Page 9

Things had changed anyway.

I opened our message thread. The most recent text was from Missy, sent nine days earlier.

Missy: Thinking about you. You should come by sometime. No pressure. I miss you.

The message before that was also hers.

Missy: I know things are weird, but I’d really like to see you.

I scrolled farther back without meaning to. There were pictures. An invitation. A few messages I had answered hours or days later with apologies about work. More messages I hadn’t answered at all.

A hard feeling moved through me. I didn’t call it guilt. Guilt implied I had done something wrong, and I was not prepared to make that determination.

Something had shifted between us; that was true. Missy had changed. Her life had changed, and every conversation had become crowded with things I didn’t know how to respond to. She had developed a new rhythm, one I couldn’t enter without feeling that I was interrupting.

Maybe she had stopped needing me. Maybe she only invited me because she felt obligated.

There were reasons. I was sure there were reasons.

I typed.

Me: I made way too many cupcakes. Want me to bring some over?

My thumb hovered above the send button as I considered the implications.

If I went over, I would have to stay, make conversation, answer questions. I’d have to explain work, money, my parents, and why I had disappeared again. Missy might look at me with that careful concern she’d developed, which always made me feel like I was being observed from every direction.

She might ask what was wrong.

I deleted the message and put my phone down.

By the time the sun began setting, the apartment had cooled, and the music had stopped. The light outside softened across the buildings, turning the windows opposite mine into muted rectangles of evening.

My phone began to vibrate.

I glanced at it but didn’t pick it up immediately. I assumed it was a client, my mother, or the married entrepreneur preparing to introduce himself with a photo taken beside a rented sports car.

The vibration stopped.

Then started again.

And again.

The phone rattled against the counter in repeated bursts. Messages arrived so quickly that the screen stayed lit, one notification replacing another before I could read the name.

I picked it up. It continued vibrating in my hand.

One message.

Four.

Nine.

Fifteen.

I stared at the screen.

Who the hell could that be?