CLARE: I’m not keeping this laptop.
GRANT: Why do you have to be difficult?
If he thinks I’m being difficult, the poor man is in for a surprise. This is me being reasonable.
CLARE: I don’t want it.
A full minute passes with no return text from Grant. Worry builds as I wait. Is he busy constructing the perfect reply or did he forget about me?
GRANT: Fine.
That’s it? I don’t even know whatfinemeans.
CLARE: Fine, what?
This text comes at the regular pace again.
GRANT: I can’t get away from the office right now. Take the laptop home and I will pick it up later.
CLARE: Fine I’ll be home after five.
GRANT: Do you need a ride?
I toss my phone back on the desk in frustration. Why can’t I make him understand? I don’t need anyone to watch after me. I’ve been doing fine on my own for years.
CLARE: You can’t help yourself can you?
GRANT: We seem to be at an impasse. I can’t stop offering and you can’t learn to say yes.
I read his text once, then twice, then a third time. I told Grant we’d never work as friends, but over the last few hours I started not hating the idea. It’s too bad he so easily agreed it won’t work.
Another text from Grant comes before there’s time to reply.
GRANT: Let me give you a ride home from work and pick up the laptop too.
Another offer of help. I can’t handle it and my anger flares up again.
CLARE: I don’t need a taxi.
GRANT: Consider me an Uber, but a sexy and safe one.
My head falls back, shaking at his refusal to take me seriously.
CLARE: No thanks. I’ve had enough Uber drivers hit on me while I’m in their backseat.
I sit staring at my screen waiting for it to light up with another text, but when it does, it’s a call. Grant’s face with a goofy lopsided grin stares back at me, the green incoming call button next to it. When he took the photo of himself and then programmed into my phone, I never expected to see the silly shot again so soon.
“Yes,” I answer with hesitation. It’s possible he didn’t mean to call me. I mean who uses the phone to make calls anymore?
“You’ve been in cabs where the driver hit on you?”
“Yeah…” My sentence trails off never really ending.
Grant sputters for second. “It’s dangerous. You could be killed, kidnapped, or a hundred other horrible things.”
Now he’s stepping all over me on the phone, not just in text. How does he think I survived for twenty-four years without him by my side?
“That’s insulting, Grant. I live in Hunter’s Point. I’m capable of taking care of myself. I’ve been doing it since I was a kid.”
“What do you mean?”
Whoops. I’ve definitely never shared with Grant my history and the ever-popular San Francisco foster care system. That’s a whole different set of questions I’m not ready to answer.
“I live blocks from the center. I’m able to get myself home fine. Come pick up the laptop later.”
Grant sighs. “Fine, tell Drew I’m bringing dinner. See you later.”
“No you –” he hangs up before I properly threaten him.
