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Hello!
Sent. Fuck.
I had no idea how to do this. And why was I messaging him in the first place? WHERE WAS THE DELETE BUTTON? How do I unsend?
Who is this?
Dammit. I didn’t think. He’d have no clue who Connor Kincaid was. I’d changed my Instagram last name to my sperm donor’s name a few years back. Some of my old mates had been inundated with weird followers, and I’d temporarily deleted my account. Deleted some of those mates as well. Wankers.
It’s Con. Connor.
Teacher Matthew Winston probably knew at least five hundred Connors. I was an idiot. I tried again.
Con, from the gym.
I should just throw myself into the garden pond, headfirst. Right now. Or not. Mum would kill me. We had tadpoles, and I wasn’t even allowed to walk near it.
I sent the photo, studying it again on the screen. It was a particularly gory one in which I looked half dead with those unrevivable injuries painted all over the side of Cass Powell’s face.
Don’t worry, It’s just make-up.
I had no idea how to make friends. Did I want friends? Why the hell was I texting this near stranger?
I was a creep. It was official.
You deserve it, after what you did to my face.
I cringed, my lungs burning with guilt. I hated this. I was a decent person. A good person. I was not a person who…did shit like this.
I was typing out some longwinded, crappy apology when the next message came in.
It was a photo of his face. He looked like shit.
I just sat there staring at it. Blues and greens and yellows all down his cheek like he’d been the victim of a child’s finger painting.
Just kidding. I’m absolutely fine. It’s fading nicely.
Hope your make-up came off. Looks messy.
Is that your real name then?
Sorry, shouldn’t ask. I know people like you value your privacy.
I did value my privacy, and I should not be doing things like this.
I still owe you dinner.
I wiped it out. Tried to do better.
Sorry again. I had no idea you were there. Honestly. If you see me at the gym again, you have my full permission to whack me in the face.
I wasn’t thinking straight. What on earth was I doing? But there was his response. In black and white on my screen.
I don’t have a violent bone in my body. Anyway, it was my fault. I was trying to get your attention to tell you that your shoelaces were undone. That was it.
My shoelaces had not been undone.
Or had they?
