Page 59 of Snatched

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Colt: Got stuck fixing my buddy’s sink for two hours. I’m basically a plumber now.

Elena: Oh good, finally found a respectable career.

Colt: Wow. I see how it is.

And then nothing for a while.

It’s quiet texting…but charged.

Shoot. Over the line? It was a joke.

This is why I hate texting.

Like we’re both pretending to be busy, pretending not to think about Tuesday, pretending we didn’t almost lose our minds against a brick wall.

The weekend goes by, and then Sunday evening, around ten, I’m lying on my couch with a blanket and a reality dating show I’m not remotely paying attention to when his name lights up my screen again.

Colt: Long weekend. You doing okay?

I type.

Elena: Yeah. Just relaxing. You?

A moment passes.

Colt: Trying not to count down the hours.

I stare at that message long enough for my tea to go cold.

I don’t answer.

Not because I don’t want to.

Because if I do…I’ll say something I’m not ready to admit out loud.

Instead, I mute the TV, curl deeper under the blanket, and let my brain spin into dangerous territory.

My fingers find my phone again.

Hover.

Hover…

And then I open Safari.

A blank search bar stares back at me.

I hesitate.

Then type the first word, then delete it.

Type something else, and delete that too.

“What am I doing…” I breathe, already knowing exactly what I’m doing.

Finally, I type:

“Is it crazy to date someone 12 years younger?”

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