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I was not swooning.
Okay, maybe a little.
I read the text aloud.
Mateo whistled. I was immediately jealous. I always wanted to learn to whistle but never had the pucker for it.
“He’s into you,” Mateo said.
“And you can tell that from one text?”
“Dude, he’s literally standing in the aftermath of a hurricane, and in his first moment free, he texts you? And he says he wishes he was with you? I swear you’re not as dumb as you look right now.”
“Dumb?” I huffed.
He crossed his arms. “Better answer him before he takes it wrong. Teen love is a tender thing.”
“Fuck off,” I said through an uncontained laugh. “We are adults, damn it. Now stop talking while I think of what to say in this note I’ll pass him in class.”
“That definitely sounds right,” he said. Asshole.
Me: I might miss you, too. A little. Only a little.
“You’re grinning so much I’m worried your face might break. Let me see that phone.”
I turned away, guarding my phone like it was the crown jewels. Mateo reached around me, grasping for it. Slapping ensued. Childish laughter, squeals, and giggles followed. When I looked up, three basketball players were standing on the court, mouths agape, watching us wrestle over my phone.
“Laps. Now!” Mateo barked. The boys snapped out of their haze, raced to drop their bags on the front riser, and began clomping around the outer edge of the court.
That’s when the Italian Job was completed, and myformerfriend got his greedy digits on my phone. It was still unlocked. Damn it.
“Pole Dude?” He burst out laughing, standing up and holding the phone away so it wouldn’t burn him—or rub off. “You named him ‘Pole Dude’? Is he an exotic dancer in his down time?”
“He’s a lineman. He climbs poles for a living. It’s a perfectly acceptable—”
“No, it’s not, but it’s very you, Mike Albert. So very you.”
The phone chimed again.
“Give me that!”
He held it away and read aloud.
Pole Dude: I can’t wait to see your couch again. You need to be even more verbal next time. Talk me through everything. Let me know how it feels, how you like it, how you want it. Let me know how bad you want my cock tickling all the way—”
“Oh . . . my . . . God. Give me my damn phone!”
He was howling, barely able to catch a breath, uttering a string of something in Italian I was sure would embarrass Mrs. H—and she was unflappable. But he gave me back my phone.
Sure enough, Elliot had laid out his plans for our next sexual encounter, complete with a detailed description of how Tab A would slide into Slot B over and over and over until Body C couldn’t move anymore.
If I hadn’t been so mortified, I would’ve been turned on.
I typed, holding my phone well away from Italian prying eyes.
Me: Let’s set my ass aside for the moment. Are you okay? Are you safe?
Pole Dude: I can’t remember the last time someone asked me that.