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“There’s more?”
“Yep, one more.”
Bathed, with her teeth and hair brushed, she springs from my bathroom and down the hall to her bedroom. I feel her disappointment when I enter the room behind her.
“There’s nothing here,” she whines.
“Are you sure? Have you checked around? Maybe under your pillow?”
Rainey tackles the pillow on her bed, tossing it aside to find a note.
“What’s it say?”
“Sound it out,” I encourage.
“Aaaaassuuk,” she reads shakily, “Gooooogul to puh-lay Rainey’s myuzik.”
She looks to me for confirmation, not understanding the words she sounded out, and I ask her to repeat it.
“Ask Google to play Rainey’s music?” she repeats, but her unsureness makes it a question.
“That’s right. Do it—let’s see what happens.”
In the few weeks we’ve lived together, Rainey’s grown accustomed to me yelling at the smart home devices scattered throughout my home. “Hey, Google!” she yells. “Play Rainey’s music.”
She cocks her head as she waits to see what will happen. “High Top Shoes” blasts through the speakers and she looks at me, eyes widened by disbelief. “Ready for a dance party?” I ask, and Rainey looks up at me and squeals.
Five songs and some achy quads later, I tuck her into bed and give her a peck on the cheek. “Thank you,” she whispers, as I shut off the overhead light and flick on a small night light.
I turned Rainey’s terrible afternoon into an evening she’ll remember. Joy and pride course through my body. It’s a feeling I wish I could bottle up and pull out when I need to chase away doubt.
Gone are the nights of staying up and watching TV until the wee hours of the morning. With Rainey in bed, I call it an early night and curl up in my own warm bed. Unfortunately, my mind’s caught in a loop filled with Logan’s face. When my brain becomes singularly focused, I can’t shut it off until I scratch that itch. I huff and flop my arm onto my nightstand, fishing for my phone. It falls onto the floor and I curse.
It’s just before 9 p.m., and I’d wager Logan’s still up.
Noah: Thanks for the coffee talk today. Hope Maggie’s first day at Liberty went well.
Logan: She said she likes her teacher, so I’m calling it a win.
I ponder how to keep the conversation going, but Logan takes me by surprise with a second message.
Logan: For the record, I’d never had a PSL before today. I think I’m good for the rest of my life.
I shouldn’t have started this conversation. I return to the office tomorrow, and I have to be on point—I need to sleep. But now, I’m lying wide awake while my brain’s calculating my best snarky reply.
Noah: What was the point in getting a PSL if you’re not one of those guys?
Logan: Just to mess with you. What does ‘those guys’ mean?
I carefully piece together my reply. I know what it means, but I don’t want to seem pretentious.
Noah: You know those guys: people who like something when it’s popular, but neverreallyliked it, so they drop it as soon as trends change. No authenticity and completely boring. They don’t have any meat.
When I realize the error in my last sentence—it soundssoperverted—it’s too late. I’ve already hit send.
A speech bubble pops up and then disappears. It pops up again, this time remaining for several seconds before disappearing again. He’s trying to come up with a response and I feel terrible. My need to get the last jab may have just ruined a new friendship before it even began. I toss my phone to the side and close my eyes, begging my body to put me out of my misery.
A new text notification sounds and I grab at the phone so quickly I almost drop it on the floor again. What is wrong with me?
