Really, I just wanted to make sure my phone was working. I growl under my breath and text back, Nothing. See you in the morning.
I want to call her and rant about how big of an ass Joel is for not calling or texting me after we’ve spent almost every day for the past few weeks together. But she already thinks I’m in love with him or something, so instead, I set my phone back on the nightstand and stare at it lying there for a few hours before I finally fall asleep.
The next morning, when I don’t wake to any missed calls or missed texts or even apology roses delivered to my front door, I’m too frustrated to hold it in. On Rowan’s couch, I dig my hand into a bag of potato chips and say, “I can’t BELIEVE that asshole hasn’t even called me.”
“Maybe he’s waiting for you to call him,” she suggests while flipping through TV channels.
“Not going to happen.”
“Why not?”
“Because he’s the man.”
Her head slowly turns in my direction, her eyebrow reaching for her hairline. “Should he also take away your right to vote and own property?”
I toss a chip at her, and she laughs and throws it back at me. We both turn back toward the TV, wasting the morning watching everything and nothing until she says, “I almost let it slip that I’ve been living with Adam.”
I turn my head to see her gnawing on her thumbnail, and she glances my way before shifting to face me.
“I told mom and dad about Joel’s birthday party, and I accidentally said we had it at your place. And my dad was all, ‘Don’t you mean your place?’ And you know how bad I am at lying . . . It was cringe-worthy.”
“Did they buy it?”
She nods her head with her brows turned in and her thumbnail locked between her teeth. “I think so.”
“What do you think they’d do if they found out?”
She shrugs. “Probably throw a fit. Talk to me about how it’s too soon.”
“They’d want to meet him,” I say, trying not to laugh when I imagine Rowan’s burly, football-loving father meeting Adam, with his long hair and painted fingernails.
“The thing is, I want them to meet him,” Rowan says, sighing and curling her knees up on the couch. “I mean, they know we’re dating. I want them to know he’s the one . . . I’m just a little worried they won’t like him.”
“Would it matter?” I ask, and to my surprise, she smiles.
“Nope.”
“Then stop worrying about it.” I tap her thumb away from her mouth and add, “If they meet him and don’t like him, whatever. But if it helps, I think they’ll love him.” I stand up and start walking toward her bedroom. Her nails are a jagged mess I can’t stand to look at anymore. Filing and polishing them will be a better waste of my time than sitting around stressing about Joel.
“You think so?” she asks.
“Yep.”
“How do you know?”
I walk backward, giving her a smile. “Because your parents love you. And so does Adam.”
My afternoon is spent doing her nails and trying not to hate her when she gets constant text messages from Adam. I attempt to distract myself by talking to her about Kit and how weird Shawn acted around her—which Rowan observed too—but it doesn’t stop me from noticing that my phone remains painfully silent while Rowan’s beeps and dings and rings like a winning lotto machine. By the time I crawl into my bed later that night, I’m convinced that what I had with Joel was a fluke and that he’s forgotten all about me.
I don’t hear from him until three o’clock the next afternoon.
My dad and I are outside at my favorite year-round ice-cream parlor eating sundaes at a picnic table, and I’m teasing him about the way the ice-cream girls batted their eyelashes at him, when my phone beeps and Joel’s panty-melting smile flashes onto my screen. My heart does parkour off the walls of my chest, and I snatch my phone off the table.
I miss you.
Three little words from him lift an impossible weight off my chest, and my mouth curls into the smile to end all smiles.
“Who is it?” my dad asks, and I quickly slam my phone face down on the table.
“No one.”
When he doesn’t look convinced, I ask if he’s going to eat the cherry on top of his sundae, and then I steal it without waiting for an answer.
As soon as I get home, I speed-walk into the privacy of my bedroom and whip my phone out of my pocket.
Why haven’t you called? I type, and Joel’s response is immediate.
Why haven’t you called?
I debate saying something snarky, something clever and insincere. Instead, I type back, I miss you too.