More tool sounds. Aggressive now.
"I hurt people," he says finally. "It's what I do. What I'm good at. And here you are, patching up the kind of damage I cause, texting me between traumas like we're not complete opposites."
"Maybe that's why this works."
"This doesn't work. This is insane."
"And yet you called."
"And yet you answered."
We breathe together for a moment, two strangers connected by nothing but bad decisions and electronic signals.
"I should go," I say, not moving.
"You should," he agrees, not hanging up.
"Same time tomorrow?"
"That's a terrible idea."
"I'm full of those."
"I'm starting to see that."
Another pause. Then, quietly: "What are you wearing?"
I laugh so hard I snort. "Seriously? That's your move?"
"I'm curious."
“Scrub top from three days ago and underwear that says 'Thursday' even though it's Sunday."
"Living dangerously."
"That's me. Rebel without a cause. Or clean laundry."
His laugh is fuller this time, less rusty.
"I should go," I say again.
"You should," he agrees again.
Neither of us hangs up.
"Angel?" The pet name makes my stomach flip.
"Yeah?"
"Same time tomorrow."
It's not a question this time.
"Yeah," I say. "Same time."
I hang up before I can say something stupid likeyour voice makes me want to abandon my entire life and make terrible decisionsorI think I could come just from listening to you read a grocery list.
My phone buzzes immediately.
