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Hannah shakes her head. “Nope. But it’s easier to just do what she wants. I’ll go chill some drink glasses.”
“I made lemonade,” I volunteer.
“Sugar-free?”
I shake my head no.
Hannah nods, her mind clearly on her next task. “We should take out bottles of water, too.”
___
Anae sucks all the energy out of me while she’s over, so there’s none left to deal with Landon when he comes home.
I head upstairs as soon as I hear his car pull in.
Mom’s at work, so I text her and ask if she could stop by my favorite deli and grab me a turkey sandwich for dinner. I tell her I have a lot of homework and club stuff to do so I don’t really want to take time to have an actual dinner.
I reallydohave homework, so I kneel on the floor by my backpack and start unloading books. In the middle of prioritizing which subject to start working on first, I realize the card with Javi’s number isn’t in my statistics folder where I left it. Panic floods my veins and I start ripping through my bag.
Oh my god, where is it?
I took the card with me to school because I was afraid of Landon finding it if I left it in my room. He’s not even supposed to be in my room, but he does a lot of shit he’s not supposed to do.
I didn’t take it out, right? I know it was in this backpack, I remember looking at it fondly before one of my classes started. Oh my god, what if it fell outat school?
Oh my god, if Landon finds that card…
Just before I completely melt down, my finger touches glossy cardstock. I pull out the card, and my shoulders slump with relief when I turn it over to see Javi’s writing on the back.
I place my hand and the card over my chest and breathe a sigh of relief, then I set it aside and get out the rest of my books.
By the time I lay out my books and notes on the desk and I’mstillthinking about the card, I realize I don’t feel entirely safe having it around. I don’t want to get rid of it just in case this thing with Javi really turns into something. For sentimental reasons, I may want to have the card he first gave me his number on.
But I can’t have it out where someone could see it, either.
Setting the card down on the desk, I open the drawer and carefully draw out my jewelry box. I open the bottom drawer to make sure Hannah’s stuff is still safely tucked away, and when I see it is, I decide to add Javi’s card to it.
But, just in case I get up the nerve to text him, I better save it in my phone first.
My hands are clammy and a bit shaky as I create a new contact and type in Javi’s name. I type in his number, then double check against the card that I put it in right.
Once I confirm I did, I slide the card in the bottom drawer alone with Hannah’s stuff, then I put the jewelry box back in its regular spot.
But now that his number is actually saved in my phone, it feels like a deliberate choice not to use it.
Maybe I should send him a quick text just to say hi and triple check I saved the number correctly. Yeah, that’s a good reason. Accuracy. I love accuracy.
My stomach is an absolute wreck as I try to think what to type. I’ve talked to guys on social media messengers and stuff, but I’ve never actually texted with a guy I had romantic interest in.
“This is so stupid,” I mutter to myself. “You’re making a big deal out of nothing. Just say hello.”
My fingers protest by not working, but I force myself to compose a simple first text message.
“Hey! Just wanted to say hi so you had my number, too.” I add a quick smiley face, then backspace, then re-add the smiley face because I’m being ridiculous.
I press send quickly before I can change my mind.
Then I feel like I have a whole vat of acid in my stomach as I stare at the screen, waiting for a response.
