Page 36 of Left-Hand Larceny
I send the picture to my sister—dog photos are the least I can do—and she hearts it immediately, but no little dots appear. She’s probably on phone lockdown.
An instinct, I open my social media app. It takes three tries to get my passcode right. I vow to never tell Tristan how infrequently I update my pages.
I upload the photo, muttering a few choice Icelandic curses when my thumb hits every button but the ones I need. This might not be the main reason I don’t use social media, but it’s definitely on the list.
“Somebody misses his favorite girl.”
Vic catches a glimpse of the screen, and gives me a smug thumbs-up.
“Nice,” he says. “The soft-launch. With a pup. Classic.”
Panic sets in fast. Fokk. I was too obvious. The picture was for Kat, yes, but I picked that one for a reason. A double reason. And then I wasn’t thinking of my sister at all when I put in on the photo site. And I should take it down. Right? Just delete it? That’s doable. I know the internet is forever but I can just…
“Don’t delete it,”
Vic snags the phone from my hand and holds it just out of reach. I won’t jump for it. I won’t. I don’t care that he has it. That I’m wasting valuable seconds I could use to make sure I didn’t just make this thing between me and Sadie irrevocably weird. I’m cool as a pickle. Or whatever the saying is.
“Seriously. It fucks up all the algorithms and shit. And Tristan adores you, so I’ll be the one in trouble for letting you do it.” He leans in and drops his voice to lower decibel. “She’ll cut me off, Rags. From sex. Have mercy.”
“I-it’s for my s-sister.” I wipe my sweaty palms on the nylon of my gym shorts.
“Sure it is.” This time Vic winks, but he hands the phone back. “Don’t worry, I’m just giving you a hard time. I doubt anyone will make the connection.”
Unless they were with us at the orchard. Or Gershwins. That’s the part he doesn’t say out loud. He doesn’t have to.
I tuck my phone away, determined to finish my last set, but my stomach’s doing that ridiculous flutter thing again. My phone pings with a reply before I’m even started. A tiny red notification flag tells me I have two hundred and thirteen new notifications on my photo. It takes two tries to get the link to show me what people are saying. I know I shouldn’t read them. I never have before, but this time I need to see with my own two eyes what the response is. Vic has me worried I’ve crossed some boundary.
Most of the comments say how cute Howl is, offering to watch him when I’m out of town, weird, or offering other things when I’m in town, weirder. I’m blushing so hard I think even my bones are lobster red. Then I see it.
@Just.Sadie.J…:
omg he looks so handsome. Give him ear scritches for me.
I scroll back and look again. Next to the username is a tiny circular photo. The woman’s face isn’t visible, just her back, but I recognize the fall of dark hair, a pale pink strand peeking out at her nape. I reread the comment once, twice, a third time before I type my response.
@Olaffson33:
Comeover anytime and do it yourself.
My heart pounds in my chest like I just pulled a full-ice sprint. It beats even harder when I get the notice that she liked my response. I pocket my phone, refusing to analyze it too hard. It’s nothing. It’s a joke. It’s normal. Banter. Part of the persona I’m supposed to learn to play.
But Vic’s also right. I am down bad.
I have been for a while.
It’s not something I can afford to want. The last thing I need is to hope for things I was never meant to have. Not when the only thing I’m good at—the only thing I’ve ever really had—is the game and the ice.
Another buzz against my thigh. A text this time.
Sadie:
Nice post!
I’m proud of you.
Me too, Sadie. Me too.
I stare at my statistics textbook like it has personally wronged me.
