Page 43 of Left-Hand Larceny

My stats book lays abandoned on the floor along with a fluorescent pink highlighter, cap halfway off and bleeding fluorescent pink into the carpet. I think about moving it, but there’s already a stain and I can’t make my body sit up and grab the cap. My laptop screen has long gone black. But my phone sits lit on the pillow beside me, like it’s waiting for me to pick it up again. Text him. Again.

I’d been hovering for the last ten minutes, thumbs twitching, brain whispering reasons not to text him this late: he’s probably sleeping, he has practice in the morning, I’m the one who set the boundaries of our “agreement” and now I’m the one not respecting them…

None of that changes the fact that I want to.

Me:

Hey. Sorry it’s late. Just wanted to say thanks again for earlier. I don’t know what I’d do without your help right now.

…

The little typing bubble pops up almost immediately, and I watch as the three dots appear and disappear over and over. My stomach clenches, fluttering like it’s full of angry, winged creatures. I shut off my screen and launch my phone as far away from me as I can. I feel like a teenager, my nervous system on high alert as I wait for him to text me back. What if he doesn’t…

My phone buzzes, and I sprawl across my mattress to snatch it.

Ólaffson:

You’re smart, Sadie.

You just need support, not judgment.

God.

I re-read that twice, biting the inside of my cheek. Tell that to my parents. To my boss, my friends, my coworkers, and my ex. It doesn’t matter how kind they are, eventually they stop giving me grace. They think I should just “try harder.” Like focus is a faucet I can just turn on. Like there isn’t a very real fifty-foot wall made of boulders and spikes that I have to climb over every time I need to start something new.

Ólaffson:

It’s not your fault if people don’t see it. It’s their loss for not recognizing how hard you already work.

I see it.

A pause.

Ólaffson:

I think you’re incredible

Oh.

Okay.

Damn.

I wasn’t expecting that. The directness of it. The softness. It hits me square in the chest and melts down somewhere low in my belly. I curl tighter into my blanket, heat creeping over my cheeks. It was nothing, just a compliment. A sweet one. Kind. Maybe he was just being nice.

But my body didn’t get the memo. It reacts anyway, my breath catching a little. Skin prickling. That weird ache waking up between my thighs like my libido has been asleep too long and suddenly remembers it’s ravenous.

From a set of texts.

Me:

You’re being really nice to me.

Dangerous level of nice.

Ragnar:

Is it dangerous?

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