Page 81 of Look, Don't Touch

I order dinner. Not Nobu. Then I pour myself a glass of wine, curl up with Plinko on the couch, and stare at the stowaway. I’m not even two sips in when I reach forward and flip it open. Plinko leaves my ever-shifting lap and tucks himself by my feet.

There, on a neon pink sticky note, is a cell number with Arlo’s name scrawled above it with three lines underneath and an exclamation beside it.

My phone sits next to the heap of files, taunting me.

I set my wine on the table, snatch my phone, and open my text messages.

He left things so open and raw the other night. My pussy, my legs, and my emotions. We need closure or something.

That’s the only reason I start typing.

I go with simple and concise.

I’m sorry. I can’t. It’s not you. It’s me.

I’m about to close the app and hide my phone away when immediate text bubbles appear.

My breath goes from gas to solid in my lungs.

Woof!

A laugh blasts through the clump in my lungs and rockets out of me. It’s the same thing I said to him when he said something similar to me. I begin typing, and my laugh dies a sudden death.

I’m broken.

More bubbles.

No, you're not. You’re scared. There’s a difference.

I stare at the screen for far too long. There is a difference. And I am fucking terrified of letting him in.

My phone vibrates in my hand.

How’d you get my number?

Before I can respond, it jiggles again.

Are you stalking me?

As a rule, I’m against stalking. I’ll make an exception for you.

You are the exception to all of my rules.

I don’t respond. I don’t know what to say, but I hold my phone to my chest as I drift off to sleep in a curled ball on my sofa.

When I wake, I have a crick in my neck, a phone print between my breasts, and I have no sense of time.

I tap my phone screen for the hour.

9:30 p.m.

I’m officially old. No matter that I hadn’t slept well the two previous nights. I can’t waste much time on the fact because a new text has stolen all my attention. Several actually.

Arlo’s number spells itself out above the preview window since I haven’t programmed it in. With one click, it comes to life. It’s a scrawling story.

My First Kiss

A lifetime's worth of dread prepared me for the worst.

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