Page 47 of Secrets and Lies
“Fuck.” It’s almost two in the morning. I have an early class tomorrow that I’m definitely skipping.
“If you could shut the fuck up now, that would be great,” I say into the quiet room. It’s probably a sign of just how insane I actually am, but talking to my “brain” out loud like that is something I’ve always done. It doesn’t always work, but verbally interrupting my thoughts is sometimes enough to break whatever hold they have on me before I fall too far down the spiral.
I’m just putting my phone down when I accidentally press the home button, and my phone lights up, my lock screen bright in the dark room.
Something in my gut twists painfully at the photo of McKenna and me under the prompt for my passcode. It’s my favorite picture of us because, unlike almost every other photo we’ve taken together, we didn’t pose for it.
Our first official date was when we attended the annual Belmont Valentine Ball, and we posed for dozens, if not hundreds, of photos together. All of them turned out great, and McKenna looked amazing, but the snapshot of us sitting on a fancy settee together is the one that means the most to me.
In it, we’re leaning against each other and laughing with glasses of champagne in our hands. We were halfway to wasted by this point, but in that moment, we looked so happy and carefree, and messy.
It’s one of the few pictures I have of us where we’re not perfectly put together and focusing on our angles and gettingthe right shot over just being in the moment and having fun together.
My gut churns with something I can’t quite place. It’s not anger or even sadness, but the longer I look at the photo, the stronger the feeling gets.
“Fuck it,” I say to no one and sit up, my phone clutched in my hand.
I know with every fiber of my being that this is wrong and I should just put my phone down and go back to tossing and turning until I eventually fall asleep, but I can’t.
This is the only part of the clusterfuck that is my life right now that I have any sort of control over. And I need answers, even if I don’t want them.
A little flutter of nerves interrupts the sour feeling that’s been growing in my stomach as I open my texts, and I can practically hear my brain screaming “Abort!” when I tap on the thread I’m looking for.
West: I need to see it
I’m not expecting an answer since it’s two in the morning, and I have a brief moment of panic after I hit send, but it quickly fades, and I’m noticeably calmer as I exit out of my texts.
There. It’s out in the universe and I can’t take it back, so there’s no point freaking out about it. And if I change my mind in the morning or whenever he gets back to me, I can just delete his texts without looking at them.
Relief washes over me, my tight muscles relaxing as I put my phone back on my bedside table and lie down.
Ping.
I instantly go on high alert at the text notification, and stare at my phone like I’ve never seen it before as the light on my screen slowly fades until it goes back into sleep mode.
What the fuck? Is that him? It can’t be. He wasn’t supposed to answer me until tomorrow. Why is he awake and not sleeping like a normal person?!
Ping.
Slowly, I pick up my phone and check the notification bar in the off chance that it wasn’t him and someone else decided to text me at two in the morning.
Unsurprisingly, they’re from him, and I bite my lip as indecision wars inside me.
I could just ignore him and deal with the texts in the morning, but I already know that’s not an option. I read a poem in one of my lit classes about a guy who hides the heart of someone he killed in his house, and all he could hear was the heart beating and reminding him of his crime and the evidence he hid.
My phone would become that heart, and I’d spend every waking moment between now and when I eventually give in and look at the texts thinking about them and hearing phantom phone notifications.
I could delete the thread without opening it, but I already know I’m not going to do that. I didn’t do it when he sent the first ones, or after we messaged, I’m not going to do it now. My brain won’t let me. I can’tnotread them.
More nerves flutter around in my chest, and I open the text thread.
Unknown: If you’re sure
The next text is a video file, but the thumbnail for it is small and dark, and I can’t really make out anything on it.
My thumb hovers over the video, and it’s like my emotions all grow and feed into each other until they blend and merge into an overwhelming crescendo that blocks every other thought outside of finally seeing the damn video and putting the what-ifs to rest.
I tap on the video, then tap it again to expand it so it fills my screen.
