Page 7 of Wrong Number, Right Soldier
She works them over gently, but thoroughly. My phone in my bag is in Focus mode for the next hour, with only one of my contact’s notifications “allowed” just in case: Trey. I feel my body slowly descend from hyper-tense to mildly alert to something that feels…almost like sleep.
And then suddenly, my phone goes bananas in my bag. My eyes pop open and I flip over too quickly, startling Hannah, the massage therapist.
“I’m so sorry, I have to just see who that is!”
It’s around 5 p.m. now, so like 1 a.m. there so I don’t really think it could be him, butit could be him. Did my Focus mode glitch?He’s the only allowed contact.
Hannah gives me a look that’s a sprinkle of patience mixed with a heavy dose of concern. “You sure, honey? You have thirty minutes still.”
“Yes, I am so sorry,” I say again, with the sheet wrapped around me and my hands already diving into my bag for the phone. “It could be my…boyfriend.”
Oh, so we’re sayingthatword now?
To strangers—but still.
Now Hannah has transformed into full-on parental stance, eyes dark and pinpointed, her mouth set in a firm line. I might actually be the same age as her, and I feel like I’m in trouble.
“Donotlet a man have control over you,” she says, an air of righteous authority I’m intrinsically compelled to cower to, no questions asked.
Except—“No, no, it’s not like that. He’s in…Kuwait.”
All at once, Hannah does a complete one-eighty. “Oh!Well hurry, answer, answer it!”
Trey’s name and a handsome, smirking selfie he sent for me to save as his Contact photo brightens my phone screen, and I look up wide-eyed at Hannah, unable and unwilling to wipe the goofy-ass grin off my face, as I swipe to answer.
“There you are, sweetheart.”
At the sound of his warm, masculine voice, Hannah does a pretend swoon and collapses onto the massage bed.
#
Trey
“Hey, sorry, I was just getting a massage when you called. Isn’t it like, the middle of the night there?”
“I couldn’t sleep. Did I interrupt your massage? We can talk later.”
“It was almost done, but is everything okay?”
“Yes,” I say in a whisper, not wanting to wake up anyone else. I feel a broad smile slam onto my face. I’m already feeling more relaxed, just spending a few minutes with the sound of her voice.
So this is how addictions work.
“Just wanted to hear your voice a minute.”
“Oh, okay. Hi.” She smiles. Fuck. That’s what I needed.
“Hi, sweetheart.” My eyes start to fall closed, and Saylis lets out a soft giggle.
“You’re cute with your bedhead,” she murmurs, making me grin. I probably look drunk. In a way, I sort of am. “You should sleep…”
“Mmm,” I acknowledge her words with a low hum. “Come visit my dreams?”
“Close your eyes, Trey,” Saylis commands, her voice a thread of the sweetest, softest singsong breath. I’ve started to become familiar with all of her voices: her anxious, scatterbrained voice; her compassionate, listening voice, the one that is always encouraging me, or at the very least tries to understand me; her hungover voice after a night out with her friends—how it’s scratchy and throaty but is happy like an ELO record from the 70s; her hungry voice; herhangryvoice; her sad voice I never want to be the reason for.
Even herteacher voicecomes out sometimes, which I’ve discovered I have a definite affinity for.
“There you go.” A faint, lyrical whisper. “I’ll be right there…” Her voice drifts far away.
