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Thirty-Two
BROOKE
I called in sick for the next two days, which was really a no-brainer. I’d banked more than enough personal time, and Chloe would just figure I was taking the time to wrap up the article.
Besides, I wanted to avoid seeing Chris at all costs.
I spent the first day and night feeling sorry for myself, and going over the events of the day before. I did a lot of soul searching. A good amount of beating myself up, and then consoling myself for not having really meant to hurt anyone in the first place.
I snapped out of it by treating myself to a greasy but delicious breakfast the next morning. It felt amazing just getting outside in the cool crisp air, where nobody knew me and the weather had no pity for me and the rest of the world didn’t owe me jack fucking shit.
Returning to my apartment, I was rejuvenated and relaxed, my mind oddly clear. I sat down at my desk, booted up my machine, and began hammering away at the keyboard. For the next several hours I used every note, every outline, every last ounce of creativity and willpower to write the wittiest, sexiest, most fantastic article on the poly lifestyle ever recorded.
Then I pulled the cork out of a bottle of wine, and poured myself the biggest glass of my life.
Being done with it all felt almost like giving birth. The draft sat there on my screen, staring back at me. The cursor blinking, as if daring me to go further.
I saved my work, rolled my chair away from my desk, and grabbed my phone. It was already dark outside. My hand actually felt light again as I pulled up our group text-message — the one between the guys and I.
Fuck it.
I scrolled back a bit, reading the old conversations and just reminiscing. Our four-way banter was filled with sarcastic quips and snarky comebacks, not to mention page after page of scorching hot sext-messages. The latter were mostly from the guys, detailing all the unspeakably hot things they planned on doing to me night by night.
I took a deep, shuddering breath. Then I typed a short, simple message:
For what it’s worth I’m sorry… for everything.
My thumb hovered over the SEND button. Before hitting it, I added:
You guys were the best thing I ever had going.
I pushed down, and the phone beeped once. The little message indicator blinked over to the word ‘delivered.’
There, I’d said my piece. I’d done what I could.
For a good three or four minutes I just stared at the phone. I was waiting for it to beep, willing a response to appear on the screen. I convinced myself I would’ve taken any response really. Even if one of the guys told me to just piss off, at least it’d be something.
I stretched all the way out in my chair, wondering what to do with the rest of my night. As I curled my wrists, arms extended toward the ceiling, I noticed it:
The little message response bubble had started blinking.
Holy shit.
They were just three tiny dots, but they meant the whole world. Three little dots, telling me someone was responding, someone was typing. It had to be a long one, too. Those three tiny dots were blinking for what seemed like forever.
C’mon, c’mon…
Then, just as quickly as it had appeared… the message response bubble blinked away. There was no message left in its wake. No response at all.
My heart sank.
At least they almost sent a message, a consoling inner voice said. Th
at’s gotta mean something. Right?
I got up and crawled into bed, curling into a ball. I almost started feeling sorry for myself. Almost slipped back into the same mindset of yesterday, when the weight of my unexpected loss seemed absolutely crushing.
You know what? Fuck this.
