Page 59 of Emily: Hello Kitten

So I break another unspoken rule and call her. She doesn’t even check her phone. She doesn’t reach for it. I know she can hear it because I can from where I’m parked. Instead, she finishes cleaning up her makeup, then heads inside the dormbuilding. I sit there, not sure what to do. I hiss and almost leave a message, but I don’t.

I hate having to keep us a secret. It’s eating me up. I want to dote on her. I want to take her on dates she deserves. I want to show her everything she can have, everything I can give her, simply to make her happy.

There’s no exchange between us. I like making her come. I like making her laugh. I like making her smile, cuddling her close to me when she falls asleep. I want to hear everything she thinks about literature and the world.

How the hell did I fall so hard for this girl in such a short amount of time? She was right—we should have left this as a one-night stand, but maybe even then I was drunk on her. She feeds something in me, something I can’t explain. But she makes the world feel brighter, makes my smile feel more genuine, and all I want to do is see what she accomplishes, to be there to cheer her on, to encourage her.

“I want you to read, just to me,”she said before I pounced on her in my car.

No, it’s not just sex between us, but sex is all she’ll accept from me right now. I can’t lay her down on my couch, put on some rain sounds, then read her whatever book she wants to hear, horror, romance, classic, fucking medieval pieces. I’ll do the accents, I’ll make her laugh, make her cry for the characters in the story. I will give her everything.

I end up going to get dinner after sending more texts that don’t get replies.

When I park in the commuter lot as Public Safety does their rounds, I feel like a fucking stalker. Finally, I head back to her dorm and add to the list of two unanswered texts.

Stay safe for me, kitten.

I’m worried about you.

Are you okay?

I stare at my phone, hoping she’ll at least read it, but she doesn’t. Because the text doesn’t go through. I groan, then see her walking out with her friends. They’re laughing, but it doesn’t touch Emily’s eyes.

Her friend from class, Beth, bounces with her, and I hear her say, “I’m so excited!”

Because Emily hasn’t been going out lately.

I know I should trust her. I know that she’s free to do what she wants with her friends. She can drink, she can have fun. As long as one person in the group is responsible, that’s all that matters, but fuck, I want to protect her.

It’s hypocritical. I got plastered regularly in college. I passed out at a frat party and woke up under a mountain of red Solo cups. The nights I don’t remember while having fun are more than I want to admit, but I didn’t have to worry about being drugged. I didn’t have to worry about some large dude carrying me up to his room and doing terrible things to me.

Whether it’s fair or not, Emily is in more danger than I would ever be at a frat party, and considering how eager that boy in the hallway was for her attention, her kisses, and more….

“Don’t assume. Don’t assume. College boys say stupid things. It doesn’t mean they follow through,” I tell myself.

But I care. I care to the point that it’s bordering on insanity because Emily just won’t let me in. She doesn’t share the real shit with me. She keeps holding back. Maybe it’s because of the age difference. Maybe I’m pushing her too hard, but it’s eating me up.

There’s no way I can storm into a frat party and pull her out. I can’t hop from party to party without being recognized, either. It will absolutely ensure that I’m fired, even if I don’t find Emily.

I want to text her again, I’m desperate to, so I try to resend the message. We just need to talk things out.

But a darker part of me thinks about Clarissa. I wouldn’t have to worry about that woman going out drinking to deal with a misunderstanding. I wouldn’t have to hide myself away and sit patiently, or impatiently, in this case. I could just make sure she’s okay, we’d talk it out, and we’d move on.

“I chose this. I know she’s younger,” I remind myself, because it’s true.

Clarissa is attractive. Having a relationship with her would be easy. We’d have more in common on a surface level, but it’s not Clarissa I ache for. It’s not Clarissa I’d give up my job for. It sure as hell isn’t Clarissa whom I’d tolerate this level of silence for.

Having fun. With friends. Talk tomorrow.

I reread the text from Emily three times. I’m not sure whether it’s passive-aggressive, if it’s straightforward, or if she’s just blowing me off. It’s an answer of some kind.

I send another text.

Be safe, have fun. I promise we’ll talk it out. Be angry with me tonight, but please be willing to listen tomorrow.

Again, it doesn’t send.

Is the universe warning me against texting her too much? It’s failing.

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