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“Yes.”
“Oh my God, you’re blushing. So tell me, is he the best you’ve ever had?” He holds up his hands. “And remember, you must tell me whatever I want to know because you owe me.”
* * *
Troy is passedout on my couch, and I’m lying in bed, staring at the last message Joey sent me a few hours ago, which I haven’t been able to reply to. I’m not sure what to say. And I’ve had way too much alcohol, so I will probably say something I shouldn’t.
I want you.
Three simple wordsstare back at me.
So simple yet full of so much power.
I want you too.
Four simple wordsI send back to him.
It’s late, and he’s hopefully asleep, and my drunk brain won’t have to deal with it.
Why the hell did I send that?It’s just us going back and forth. Back and forth.
Is that what a relationship is?I’m used to being told what to do, not having to deal with anything like this. My only healthy relationship—the one with Becca—was short-lived.
My phone starts ringing, and I throw it across the room.
Nope, not answering that.
Getting up to turn it on silent, so it doesn’t wake everyone up, I see Joey’s name flash on the screen. The call drops, and a text comes through straight away.
I want to come over.
I read his text.
Then read it again.
Then decide that can’t happen.
No.
But do I mean it?I don’t even know.
I stare at it. He isn’t writing back immediately, so I pick up my glass of wine and take a drink. Just as I fill my mouth, another message pops up.
But I want dessert.The one between your legs.
I spitmy drink out all over the floor.
We should talk.
That went serious quickly.
About us.
I stare at the messages,unsure about what to say. What else is there to talk about? What else is there to say? I choose not to answer. It’s safer that way, right?
Pacing the floor, I decide to clean my room because that will stop me from gripping that phone and contemplating my reply. I put on light music, careful it’s not too loud, and reorganize my whole closet.
Why?
