“Yeah.” She flops onto my couch, takes the ice cream, and wolfs it down. “Very intriguing, isn't it? I collected his number so you could thank him properly.”
She holds out a slip of paper with a number scrawled in her messy handwriting. I stare at it for a long while before taking it.
“Alright.”
The moment Sloane finishes the ice cream, she wipes her mouth and stands.
“I'd love to stay, but I've got to run. I'm meeting Dr. O'Connell early tomorrow to prep for a presentation.”
I stand and hug her. “Thank you.”
She smiles, then leaves.
I pick up my phone and type so I can get the thank-you text done with and forget about it.
Ivy:
Hi, this is Ivy. My friend said you found my phone. Thank you so much for returning it. I really appreciate it.
The response comes almost immediately:
King:
The pleasure was all mine. I couldn't leave a damsel in distress phoneless. That would be unchivalrous.
I blink at the screen. Unchivalrous? A giggle escapes before I can stop it. Who even talks like that?
And yet… it makes me smile.
As we keep texting, something in me slowly loosens.
King asks about my work—always a surefire way to get me talking—and the conversation just… flows. It’s nice. Really nice.
Talking to him feels easy. There’s no pressure, no need to be charming or impressive. I can just be me.
I admire him for taking care of his siblings. He sounds like a genuinely good brother.
After a brief pause, a text comes in that makes me laugh out loud—actual sound escaping my mouth.
King:
Since it’s getting late and you now have my number, I think I should interview you properly. You know. For my safety.
I snort, shaking my head as I type.
Ivy:
Your safety? I’m five-two and 110 pounds, King. I think you’ll survive a text conversation.
King:
It’s the quiet ones you have to watch out for. First question: Are you a native New Yorker?
I smile at my screen.
Ivy:
Close. Westchester. My parents are both doctors, so the house was less "home" and more "prep school for the gifted." Moving to the city for my PhD was my big act of rebellion.
