The dinner rush seems to go on forever, and by the time I get a break at eight forty-five p.m., I’m exhausted and starving. I grab a burger and head out the back door to eat it. My phone buzzes with a message.
<Had a great idea today. Made up a T-shirt that said, “I got boned at The Museum of Natural History.” Took it to Threadless & made a million dollars. Avery bought a dozen. Dropping out of drama school to become creepy bar-hopping douche who marries hotel heiress & becomes famous for his giant schlong in grainy sex tape. It was nice knowing you. Sincerely, Ethan (aka The T-shirt Baron).> I laugh and shake my head as I text back.
<Hate to burst your bubble, Baron, but Chandler from Friends came up w/that quote years ago. Guess you’ll have to stay in trenches w/the rest of us plebs. Sucks to be you.> <Fuck. Ok, plan B. Get own reality show & get arrested for DUI. Then wait for movie offers. Gotta go. Booze to drink. Easy chicks to bang. (Just kidding. Only easy chick I’m banging is you. Well, not right now ‘cause you’re on other side of country, but … when you get back. Yes?)> Goddammit.
How the hell do I reply to that?
<Maybe.>
<Don’t tease me. It s cruel. Just say yes. Or, fuck, yes.> And I’m back to laughing.
<Fuck, yes.>
<**(Pretend I’ve invented fist pump emoticon & insert here)** See you in 4 wks. I’ll be the one w/the massive boner.> He signs it with a smiley face with the tag, <That’s my **Looking forward to getting laid emoticon**> I laugh again. All of a sudden I’ve forgotten about the sweat running down my spine, the ache in my feet, and the smear of grill grease on the front of my shirt. Thanks to him, I’m smiling like an idiot, and when I go back inside, one of the other waitresses asks if I just got lucky in the parking lot.
My parents are yelling again. Bickering like children over inconsequential crap. Nothing. Everything. I’d go out, but as usual this summer, it’s raining. I put in my headphones and turn up my music.
I’m listening to Radiohead. Ethan always puts it on when I’m at his place. When I listen to it, I can almost pretend he’s in the room with me as he wraps his arms around me and pulls me against his chest.
My phone rings, and when I see his name, my mouth goes completely dry.
God.
He’s calling me.
He hasn’t called before. He usually texts.
I shouldn’t be this excited.
I let it ring. Don’t want to seem too eager.
Two … three times it rings. I pick up on the fourth and feign nonchalance.
“Hello?”
“Hey.”
“Uh … hey. Who is this?” Good one, Cassie. Keep him on his toes.
“It’s Ethan. Your caller ID would have told you that. Or do you just have me under World’s Greatest Lay?”
Hearing his voice does strange things to me. But I’d never let him know that, so I clear my throat and try to sound bored.
“Oh, hey.”
“Hey.”
This is awkward. People who aren’t us do this.
“Why are you calling?”
“Uh … Well … I don’t know, I was just…” The final word sounds like “jusht.”
“Ethan, are you drunk?”
“Not totally.”
“Drunk is like pregnant. You either are or you aren’t.”
“Then I’m not.”
“Drunk or pregnant?”
“Both. Although, I don’t know. I’ve missed my period. Pregnancy could be a possibility.”
I smile without meaning to. “Is that right?”
“Yeah. What are the other symptoms of pregnancy? I’m worried now.”
When I close my eyes, I can almost picture him lying on his bed, tugging at his dark, unruly hair. In my vision, he’s shirtless, and the hand that isn’t torturing his hair is grazing over the grooves between his abs.
I realize that in reality, at least one hand needs to be holding his phone, but the fantasy is hotter, so I roll with it.
“Cassie?”
“Hmmm?”
“I’m having a pregnancy scare here. You’re supposed to be reassuring me.” His words run together a little. It’s kind of adorable.
“Okay, sorry. Well, I didn’t really listen in freshman health class, but I think the first sign of pregnancy is fatigue. Are you tired?”
“Yes. Very.”
“Irritable?”
“Fuck, yeah. Super irritable.” I can almost hear him frown.
“Nothing new there.”
“Shut up.”
“Case in point.”
“What else?” he asks.
“Sore breasts?”
“Hmmm. Hang on.”
I hear rustling. “What are you doing?”
“Taking off my shirt, so I can check my breasts. Wait … mmm … yes. They are a little sore.”
More fantasy images. This time of him running his hand over his naked chest.
It does nothing for my deteriorating composure. “Your … pecs are sore?”
“Yeah.”
He clears his throat. “Maybe you should come home and kiss them better.”
I freeze. Did he call for phone sex? We don’t do that. Or at least, we haven’t yet done that. I mean, he sometimes whispers stuff in class to make me blush, but he doesn’t call me to flirt.
“Cassie? Are you okay?”
Maybe.
It’s unclear.
My chest is tinged with pain.
“I shouldn’t have called.”
“Why did you?”
He pauses. “I was lying here, thinking about you, and … I just wanted to talk to you, I guess.”
“Oh.”