Page 52 of Unsteady

RHYS

Hey.

SADIE

Is this the equivalent of a Koteskiy ‘You up?’ text?

RHYS

Do you want it to be?

Panicking, I send another text right after.

Just laying in bed and listening to music.

Instead of a text back, I get a picture of her that has me shooting upright in bed, dropping my phone through suddenly slippery hands before pulling it up to my face as if I’ll miss it if I close my eyes for even a second.

She’s lying down, her hair in a mess of waves played around a mess of blue sheets and a white comforter. Not smiling, really, but her lips tick up lightly in one corner of their slightly pursed position. Her eyes are sharp, the dark gray piercing even through a screen, skin slightly flushed and the worn wire of her old headphones—which she must’ve stolen back—dangling across her sharp collarbones.

My eyes trail her bare shoulders, one of the straps of her tank top slinking half off, giving way to a multitude of freckles scattered like stars across her skin.

I wonder how long would be too long not to respond, if I have time for a shower while imagining my fingers touching every single freckle I can find in a very thorough search.

Shaking my head, I spot the text beneath the photo—after I save it to my phone and stare at it for an embarrassing length of time.

SADIE

Funny, I’m doing the same thing.

I feel ridiculous for a moment while retyping my texts four times, knowing full well she can see the little dots appearing and disappearing repeatedly.

RHYS

Too bad I don’t look as good as you doing that.

SADIE

Yeah, then Freddy might try to sleep with you.

A laugh threatens to burst, pulling at my lips, even just this, just her written words are enough to chase a little of the anxiety sitting in this too empty room away.

SADIE

I’m as exhausted as I look tho, so I’m probably gonna crash soon and ghost you.

It takes me another too-long moment to decide what to say, finally settling on:

RHYS

You don’t look exhausted.

I wait, sitting my phone away from me for minutes, then uselessly bringing it up to my face and back face down on the bed, as if it will prevent me from checking again and again. But, her lack of response must mean she’s sleeping now.

Standing, I leave the phone in my bedroom and head into the large, dark bathroom that’s been spotlessly cleaned this summer by Bennett to the point it looks as if no one has ever lived here. I strip and close the door behind me before turning the shower all the way hot.

For a moment, I look in the mirror as I run my hand along the light scar over my eyebrow, a smaller one beneath my eye that’s nearly invisible unless touched; both from visor injuries during the hit, both of which I don’t remember receiving.

My body is healed, fully, every bit of it pressed back together. My mind is the thing that’s broken, permanently.

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