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Immediately I hang up and throw my phone onto the bed like a grenade. I wipe my damp palms on my thighs and let out a wheezing breath.
My phone begins to ring.
Incoming: Joshua Templeman
“Oh, hi,” I manage to say lightly when I answer. I grind the heel of my hand into my temple. I have no dignity.
“I had a missed call. It rang once.”
There’s loud pulsing music in the background. He’s probably swilling liquor in a bar, surrounded by tall models in stretchy white dresses.
“You’re busy. I’ll talk to you about it tomorrow.”
“I’m at the gym.”
“Cardio?”
“Weights. I do weights at night.”
The response implies he does cardio another time. He makes a faint grunt, and then I hear a heavy metal clang.
“So what’s up? Don’t tell me you pocket-dialed me.”
“No.” There’s no point in pretending.
“Interesting.” There’s a muffled clothing sound, maybe a towel, and then a door closes. The obnoxious pulsing music gets quieter.
“I’m outside now. I don’t know if I’ve ever seen your name on my caller ID. Something happen at work?”
“I know. I was thinking that too.” There is a loaded pause. “No, it’s not work related.”
“That’s a shame. I was hoping Bexley had a fatal embolism.”
I make an amused honk. Then I fidget. “I was calling because . . .”
I haven’t seen you today. I’ve been feeling mixed up and desperately sad, and for some reason seeing you might help the weird pain in my chest. I don’t have friends. Except for you. Except you’re not.
“Yes . . .” He is not helping me out at ALL.
“I’m hungry and I have no food. And I haven’t got any tea, and my apartment is cold. And I’m bored.”
“What a very sad little life.”
“You’ve got lots of food and tea. And your heating is better than mine, and I . . .”
There is nothing but silence.
“I’m not bored when I’m with you.” I’m mortified. “But I’d better just—”
He cuts me off. “Better come over then.”
Relief floods through me. “Should I bring something?”
“What would you bring?”
“I could grab some food on the way.”
“No, it’s okay, I’ve got something to cook. Do you want me to pick you up?”
