Why not do it? She flicked her hair and lay on her pillow, but felt too exposed and closed her eyes before she pushed the button.
Rey
Now I can imagine what you look like asleep after we text.
Me:
He’d applied some sort of magazine-model filter to his photo, because he shouldn’t look that good sprawled on a pillow. He had one hand behind his head, which stretched his sleeve over his arm muscles and revealed the edges of his tattoo. His eyes looked almost asleep, or maybe barely awake, and she could imagine he was next to her.
She rolled to her stomach, worried that if she didn’t cool off, in five minutes she’d be removing clothes like a teenager.
The knock on the steel bulkhead door made her jump. “Phone sex patrol,” her roommate’s voice called.
“We’re not even talking,” she yelled while she typed.
Casey’s here.
“Whatcha doing then?” Casey’s laugh was loud enough to hear through the door, the product of the deck-side celebration. “Sexting or something?”
Casey had a point. Or maybe an idea.
Chapter 12
September
Rey had to senda 750- to 1,000-word comprehensive narrative essay to the University of Washington by September 15 to have a prayer of beginning winter quarter. Flat on his ass five months ago, he hadn’t planned past his next physical therapy session. Now, assuming he didn’t develop heterotopic ossification bone growths, he’d finish outpatient therapy by the holidays. If he wanted to sit in a classroom near Grace instead of on his butt in Salito, the transfer student application in front of him was the first hurdle.
I spent ten great years around the world blowing things up and patching people together, and one bad day getting blown up. After the personal challenge of relearning basic life skills, my goal is to help others conquer obstacles.
He recognized the cliché.
Please consider me for admission as a transfer student in Medical Anthropology and Global Health. I have sixty-five credits of distance learning and more real-world experience in global health than I am allowed to describe.
His odds of finishing the Marine Corps Marathon were better than his chance of being admitted with that submission, but the jaunty “Eh-Sexy-Lady” refrain of a Korean pop song interrupted his pity party with his nightly reminder. Eleven fifty-eight in his time zone. In two minutes he could connect with Grace.
He’d framed a five-by-seven print of the photo of her with her eyes closed and her hair spread on the pillow. Her mouth curved in what was probably a self-conscious smile, but he pretended it was the look of a satisfied woman about to drift to sleep. Sometimes he propped the picture on his stomach while they texted, like face-to-face conversation, but tonight he placed her image on top of the university application.
Hi.
The seconds before she replied worried him with random thoughts that she’d tell him she was busy or on a date or one of the hundred things women did at night rather than text a guy on the other side of the country.
Grace
Hi back.
She answered, making the end of his day the part worth waiting for.
Busy day?
Grace
Tons of data to crunch after our cruise, so I was stuck at the computer.
Me too,he thought, but didn’t share his hopes about the UW. He’d be embarrassed if he didn’t get in, or if she thought he was a creepy stalker.
Did you run?
Grace
