I unlock my door. Step inside. Close it behind me and lean against it, and I still can't quite process what just happened.
My apartment is exactly how I left it this morning. Small. Drafty. The carpet is the color of old oatmeal, and the walls are that generic off-white that every rental seems to use, and the kitchenette in the corner consists of a mini-fridge, a two-burner stove, and a microwave
that only works if you hit it in exactly the right spot.
But it's mine.
I drop my bag on the floor. Hang my coat on the hook by the door. Kick off my shoes.
And I just...stand there.
In the middle of my studio apartment with my heart still doing something complicated and my mind replaying the parking lot conversation and the drive home and the way he lifted his hand before leaving.
My phone buzzes in my pocket...and almost drop it when I see a message from an unknown number.
Your tires. Fix them. Or I will.
I stare at the screen.
Read it again.
How does he have my number?
I definitely didn't give it to him. I barely managed complete sentences in the parking lot. I'm not sure I even said goodbye. And yet he has my number, which means—
What does it mean?
I sink down onto my bed. It's technically just a mattress on the floor with a frame I bought from IKEA and assembled incorrectly, so it wobbles whenever I move. But it's comfortable enough, and right now I need to sit down before I fall down.
I start typing a response:How did you get my number?
Stare at it.
Delete it.
That sounds accusatory. Like I'm upset he has it. Am I upset? I should probably be upset. It's weird that he has my number when I didn't give it to him. But I'm not upset. I'm just...confused.
I try again—
My tires are fine. Thank you for your concern.
But find myself deleting it right after.
Too formal. Too dismissive. Like I'm brushing him off.
Am I brushing him off?
Another attempt:You didn't have to follow me home.
Delete.
That sounds ungrateful. He was being nice. Protective. Making sure I didn't slide into a ditch.
I put the phone face-down on my nightstand. Walk away. Walk back to the bed. Pick up my phone. Read the message again.
Your tires. Fix them. Or I will.
What does"or I will"even mean? Is he going to show up at my apartment with new tires? Is he going to follow me to a mechanic? Is this a threat or a promise or some weird combination of both?
