Page 32 of What We Break
I sit in my car for a minute, letting the air conditioning cool me down. My phone buzzes and for a split second my heart does this stupid little skip, wondering if it's Reid.
It's not. Because he doesn't have my phone number. Because we are both apparently incapable of exchanging basic contact information like functional adults. I've been low-key annoyed about this for two days. At him, for not asking. At myself, for not offering. At the universe, for not intervening.
You could have written it on a napkin. On his arm. On the table in syrup. You had OPTIONS, Mitchell.
Bethany
Still on for drinks tonight? That new place downtown?
I stare at the message. The past two days feel like they happened in some alternate universe. Festival night with the tripped-out patients, breakfast with Reid that lasted until almost nine in the morning. Yesterday I slept until three, went to work, and had that car accident come in. Seeing Reid again, but not really getting to talk to him. We were flat out almost all night.
So do I want to go out for drinks?
Why the heck not. It's not like I'm going to meet people at home in my pajamas. But god, wouldn't that be amazing if I could? Maybe I should invent some app that would let lonely women connect with other women to get together and read books in silence. In their pajamas.
Yeah. That's a moneymaker idea right there. Too bad I don't know how to build an app. Or run a business.
Sure. What time?
Bethany
Eight? I'll pick you up.
Sounds good.
I put my phone away and head home. It's funny — a month ago, going out with Bethany would have been automatic. Tonight feels more like a choice. A conscious decision to maintain a friendship that I'm not entirely sure is working anymore.
That's not fair. She's your friend. She's been your friend for years. Just because you're changing doesn't mean she's doing something wrong.
But maybe it also doesn't mean I have to pretend I'm not changing. I wonder if she crochets? Would she be into a casual hangout at home?
Somehow, I can't picture it.
My apartment feels cool and quiet when I walk in. I drop my mat by the door, check on the fiddle leaf fig — still alive, still thriving, still my most stable relationship — and head straight for the shower.
The hot water feels amazing on my sore muscles. I stand there longer than I should, letting the steam clear my head. When I get out, I catch myself in the bathroom mirror. Hair damp and messy, cheeks still flushed, and I look... content. Not the restless, always-calculating-the-exit person I used to be. Just someone who had a good workout and is looking forward to next week's class.
Look at you. Owning furniture. Making plans. Not googling flights to anywhere.
It's scary, how good it feels to stay put.
I'm digging through my closet, trying to decide what to wear, whenmy phone buzzes again. I'm expecting Bethany with some change of plans or asking what I'm wearing.
It's not Bethany.
Unknown
Hey, it's Reid. When can I see u again?
I sit down on my bed. In my towel. Staring at my phone like it just spoke to me in French.
He got my number. Somehow. Probably from Joyce — I may have casually mentioned to her that if a certain paramedic happened to ask, she should feel free to share my contact information. And by "casually mentioned" I mean I asked her directly. And also wrote her a note. In case she forgot.
Very casual. Very breezy. No desperation whatsoever.
And he actually messaged. Part of me expected him to flake. But seriously, two days? Doesn't the girl handbook say to wait a while before responding?
No. I don't want to do that. I don't want to play games. I like him. He likes me enough to track down my number. Why complicate it?
