“She damn sure makes for the healthiest relationship I’ve ever had.” I stand up to reach the cubby overhead. A second later I’m sitting again, pad of paper resting on my knee and pencil in hand. “Let’s hear what you got.”
KENLEY
I’m on autopilot when I check my phone. No one ever calls me. Except for spammers and my kid. I don’t answer for spammers and Sloan is planted on her bed with her laptop working on her Spanish lesson just a few feet down the hall, which is definitely in shouting distance. Especially since ourwalls are little more than sheets of cardboard thrown up in a hurried renovation effort, our current residence having been built originally to house livestock, not people. Still, despite the lack of soundproofing, the stall-sized rooms and the slanted ceilings fit for a hayloft more than a set of second-story bedrooms, our little renovated barn is cozy and suits our needs. In a way, you might even say, it kind of saved us.
In any event, I’m fully prepared to hit ‘decline’ on what I assume to be an unsolicited call when I’m pulled out of my trance by the unexpected name flashing across my screen.
“What’s wrong?” I answer, possibly faster than I’ve ever answered my phone ever.
“Nothing,” Arizona, my best friend and fellow phone phobic, says way too nonchalantly.
“Then why the hell are you calling me?” Two eternal introverts, we’ve been profoundly grateful for the invention of texting. Before that, we were pen pals. Before that, we lived in the same state, and talking in person was a thing. Now that we live separated by miles and several state lines, I miss that. A lot.
“Because,” she says dramatically, “driving and texting is bad.”
“And you couldn’t wait to talk to me until you’re not driving?” I ask, pushing my chair away from my desk, and around Hannah, my three-legged dog who’s been curled up at my feet, to get up and wander downstairs to my kitchen. Talking to Arizona always makes me crave tortilla chips. I’m sure the fact we met waiting tables at a Mexican restaurant when we were eighteen has nothing to do with it.
“No,” she says flatly.
This conversation is getting us nowhere. “You’re not good at this phone thing.”
“I know,” she admits. “I’m not so hot at this driving thing either. Almost went off the road three times trying to hit call.And that’s after I nearly swerved into a semi trying to figure out why my stupid Bluetooth wasn’t working again.”
“Arizona!”
“Right. What are you doing tonight?”
I stop short of pulling back the pantry door. “Well, it’s a Saturday and Ebenezer’s in town for a change.” My ex takes so many out-of-state jobs these days, sometimes it’s easy to forget he still resides one town over from us. And Ebenezer’s not really his name. It’s just what we call him. I find it’s easier to deal with his toxic bullshit when I’m having an internal laugh at his expense. “So, Sloan will be with him, and I’ll be working.”
“Wrong.”
“Not wrong.”
“Oh, shit!” Arizona squeaks as her tires squeal in the background. “Okay, it’s all good. It’s all good. No one got hurt. But I might have used the grassy median as a passing lane.”
“Oh my God, dude! Text me when you’re not driving!” I’m yelling because it seems like a yelling moment. Plus, I’m holding the phone at least a foot away from my mouth, so it feels acceptable.
“Okay, fine,” she finally concedes. “Give me, like, twenty minutes.”
“You can have thirty. Or sixty. Or however many you need to arrive safely.”
I’m not sure if she hangs up on me or we get disconnected, either way, the line is dead.
It takes me a moment to shake off the anxiety the last three minutes of my life brought on, but then I remember why I’m standing in front of my pantry. “Tortilla chips.”
I grab the bag and make a beeline for the fridge, and thus, the salsa, before I scurry back up the stairs and to my office.
Half a bag of chips and re-reading the same paragraph seven times without registering anything later, and my phone dings. I have a text. From Arizona.
I’m here, safe and sound.
I roll my eyes. Apparently, we’re still not getting to the point of this conversation.
So, tell me what you wanted to tell me before you nearly killed yourself trying to drive and talk on the phone at the same time.
I hit send. It only takes a few seconds for her to respond.
I don’t want to text.
