I grin, picturing his confused expression.
Me: Yep. Crocheted ones that his followers vote for weekly.
I turn toward the cabinet by the entrance door, eyes landing on the red shoebox on top of it.
Inside?
There are 945 tiny crocheted eyepatches.
I’ve made 945 eyepatches for my one-eyed cat.
Eli: And you live with the weirdo who crocheted those?
I smirk, then walk over to Pea, who is now standing proudly on the counter, looking every bit like the internet celebrity he is.
I snap a photo of the two of us, only showing myself from the neck down, myPersefianightwear on full display.
I send it.
Me: I’m the weirdo who crocheted those.
My heart hammers as I wait for his reply.
Did I cross the line? Does he think I am the weirdest girl on the planet now?
I’ve only known him for a week and only through instant messages. And yet, the thought of him rejecting me now?
It would break my heart.
Way to get attached, Amy.
My phone buzzes.
A photo: a close-up of hiseyes, sharp, mischievous, framed by thick black eyebrows, one of them cocked in disbelief.
I stare, heart hammering.
Eli: You’re not just any weirdo, then. You’re my weirdo. And that changes everything.I can gloat now. I know a celebrity.
A breath of relief escapes me, the vise around my chest loosening. I can breathe again.
Eli: Thank you. I needed that—truly.
Me: No problem. I’m here for you.
A pause.
Me: So what’s up with you?
Eli: It’s a long story.
My thumbs hover over the keyboard, and my heart pounds in hesitation. I hear Maya’s voice in my head, pushing me forward.
Do it, Amy. Do it.
I inhale sharply.
“Penis,” I mutter under my breath for courage.
