Page 28 of Her Name in Red
I swipe through a few more tagged photos. Riggs at hockey practice, muscles straining against his practice jersey. Riggs at some campus event, looking bored out of his mind while some blonde administrator drones on beside him. Riggs at the gym, shirt off, a scar on his left shoulder visible.
My apartment suddenly feels too quiet, too small. The TV has switched to some infomercial about knives that can cut through shoes.
I tap the messaging icon before I can talk myself out of it.
My fingers hover over the keyboard, hesitating for just a second. What the fuck am I doing? I've spent three days trying to scrub him from my brain like a bloodstain from carpet, and now I'm about to text him?
I type out a message, delete it, type again. The red of my nails flashes against the blue light of my phone screen, little warning signs I'm ignoring. Finally, I settle on something and hit send before I can chicken out.
That redhead doesn't look like your type. You seemed to prefer brunettes with sharper teeth the other night.
I set the phone down on my stomach as the infomercial guy is now slicing through a pineapple, the fruit splitting open in a waythat's oddly satisfying. I watch, not really seeing, while counting seconds in my head.
Twenty-three seconds later, my phone buzzes. I snatch it up so fast I nearly drop it.
Golden Boy
Who is this?
I smile, imagining the look on his face. Confusion, then that slow dawning realization. Is he alone right now? Or is the redhead still warming him up? The thought makes something twist in my stomach, ugly and violent.
Guess. I'll give you a hint. you had your tongue down my throat three days ago while your hands roamed.
I wait, watching the three dots appear, disappear, appear again. He's struggling with what to say.
Maren?
Give the hockey star a prize.
Another pause. Longer this time. I can almost see him staring at his phone, his eyes narrowing, trying to figure out my angle. The truth is, I don't have one. I'm just bored and restless, and he's been living rent-free in my head since that night.
Just how did you get my number?
I laugh out loud at that. As if getting his number was some impossible feat.
Welcome to the digital age, Rhodes. It’s literally not even a secret.
The three dots appear immediately.
Why are you texting me at 1 AM?
I glance at the time. Shit, he's right. I didn't even notice how late it had gotten. The apartment is darker now, with light only coming from the TV and my phone screen, casting everything in a sickly blue glow.
Why are you awake? Trouble sleeping? Or did your redhead friend leave you unsatisfied?
The TV drones on, now selling some bullshit ab machine. I can’t be bothered to change it or look for something else.
You've been busy. Scrolling through my social media. Finding my number. Should I be flattered or filing a restraining order?
Says the guy who's been staring at me any chance he can get. Don't play innocent. It doesn't suit you.
I can almost feel his frustration through the screen. The dots appear, disappear, appear again. I like knowing I can knock him off balance.
What do you want, Maren?
What do I want? Such a simple question with such a complicated answer. I want to tear him apart. I want to crawlinside his head and make a home there. I want to ruin him and save him all at once.
The golden boy with his perfect smile and the darkness I glimpsed behind his eyes. The boy who pushed me against a wall and kissed me like he was drowning and I was air. The boy whose lip I split open with my teeth just to see if he'd back away.
