Andrew
Hey, you left so suddenly. Did you make it home okay?
I’m about to have another bag of chips for dinner. Kinda miss you.
Can you at least let me know you made it home okay?
Did I do something to piss you off?
I’m about to chuck my phone back in my bag when another text message comes through. The tone of it is darker, more insistent and intense.
Andrew
Grace. Seriously. Text me back. Let me know you’re alive.
As much as I’d like to continue this one-sided conversation and make him suffer a little longer, a small niggling part of me feels bad for making Andrew worry. One more message can’t hurt. Just to let him know I’m still in one piece. And then I can wash my hands of him. No more jumbled, messy friendships and confusing lunch dates.
I’m alive. Don’t bother yourself with worrying about me.
It’s curt and dismissive, and I’m sure confusing as hell. But a petty part of me doesn’t even care. I want him to feel bad. I want him to feel just a pinch of the irritation and regret I feel. I hate that I feel so damn stupid and embarrassed, and I want him to feel just as upset.
Andrew
Grace. Come on. What’s going on? Are you mad at me?
No. I don’t even know why you’re texting me. I thought you had to work.
What the hell am I doing? I’m egging him on, that’s what I’m doing. Showing him how deeply he’s crawled under my skin when that was probably never his intention. I need to chuck my phone into Teeny’s fancy pool.
Andrew
I do. But when you never texted me back, I got worried.
Like I said, I’m fine. So just worry about your work and your friend.
I regret it the second I sent it. I sound jealous and bitter, which I’m absolutely not. And I don’t even know what possessed me to say something like that. Forget Teeny’s pool, her garbage disposal sounds like the more appropriate place for the ticking time bomb in my hand.
Andrew
Are you talking about Olive?
I don’t care what her name is. Just leave me be and concern yourself with what you have going on at work.
Andrew
Grace. I’m coming over right now.
I’m not even at home.
Andrew
Where are you?
I’m having dinner with Teeny.
I purposefully leave out the minor details of my exact whereabouts. All he needs to know is I’m busy, and he’s interrupting a completely relaxing night with my best friend.
I’m about to tap out another message to him. Something equally flippant yet purposeful so we can end this conversation, but I stop short when Teeny’s phone buzzes on the dining roomtable. Teeny rushes out of the pantry, places a cold Perrier on the counter from the small drink fridge she has in there, and answers her phone.
