Page 65 of Rory Rides Her Fake Fiancé
I also have a text from Morgan—several actually.
Morgan
Drive safe.
Barty says hi.
What do you do for dinner when you’re on the job?
That second one includes a picture of Bartholomeow loafing on the top of Morgan’s fridge, looking annoyed that he has to tolerate paparazzi.
I send Morgan a selfie of me with my Thai takeout. He’s probably at work right now, and I’m tired from the long day’s drive, so I fall asleep before he can respond.
In the morning, his response is waiting for me, sent around 10 p.m.
Morgan
Hello gorgeous.
He added a heart eyes emoji, and it makes me smile. A second text came at almost midnight.
Morgan
I’m getting ready for bed, and I expect you’ll be reading this when you wake up. So, good morning, my queen.
Morgan and I text all week. Sometimes it’s just random photos that I respond to with emojis: Princess with four tennis balls in her mouth, upside down on the lawn; Miss Mullins’s T-shirt that she wears on Wednesday with Rosie the Riveter saying “Let’s take down the patriarchy”; the view down Main Street during a walk with Princess where the trees lining the road have turned bright, vibrant yellow. I respond in kind: a picture of a bandaged finger when I sliced my cuticle open on a clamshell package (he responds with a kissing emoji), a Catskill Mountains bumper sticker I spot on a Subaru, and the fall foliage here on the Cape, which isn’t as vibrant as upstate yet.
Every message sends a thrill through me.
Maybe I am unused to this kind of attention. The crescendo of flattery is battering my defenses. Grandma loves me, I know that. But her love is like a thief in the night sneaking in and leaving a somewhat formal letter on your pillow that ends with “Love, Grandma,” whereas Morgan’s affection is like coming home to a battered front door, rose petals trailing to the bedroom and an effusive and slightly R-rated (with illustrations) love note instead.
But it’s also terrifying. Every photo just furthers this idea that Morgan is so rooted in Here and I am not. Grandma and I both ignore this truth—no matter where she settles, I will still be living on the road most of the time.
Thursday morning I wake up with a different sort of text from Morgan.
Morgan
Hey, you didn’t come by the house, did you?
Never mind.
Call me when you can, no matter the time.
It’s six thirty, and I dial anyway, lying on my side in the hotel bed.
“’Lo?” Morgan’s voice is scratchy and sleep-laden.
“It’s me.”
“Hey.” The automatic softening and warmth sends my heart fluttering. Even mostly asleep, Morgan’s affection comes through loud and clear. “How are you?”
I can’t help but smile into the phone. “You told me to call you? Remember?”
“Oh shit, yeah.” He’s much more alert now. “Someone broke into the garage and the house.”
I sit up. “What? Is the car still there?”
“Yeah it is, but a window’s broken. The glove compartment was open, and in my house any paperwork I have was ransacked.”
