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Would he take it the wrong way? Would he think I like him? Because that’s not what this is. I’m just concerned. It’s different.
His light turns off.
Is he going to bed already? It's not even eight o’clock. That’s not a good sign . . .
I take a deep breath and pick up my phone. One little text couldn’t hurt, right?
Me:
Are you okay?
I chuck my phone back down onto the bed and cover my face with a pillow.
A minute passes, but my phone screen stays black.
Another goes by.
And another.
Gingerly, I pick up the phone and unlock it. Below my message, it shows as read. I jolt in surprise.
Why didn’t he text me back? Was my message weird? Maybe I shouldn’t have sent it. He’s probably wondering why I’m texting him when I made it very clear I didn’t want him to.
My phone rings.
Caleb’s contact fills the screen, and my phone slips through my fingers as panic floods over me.
Caleb is calling me.
CHAPTERTHIRTEEN
My pulse skyrockets,and my eyes grow big as I stare at my phone.
Why is he calling me?
I sent him a three-word text that could easily be responded to with a yes or no. What type of person just calls?
Maybe I should send an excuse instead of answering.
Then again, what if he isn’t okay? What if he's sitting in his room crying?
I suck in a breath and let it out through barred teeth.
I have to answer it.
My head feels light as I reach down and swipe the green button with the faintest touch.
“Hello?” I cringe at the sound of my horribly strained and embarrassing voice.
“Hey,” he says. His voice isn’t as chipper as usual, but he doesn’t sound too upset. If anything, he sounds tired.
I don’t know what to say. I’m awkward enough in person. Phone calls are worse because I can’t read people. I need to see the person I’m talking to. That helps me understand how to respond.
“I’m okay,” he finally says, answering my question.
I bite my lip and scratch my head, trying to force a response. “Why did you call? You could’ve just texted.”
. . . like a normal teenager.
