Page 14 of Texting the Wrong Bikers

Chapter 4

Sadie

By Friday, I’ve spent more time talking to Tyler than I have to any other adult all week, possibly all year. I’m twenty-nine years old, divorced, and somehow grinning at my phone like a hormonal teenager every time it buzzes. It’s ridiculous. Completely ridiculous. The worst part? I don’t even try to stop myself anymore.

Somewhere between the late-night sexting, the constant teasing, and the way he always seems to know exactly what to say, hours have started to disappear as we talk. We don’t even talk about anything important half the time. We chat about music, storms, movies, food, childhood anecdotes, sex, the gym, more sex, random bullshit, anything that pops into our minds; it comes easily and naturally, like slipping into warm water. I don’t think twice about texting him whatever pops into my head, and he always responds right away, making me smile.

The strangest part is the contradictions. Sometimes, Tyler is cocky and shamelessly flirty, pushing my buttons just to get a reaction out of me. Other times, he’s quieter, sharper, and more observant. Sometimes he types in short, rough sentences that make heat curl low in my stomach. Other times, he sends long, teasing messages that make me laugh so hard that Owen pauses what he’s doing and asks what’s funny, his expression a mixture of bemusement and happiness.

It should feel weird, this constant shifting, but instead it just makes him more interesting. Like there are layers to him I never noticed before.

Rain taps steadily against the kitchen windows while I stand barefoot at the counter on Friday morning, trying to answer emails with one hand and make pancakes with the other. My laptop sits open beside a bowl of pancake batter while Owen zooms toy garbage trucks across the floor, making dramatic engine noises.

My phone buzzes again. Immediately, my gaze drops to it, like an addict unable to wait even a moment to scratch the itch. It’s him.

Morning, trouble.

Heat blooms stupidly fast in my chest. I bite back a smile as I type my reply.

“Mommy,” Owen says seriously from the floor, “the pancake is burning.”

I look down. There’s smoke coming from the skillet. “Shit!” The pancake is black.

Owen gasps delightedly because, apparently, swearing is comedy gold at four years old.

“Language,” I mutter automatically as I scrape the ruined pancake into the trash and rinse the skillet, ready to start again.

My phone buzzes.

Do you also smile every time your phone goes off?

My stomach flips. He feels the same way. Maybe. I reply, trying to play it cool.

Three dots appear instantly.

Cutie. I wanna see that smile.

God. I hate how much that affects me; I quickly snap a selfie and send it before I can think too much. I’ve actually put on a little makeup today in anticipation of seeing him in person later. I’m going to the gym after all.

Rain darkens the world outside the kitchen windows, turning everything gray-blue and soft. Thunder rumbles somewhere far off while Owen happily plays with his trucks.

I spend the entire morning distracted. Emails go half answered. Laundry is forgotten in the washer. My coffee gets reheated three times, bitter by the time I finish it, and I grimace. Every time I put my phone down, it buzzes again.

By noon, I’m sitting cross-legged on the living room floor, helping Owen build an elaborate storm bunker out of couch cushions while texting one-handed.

My son says thunderstorms sound like sky motorcycles.

The reply comes almost immediately:

Kid sounds smart.

I grin down at the screen. I never told Tyler before that I have a kid, but I love how easily he’s taken it in stride after I first mentioned him. If it bothers him that I’m a single mom, he certainly hasn’t let on.

He takes after his mom.

I think I know him well enough that he’d get my humor and not think I was being egotistical.

You’re a smart cookie. Or else you wouldn’t be talking to me…