Page 12 of Back to You
“Yeah, um, she’s one of my favorite actresses,” I offer.
Her face lights up. “Stop, we should totally watch it together then. Like, for real.”
“I’d love to,” I say earnestly.
She beams at me and offers up her fries. “Try the chili-cheese ones. They’re to die for. You think I’m being hyperbolic, but I would literally lay down my life for them.”
I’m laughing as I take two from her. The fries are so fresh and crispy that I can taste the oil where it’s hardened around the edges, but the potato is still soft in the middle. I pop three more into my mouth and lick the seasoning from my fingers. A soft, contented sigh escapes my lips.
“What?” Luke asks, studying me.
“Nothing,” I say. “I’m just happy.”
Thank u for the ride home!!
I stare at the text on my phone, the five words I agonized over and deleted twice before finally sending. I imagine reading them from his perspective. Is it too formal? Too friendly? Is it too soon? I only entered the front door half an hour ago.
Then three little dots appear. Typing.
Pause.
Typing again.
anytime
thanks for coming tonight
I bite back a grin.
I had fun, I tell him, and I’m surprised to find that I did. Had it been somewhat terrifying and immensely overwhelming? Yes, of course. Will I be going out clubbing again anytime soon? Uncertain. But I’m glad I went, and I’ll remember tonight. If I had stayed home, it would’ve been justanother night, lost to nothing, slowly erased by the passage of time.
I did too, he writes.
Then, a few seconds later:gonna go shower now
ok! goodnighttt
I expect that to be the end of it. I probably won’t hear from him until days later, or he’ll never text me again. But then my phone lights up. An incoming video call from him.
I fumble for my earphones, thrilled, confused, convincing myself it’s a mistake. Even so, I quickly smudge some eyeshadow on my eyes, line my lips, and position myself on my bed before I pick up.
He appears on my screen. He’s squinting slightly, half drunk or sleepy, or maybe it’s simply too bright, the blue glow of the phone illuminating his features against the darkness of his bedroom. He has the camera raised just above his chest, but I can see the bare, tanned stretch of skin around his shoulders, enough to know he isn’t wearing a shirt anymore.
“Hey,” I say quietly, casually, leaning my cheek against my hand, like this is my most comfortable position. Like I don’t have my shirt strategically pulled down past one shoulder, like my heart isn’t beating hard in my throat.
“Good night,” he says.
I stifle a laugh. “Did you call me just to say that out loud?”
“Is that a really bad excuse?”
“No,” I whisper.
“Why are you whispering?”
I pause and listen for footsteps, creaks, any signs my parents might have woken. “My parents are still sleeping,” I explain, then wince at how childish I must sound, like a teenager afraid of getting grounded.
But he doesn’t seem to be judging me. His expression is thoughtful, almost wistful. “It’s nice that you’re around your parents. I wouldn’t mind seeing mine more.”
