An exclusive island event, A-list guest list, the biggest brands in the game, and a chance to prove we deserve to sit at the damn table. To grow our own big, swinging dick. As Jeremy would say.
So why does it feel like something important got left behind?
My phone buzzes. Carl.
You packed yet, overachiever?
Or are you stress-eating trail mix and panic-rolling pantsuits?
A slow smile tugs at the corners of my mouth. Somehow, after all the emotional whiplash that followed Nolan, Carl stayed.
I never gave him the story. Not the whole thing. Not the heart-hammering truth. I’m better at being his witty, perfectly composed therapist from the safe side of a screen.
It’s cowardly. Especially after everything he’s shared with me—Chloe, the fallout, even the girl he hooked up.
I trust him. I do. But some part of me didn’t want to risk becoming small in his eyes. I didn’t want to be another story he carries. Another girl tangled up in a man who made her feel too much too soon.
So I kept it. Guarded it.
Felt easier to stay curated. Safe. Undamaged. Because the truth is raw. And a little ugly.
I don’t want to be something less than what I am in his eyes. Which is his beloved Textually Frustrated.
But I did tell him about Quinn. About how he walked away aftermy dad died. How he didn’t just leave me, he left when staying meant the most.
Carl’s reply had come back almost immediately:What’s his address? I just want to talk.
Then:With my fists.
And then, a beat later:Do you think Amazon sells glitter brass knuckles? I want him to suffer, but in a fabulous way.
I’d laughed harder than I expected to. Carl didn’t ask for details. He didn’t pry. He just offered blind loyalty and stylish violence.
And weirdly that felt like more comfort than anyone had managed to give me in a long time.
He also knows I have a work trip coming up for that career-changing opportunity I landed. Code for: a tropical hellscape of forced networking and suppressed rage in business casual.
Needless to say, over the last few weeks, our texting has increased. At first, it was the occasional chat. A meme. A joke. A picture of fries.
But then it becameevery day.
We talk about everything. And nothing. A good morning here, a sarcastic gif there. A running bit about how doing dishes is a social construct. A passionate debate about whether or not soup counts as a meal.
Bad days. Big dreams. Fears. Fries.
Since he accidentally texted me, I’ve learned that his least favorite word is “moist.” Mine is “bulbous.”
He watches concerts on YouTube for hours on end. And I hate the sound of the bathroom fan. Makes my skin crawl.
He also sends me links to ridiculous gifs and asks about my day before I’ve even had coffee.
He’s a mystery. He’s safe. Not truly real. Or isn’t supposed to be.
But he is.
And never asks for anything. Never crosses a line. And that’s what makes it so easy to talk to him.
We keep the mystery alive, not out of fear, but self-preservation. We exist in this strangely comforting friend zone that feels safe.
