Page 23 of Text Me A Kiss

Before I started feeling too stupid or unnecessarily emotional, I replied, “Hey. How was work?” That hadn’t been the question I meant to ask, but a little conversation first wouldn’t hurt and that was an easy question to ask, especially since he had let me know the general time frame during which he worked.

“Work was fine. It went faster than usual.”

Okay, maybe Logan didn’t sound so good on the phone. His voice made me nibble at my lip, and not in the provocative, sexy way that I had just caught my lower lip between my teeth with him on top of me, holding me down.

Somehow, his hesitation, distance, or whatever it was removed my own unsureness. “Okay, what’s up with you?” Bluntness that years of honest criticism had taught me to use stole its way into my demand.

“What?” Damn, I should have video-called him so I could see his face. That word sounded way too innocent for my sudden push for the truth.

“‘Sure’?” I quoted, hugging my pillow against my face with one arm.

Silence, then: “I was agreeing with you,” Logan said carefully. “And then you never answered, so I figured you were busy.”

“I wasn't busy.” I was in “that” mood. A mood where I could say anything without regard to the impact it might have, because I wasn’t overreacting, and I was in the right. “I was just trying to figure out how to continue talking to myself, because I sure wasn’t talking to Logan Ward.”

More silence ensued, and this time it hung uninterrupted over the line.

“I’m sorry if this seems sudden.” I felt I had to concede that point. He probably wasn’t expecting me to drag him over a bed of coals like this. “But, I feel like I deserve an explanation. You’ve been acting different ever since Sunday, and I don’t know if it’s because of me, or work, or….”Or because of my choices. Because of ballet.

“It’s not—I can’t—” He cut himself off with a frustrated sound and a crackle as something rubbed against the phone. “Can I come see you? On Friday, maybe?”

I felt like I was riding in the back of a van and the driver had just taken a U-turn way too fast. “What?”

“I just… I’d rather talk in person.”

Now, the van careened off the road, taking my heart with it, and sunk to the bottom of a lake. “If it’s serious enough for you to want to fly out to Manhattan just for me, then save the plane ticket money and just tell me now. I have so many ballet practices and rehearsals and theory and history to do this week, and I don’t want to go through it all feeling like this.”

Yet another tense silence that struck at the very blood pumping through my veins, turning it to ice. I gathered my blanket closer, glancing at my forgotten tea but too afraid of missing Logan’s next words to reach for the cheerful kitten-tail-handled mug.

I didn’t move, but I still didn’t catch Logan’s next words. They came through my phone’s speaker as an indistinct mumble. “What?” I said after a moment, when I was sure nothing else was forthcoming.

“There wouldn’t be a plane ticket.”

What?Momentarily distracted, I switched my phone to my other hand in a motion that Logan couldn’t see but made me feel like I had an excuse not to answer while I thought. Thinking didn’t help, so I voiced the only word I could. “What?”

“I wouldn’t have to buy a plane ticket,” Logan said, his voice louder and clearer. “I have a jet.”

My confusion twisted into red-hot anger. “This isn’t the time for jokes, Logan! Plane, jet, I really don’t give a damn. Oh my god, can you just—”

“No, no, no!” Logan interrupted my escalating tirade hastily. “I mean I literally have a jet. I own a private jet, eliminating the need to buy plane tickets. But I still have to buy it fuel and pay the pilot, which is even more expensive….”

He must have realized he was rambling because he trailed off, but I was more concerned with the fact—if it was a fact—that he… had a private jet

“Oooookay?” I ventured, anger completely diverted by whatever was happening now. “Really?”

“Yes, a lot of other things that come with being….” Logan’s words faded. “I didn’t tell you the truth about me on Sunday.”

“Then tell me the truth now,” I urged. Relief we were getting somewhere? Raw terror at what I would hear next? I couldn’t tell what I felt anymore.

“My name isn’t Logan Ward. He was a guy I knew in high school. I couldn’t tell you my real name, not when you told me yours.

I just waited, strangely calm.

“Okay.” My silence had injected a note of nervousness into his voice. “My name is actually… Graham Emerson.”

Anticlimactic. That was the only word I could think of for this revelation. “Why couldn’t you tell me? I’ve never….” It was my turn to lose my voice as what exactly he’d said slowly dawned on me.

Oh. Oh….