Scott
S: Back in the city. Want to hang out later?
I feel like I’ve been gone back to my early twenties sending that message. That makes me shudder, because I was thinking with my dick then. f*ck
, I’m thinking with my dick now. But…it’s what Ali wants. And after abandoning her all week to go to New York and go six rounds with the Mayfair legal team and the British Consulate, I could use some chill time with a hot girl who likes me just for me. Maybe I haven’t matured past my twenties after all.
She doesn’t reply to my text right away. I move through my apartment, dropping my keys on the counter, my wallet beside them. I toe off my shoes then undo my tie.
She said she’s only seen me in a suit.
When I pick her up tonight, I want her to see the real me, as much as I can share with her. The me that used to live in cargo pants and black t-shirts when I wasn’t in fatigues.
I put on casual stuff and grab my phone again. No message back.
S: You studying? Want me to do a coffee run?
I fire up my laptop and check my email. Then I prowl into the kitchen. I don’t have shit f*ck
all to make breakfast with. Maybe I should do a grocery run before inviting Ali back to my place. I grab my keys and wallet, throw on a hoodie, and head out the door.
Two bags of eggs, bread, milk, cheese and OJ later—plus vegetables and fruit, because I’m not actually a twenty-year-old goon—I’m back at my place, and still getting radio silence.
I pull out my phone to text her again, promising myself it’s not needy if I’m concerned about her, when the screen lights up.
A: Sorry. So, so sorry. At a party.
I have zero right to get mad about that. She’s an adult. A college student. And for the year that I’ve known her, totally responsible.
I’m still thinking “what f*ck
ing party” when she texts again.
A: Should be home by eleven. Midnight at the latest. Will text when I’m back.
S: I can pick you up.
A: It’s cool. I’m with a friend. He’ll walk me home.
And now I’m officially wondering who he is. The back of my neck heats up and I have to force myself to put the phone down before I crack it from gripping it too hard.
I count to fifty before replying.
S: You okay? Just say the word, and I can come get you.
A: Seriously, I’m good. It’s a mixer.
I’m not sure I know what that means. In my world, it would mean cocktails with officers and NGO officials. And I wouldn’t call it a party. I don’t reply, because anything that would come out of my fingers would be inappropriate right now. I put away the groceries. When the phone chimes again, I take my time reaching for it.
A: What are you wearing?
That mollifies me a bit. She might be with a guy, but she’s thinking about me. And maybe the guy is a total dork.
S: Not a suit
A: Tease! Pics or it didn’t happen
S: I’m not taking a selfie
A: I will if you will
And just like that, I’m trying to take a picture of myself without looking like a menace. I settle for a body shot, no face. It only took six rejected pictures to get one that was acceptable. Ten seconds later she fires back a picture of herself reclining on a couch, full glass of something dark in her hand. She’s wearing a long-sleeve black shirt and jeans, her hair is down, and she looks so good my dick aches.
S: I think it’s midnight
A: hahaha
I’m not joking. I want her, and I want her now.
S: Are you on campus? I’m coming to pick you up.
A: Fine. But I’ll meet you downstairs. And don’t rush. I’ve just stumbled into a conversation I can actually stand.
She texts the address, and I do as she instructs. I go to Starbucks, get us coffee—boring old man drip for me, a vanilla latte for her—and head to campus, taking my time. When I get there, I find a parking spot not far from the building she’s in and wait.
And wait.
Thirty-five minutes later, I text her.
No answer.
I’ve got two choices. I can keep waiting, or I can go up and see if she needs rescuing.
I can already hear her protesting that I’ve shown up, but I can play Hailey’s bodyguard or something. I know how to be subtle.
Heading inside, I scan the main floor for her, just in case she’s waiting inside. Nothing, so I take the elevator upstairs. The only lights on in the building were a single office on the third floor, unlikely to be the site of a student party, and a bunch of windows were lit up on the top floor. Probably a lounge of some sort.
As soon as the elevator doors open, I hear an argument.
“Time for you to head home,” an authoritative voice insists.