Page 11 of Going Solo

When my phone went off again, it wasn’t a text. It was a photo of a shirtless, damp Cole, towel tied loosely around his waist, foggy bathroom mirror behind him, and one hand raised, with his fingers giving the “rock on” horns. His tongue was sticking out. Underneath the picture was a one-word caption.

Cole:Tune!

A Wotsit fell from my mouth and onto the bed sheet. Gaston leapt on it. I stared at Cole’s stunning, lean body. The tight musculature, the brown-pink nipples, the light rash of hair on his chest, and the treasure trail of short curls that disappeared under the towel. What was happening? What had I done to deserve this? How the hell was I meant to reply? Should I tell him he was beautiful? That his body was perfection? No one had ever sent me a flirty message before, let alone a picture. Wait, this was flirting, wasn’t it? How I replied seemed super important. It had to let him know I was interested.

Toby:Ur up late. Don’t u have 2 b up early 2 milk cows or something?

What can I say? I panicked.

Cole:Not tomorrow.

Three little dots danced on my screen. I licked the Wotsit dust from my lips.

Cole:Hey, um, sorry for the unsolicited pic. That wasn’t cool. My bad.

I was such an idiot. Now he thought I wasn’t into him when, in reality, I’d have hacked his phone for that kind of content. I hit pause on Madonna, threw the bed sheet off, and put an unimpressed Gaston out into the hallway. This conversation needed my full attention. I had to get better at this.

Toby:Don’t be silly babes.

How did I fix this? Should I send Cole a picture? I didn’t have a body like his. There was no way I was taking my top off. A cute face pic? A quick look in the mirror revealed Wotsit dust everywhere and a giant spot on my left cheek. I was beginning to spiral.

Cole:Are you sure? My sister is always going on about how consent is important. I got carried away. I’m sorry.

This was spinning out of my control. Now not only did Cole think I wasn’t into him, he was worried he might be a sex pest. My heart was thumping in my chest like an angry Karen demanding to speak to the manager. I had to get this back on track.

Toby:I absolutely consent.Ur well fit babes.

Cole:Thanks, Mr! So are you. ;)

So. Are. You? I threw the phone down on the bed and jumped up and down on the spot, silently screaming. It was more than I could take. My hands started to shake, and as my brain was now completely unable to function, it let my insecurities write back.

Toby:I’m really not babes.

My phone pinged.

Cole:Sorry, do I have the wrong number? This is Toby, right?

The message was followed by a photo of Cole scratching his head—his hair still wet and unbrushed from the shower, his shoulders bare—with a confused look on his face. He was so gorgeous. This was it. This was my cue to send Cole a photo in reply. If I didn’t, I was convinced he wouldn’t send me another one, and I wanted to see where this ended up—because I was sixteen and never been kissed and no boy had ever been interested in me before. He was interested in me, right?

I ripped my top off, looked in the bedroom mirror, and pulled it straight back on. Flesh was not the solution. I spotted a tub of mud mask on my chest of drawers. Thirty seconds later I had a face like I’d sneezed into a chocolate fountain, but my gigantic zit was hidden. I sucked my tummy in, tensed my non-existent muscles, framed myself up with my mirror in the background so it caught the round of my butt, and snapped the pic.Send. Ten seconds later my phone vibrated.

Cole:Are those Strawberry Shortcake pyjama bottoms?

Balls.

* * *

I thought I’d massively blown it. Over the next few days, the messages I got from Cole were less flirty. At least, I thought so. My phone would ping and my stomach would drop out my butt and I’d check my phone to see Cole had sent me a funny meme or a cat video. There were no more shirtless photos. I’d reply with an emoji or a short message, but there wasn’t much back and forth or banter. Then, on the Saturday night, I was sitting on my bed watching oldSonny & Cher Showclips on YouTube when a video call came through. It was Cole. I hadn’t jumped out of my skin like that since Aunty Cheryl quit experimenting with black market chemical peel treatments.

“There he is,” Cole said, a broad grin lighting up his face. He was lying back on what I guessed was his bed, shirtless, propped up against the bedhead with pillows.

“Hi,” I said. “This is a surprise.”

“A good one, I hope?”

“Of course.” I’m sure I blushed because my face felt exactly like it did about thirty seconds after Aunty Cheryl applied the black market chemical peel.

“I’m not interrupting, am I?”

---