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Did Jax text her yet??
Brynn
Lemme ask
Nah he didn't
Did he text you??
“Callie! He didn’t text her.” My voice comes out squeaky, bouncing off the cinderblock walls. I can barely control my excitement and the pounding in my chest. I know I shouldn’t be excited over a simple text, but I am because I know Jaxon and one text means he’s missing me.
We both stop at the elevator and stare at each other. “Gurrrrrl.”
“Should I reply?”
“No… uh, wait. Yes? But like, wait about seventeen minutes.”
“Wait.” I step inside the elevator with her and lean back against the wall, catching my reflection in the brushed steel. My cheeks are flushed pink. “Why seventeen?”
“Well, it says I want to hear from you, but not enough I’ma reply right away.”
“Oh, yeah.” The elevator dings and we step out onto our floor. “Good idea.”
There’s a party going on two doors down. The bass pounds through the thin walls. A group of girls walk past, heels clicking, perfume trailing behind them. The mix of excitement and anxiety makes my stomach twist in knots.
Callie disappears into the bathroom to do her nightly skincare routine and watch GRWM videos on TikTok. If you don’t know what those are, are you even on social media?
It doesn’t matter. Jaxon texted me. Focus. I’m freaking out and need help. What do you think it means? He’s still secretly in love with me? He finds her boring and misses my funness? Is that even a word?
I don’t know. I don’t think it is. But what I do know is the world grows silent. The only sound is my breathing and the beat of my heart as I stare down at the message. Through our eighth-floor window, I see the Space Needle glowing against the nightsky, its white lights piercing the drizzle. Below, the cherry trees lining the quad are still hanging onto their last few blossoms, pink petals scattered across the wet sidewalks.
Do I make it seventeen minutes?
Nah. I wait thirteen. So hello, sister, run for me with some patience. But how should I reply? Keep it simple? Dry? Be nice?
I don’t know because I don’t want to be a bitch, but I also don’t want to seem too eager to talk to him after two weeks of nothing. My fingers are trembling so bad I have to delete and retype three times.
Seriously. Make my brain stop.
Don’t be dry though. I finally reply with:
Camdyn
heyy it’s good
Oh my God, why are my hands shaking so bad? I can barely press the send button, let alone wait to see if he’s going to reply. I glance at the time. It’s 10:33 p.m. The red numbers of my alarm clock pulse in the dark, matching rhythm with my racing heart.
He starts to reply almost immediately.
When the bubbles appear, I picture him lying in his dorm bed, phone in hand, staring at the screen like I am. He’s probably wearing shorts, no shirt, one leg bent, curtains open. He never closes them. The city lights relax him late at night.
Sitting up, I do the same, and look out the window toward his dorms across the quad. The rain picks up, streaking the glass with the glow of passing headlights. If I count up, I can see his floor but not his room. It faces the other way, toward Union Bay.
My phone vibrates and I draw in a deep breath before I look at it. I smile—his contact in my phone still has the same picture from when we were thirteen. Him with a baseball hat, hood up,glaring at me for telling him I wouldn’t bring him a cookie the next day.
As I stare at his name and the words that follow, my heart is beating so fast, like a thousand butterflies are inside it and my throat is tight. It’s like those adrenaline rushes I get when I’m pitching, when the crowd goes silent and all I can hear is my own breathing.
Jaxon