Page 72 of Can We Just Be Happy Now?

Me: You can SEE that I did. What the fuck, Sophie.

Sophie: I swear I didn’t mean to send it to you. It was for someone else.

My blood boils at her message, at the thought of anyone else seeing her this way.

Jealousy.

Rage.

Attraction.

Everything I feel toward her is unmatched compared to everyone else.

I didn’t get the impression she’s been sleeping around, but it also makes me fucking sick to think about, so I try not to.

Me: Why? Did you add sexting to your bucket list?

Sophie: What do you mean, why? I felt good today, and someone needed to see it.

I’m probably angrier than I should be, but it already takes every ounce of willpower I have to not flick the worn and thinned rubber band every time I’m near her and revel in it snapping. And apparently she doesn’t feel the same tension between us?

Me: You shouldn’t be sending pictures like that. You can’t trust people that way.

Sophie: Don’t tell me what to do. You don’t even know the person I sent it to.

Me: Do you?

Sophie: So, I guess you didn’t mean what you wrote in my book.

Me: What does that have to do with anything?

These little notes have always been my stupid way of letting her know how I felt before we reached a more open and honest level of our friendship, but this birthday feels different, more complicated. This has been the hardest year for us, so I sat on what to write for an entire week, wanting to find the perfect thing that let her know how thankful I am that we've revived our friendship, how much happier I am when she’s around–without making her think I’m ready for more. The year I realized I never want to live life without you is what I settled on.

Sophie: You said you always want me in your life. So, don’t push me away for stupid reasons.

Jesus fucking Christ.

Me: Of course I want that. But come the fuck on, Sophie. If you don’t want me to tell you that you deserve better than sending naked snaps, don’t accidentally send them to me. You shouldn’t have expected anything else.

Sophie: You can’t be a possessive ass and not want to be my boyfriend.

She’s right. It feels like we have this unspoken contract–one where we belong to each other, yet don’t collect the benefits. It’s not fair. Maybe it’s not even logical. I haven’t touched another girl since I broke things off with Kylie the night of the 80s party, but I don’t care because I don’t want anyone else. Apparently I’m the only one of us on board with that contract, though.

Me: Whatever. It’s your life and your body. Do what you want.

Sophie: I will. Thanks.

Possessed by sexual frustration and refusal to give into something else I’d probably regret later, I click on the image again, knowing the app will let me view it one more time. God, she’s perfect. I hate everything about her being on the other side of this picture. I don’t know what compels me to pinch the buttons on either side of my phone, but the screenshot flashes on my screen before minimizing and saving to my photos. Her message comes through almost immediately.

Sophie: I can see that, stupid.

Oh, fuck. I forgot you get a notification if someone screenshots a snap.

Sophie: You better delete it.

I don’t.

I punch out the only good decision I’m capable of making right now.

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