I’ll have you know I can bedelicate.
I can be downright dainty.
You?
Eric Woodard?
Dainty?
I’d flip you off, but I don’t have the energy.
Poor baby.
Do what I do. Think of the lake to stay sane.
I’d do disgusting things to jump in that ice-cold water right about now.
Ah, yes. That perfect water. So temperate and mild.
I keep replaying that part where you tried to drownme.
Is that how it happened, though?
Yeah, it is.
You looked damn good committing attempted murder, too.
Flattery will get you everywhere with me.
I’ll keep that in mind next time I want something.
Actually, I want something now.
Pay up, then.
You’re really gonna make me serve compliments?
Still waiting.
You have the most infectious smile I’ve ever seen. People look at me funny all the time when I’m walking around campus because I’ll think about it, and then I’ll smile too.
My heart kicks triple time in my chest as I stare at the words, reading them over and over until the text blurs. He could’ve told me anything just to keep the game going. He could’ve said I have nice hair, or that I have a good voice, or that I’m funny when I’m trying too hard. Those are things that are believable because they’re true, and they’resafe.
They don’t cost him anything. They don’t leave him exposed.
But this is different.
Dmitri didn’t have to give me anything real. He could’ve played it cool or kept it light, left the walls up the way we both usually do. Instead he handed me this small, unguarded piece of himself.
It doesn’t feel like a compliment—it feels like a confession.
I press the heel of my hand against my chest like I can slow my pulse down, but it’s useless. My throat feels thick, eyes stinging in a way that has nothing to do with the glaring sunlight.
I read it again. And again. I’m not used to someone choosing honesty when deflection would’ve been easier. My thumbs hover over the keyboard for a long time before I finally type anything back.
You’re gonna kill me with lines like that, you know.
Dmitri (11:57 A.M.)
