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Georgie laughs into the phone. “Georgie Whitman,” she clears her throat.
“I’m happy for you,” I say sincerely.
“How are you doing?” she asks.
It’s been a week since my birthday, and a week since my anticlimactic grand gesture of racing off, only to find that Adrian had already left. I’ve kept myself busy, too busy according to Georgie. In the evenings when everything is quiet and there’s no more work to do, I think about him, especially when it rains.
“I’m really good actually,” which is the truth. “I miss Noelle, but she comes home often to do her laundry so it’s like she never left,” I joke.
“That kid,” Georgie laughs. “And don’t you cancel on me tomorrow. I need a yoga wingman, uh, woman, you know what I mean. I can’t be the only one in there cracking bones and falling on my ass,” she says.
“I will be there cracking right along with you.”
Hanging up the phone, I place it on top of the Phoenix New Times paper, the one I can’t seem to throw away. I’ve read the article about Adrian over and over, so excited that it finally happened for him. Once again, I’m reminded of my awful timing in life. Scanning the latest issue, I pull the pages open thinking about how Noelle makes fun of me for reading an actual paper instead of reading it online like the rest of the world, or so she says. I like the feel of the paper in my hand, and the way it smells. It wouldn’t be the same if I were sitting in front of a computer.
While I’m reading an article about another local venue closing, my phone vibrates. I pick it up expecting some silly yoga video from Georgie. When I see it’s from Adrian, I nearly drop it. Not one text since I broke it off with him, but every time I got a notification, my heart would skip a beat that it might be from him.
A: I bet you're eating leftover pizza for breakfast.
There’s a jolt of electricity that travels through my body at the shock of seeing his text, but then I sit up straighter in my chair and look around while holding the cold pizza in my hand.
Impossible.
He can’t see me, he’s just busting my balls about my bad eating habits so I play along, hoping to hear more from him. I’m like an addict who needs just one more hit to get me through the day.
L: You think you know me so well.
Testing the waters, I try to calm the beating of my heart.
A: I know that you can’t cook, that you like to sit at your kitchen island, reading the paper, and drink your coffee with a little bit of cream, but when you run out, you’ll drink it black. I know that you love the rain, and Aerosmith is your favorite band.
The phone wobbles in my hand as I laugh because he knows me, really knows me.
L: And how do you know all that? I tease.
A: I pay attention.
His words bring a smile to my face. I wonder where he is, if he’s sitting on the tour bus traveling down the highway or texting me just before doing a sound check. No matter where he is, I’m giddy at just the mental image of him and being able to talk to him. Finlay must have told him I came looking for him. It’s the only explanation for the contact.
L: I know you like spicy food, but you cook things bland because you know I don’t. I know that you like to be barefoot because the minute you get home, you kick off your boots. I also know you love the desert, being in the middle of nowhere with no one around but the coyotes and Saguaros, and that music is what makes your soul happy.
Saying all this, I want him to know that I’ve paid attention too, that I’ve seen him and I know him, even when he thought I didn’t.
A: You got one thing wrong.
Pinching my eyebrows together, I watch the ellipsis as he types.
A: I’d rather be in the middle of nowhere with you.
How can one stupid sentence make me blush? Smiling, I hold the phone in my hand and stare at it, wishing I could reach through and touch him, brush my fingers along the fine hairs of his jaw and look into his soulful eyes.
L: I would rather be anywhere right now as long as it was with you.
A: Is that so?
L: Yes.
A: Even if it was outside your house?
