in the background. That’s it. It’s over now. He’ll go back to doing whatever it was he was doing before I popped up unexpectedly.”
Two
During the fourth cider, my phone glows with an incoming message from none other than Noah Adams. My heart leaps so high that it practically rips itself free from my sternum. “Holy shit.”
“You’re joking, right?” Chelsea pushes her sleeves past her wrists and swipes the empty glasses aside. “He replied to that nonsense you sent earlier?”
“Nonsense?” I snap. “I was explaining myself.”
Chelsea doesn't seem to agree. Her lips pull together in a half pout smirk like expression. She becomes very animated after a few cider’s.
“Go on then. Let’s see what he wrote.”
There’s a part of me that wants to save this unread message and open it later. I’d rather read it in private without Chelsea and her cider breath looming over me. But here we have it. I’m in the bar and it's rude to leave a message unopened. I read it out softly, so only she can hear.
N Adams:
I have a crooked toe, from a fracture when I was a kid. And there’s no animosity between me and the seahorses. N
“I don’t care if he has yellow toenails and hairy feet. He’s just told me something about himself. I bet juicy Lucy has no clue about that info, or maybe she’s already sniffed it.” I’m rambling, with my words rushing out at the same speedy tempo as my heartbeat. “I bet the toe is cute, like a curly prawn.”
Chelsea balks. “Holy fuck, stop drinking. Never compare his disfigured toe to a shellfish. Prawns are not cute. I’ll never be able to enjoy Singapore spicy noodles again without seeing toes.” The pad of my thumb hovers over the letters ready to type. “Do not write that. Do not tell that hot man his toe is a cute prawn.”
“I wasn’t going to!” I lie. The thought had crossed my mind because I’d rather appear more friendly than my original message.
Rowan Hudson:
I’ve heard there isn’t much they can do for broken toes, other than wait to see if they turn out wonky once they heal. I’m sure it's not claw-like or crooked. I adore seahorses. R
Three dots appear. Then disappear. He's thinking on how to reply. Rowdy students fill the room, and they sing along to the low drone from the jukebox, but I swear, everything goes still when I see him consider a response.
N Adams:
See for yourself…
As soon as the message pings, a photo pops onto the screen and loads into view. A foot. His foot. Five toes. His toes. A crisp white cotton sheet surrounds the ankle. I stretch the image with the pads of my fingers, zooming in on each toe. They aren’t abnormal at all. Long and manly as far as toes go, with nothing that gives me cause for concern. Like he cares what I think. I titter with only my head shaking lightly.
“Did he send you a dick pic?” Chelsea is too close; her chin is resting on my shoulder like an excited puppy.
“No!” I hold the screen to my nose for closer inspection. “It’s his foot. I’m guessing one of them is the broken toe.” I tap the image to reduce the mega zoom. “They all look fine.”