Heather:You really don’t want to know.
Justin:Thought so.
Despite its bad press, I like this type of faceless communication. I often feel that in person I lack presence. I’m always the one trying and failing to grab a waiter’s attention, the one who makes way for others in a moving crowd, the one who struggles to voice an opinion in a group conversation.
Heather:Spent today researching SolomiChem. Learned a lot.
Justin:Nerd. You can learn from real life too.
Heather:You against words and books?
Justin:Nope. You can use the pages of a book to roll your own cigs.
I roll my eyes, knowing Justin doesn’t smoke. The man is simply provoking me, a pastime he seems to enjoy way too much. I decide to step into the arena and have a little fun.
Heather:Thanks for the tip. Now to choose a book. I’ll start with The Measure of a Man.
Justin:Try A Smart Girl’s Guide to Manners. A better roll than Poitier.
Surprise, surprise. My toes curl under the cushion. All of today, I haven’t stopped worrying about tomorrow. This back and forth banter with Justin is proving to be an amusing diversion. And I can’t help wondering if this is his intention.
Justin:Did I pass your little IQ test?
Called out, I feel my cheeks warming.
Heather:With flying colors.
Justin:You haven’t passed mine. All work, no play...
Heather:Gets the job done.
A grin takes over my face. This irrepressible Justin is a far cry from the dark, brooding man at the lake yesterday.
Justin:Such a good girl.
I decide to sidestep that comment.
Heather:Are you at work?
Justin:Just finished up with a client.
I remember Kane telling me Justin has a part-time job at the gym as a personal trainer. My mind drifts to toned bodies and sweaty skin and too much breathing.
“Is that my girl blushing?” Dad’s voice booms out.
I slam the phone face down on my chest, feeling my face heat up even more.
“Hey, doll, come over here,” he calls. “I think our girl’s textflirting.”
Mom hurries into the living room, her eyes bright with interest. “Is it true?”
“She’s been on her phone for the last fifteen minutes.”
“It could be work.”
My father shakes his head. “Look at her face. It’s as red as a pepper.”
I sigh. One of the pitfalls of the oldest-child syndrome, this intense interest in all aspects of my life.
