Bobbi smirked. “And you’ve been dating her ever since.”
Nathan took the pen from Bobbi’s outstretched hand while Dillon defended his tendency to swipe right on photos of girls with beach waves on paddleboards. He inhaled just as his phone vibrated. Rachel’s message made him choke.
Rachel: I’m checking my swimsuit bottoms for ticks.
Since his bib joke, they’d been texting nonstop for three days. But after an early morning confession about how she regretted throwing away her old journals (I was terrified some reporter would find them), she’d gone quiet for several hours. Nathan had nearly called her. Then he remembered that he’d only known this woman for two weeks. You couldn’t let your insecurities drip over relationships like a leaky faucet. You had to keep boundaries with people, otherwise they’d try to fix you.
Nathan: I hope that’s some kinky metaphor.
Rachel: No. They’re actual ticks. I signed up for a charity float trip that I thought would be in canoes. It was inner tubes on the river. You can picture the rest.
Nathan: I’m trying. Bikini or one piece?
Rachel: Trikini. A handkerchief and saucers. It was freezing but I needed the ego boost.
Nathan: Come find me if you ever need another one.
Rachel: Next time I go on vacation, you’re coming with me. Do you like the beach?
He thought about the last-minute trip he took to Miami two years ago with Dillon for spring break. All he remembered was puking up sugary mojitos and realizing he was too old for spring break.
Nathan: Sometimes. I liked visiting my grandmother’s family in Oaxaca. We’d visit Bahía Tangolunda and swim for hours.
He hadn’t thought about those trips in a long time. His family would go every year before Abuelita passed. His cousins would call him flaco and make fun of his terrible Spanish. Then they’d take him to clubs and tell everyone he was an American reality TV star so people would buy them drinks. Before the trip was over, they’d have him acting like a local. It gave him a glimpse of what it might be like to have a normal family, with brothers and sisters his own age.
Rachel: I just looked it up, and it’s beautiful. Your family lives there?
Nathan: Great-uncles and cousins. I haven’t seen them in a while.
As soon as he typed it, he knew she’d ask him why. So he quickly typed another message.
Nathan: You want to go? I’ll book some tickets.
Rachel: Ha ha.
“Nettles!” Bobbi snapped her fingers in his face. “Who are you talking to?”
“No one.” Nathan shoved his phone in his pocket. “Are you done fighting?”
“He’s hopeless.” Bobbi pointed at Nathan’s hidden phone. “Is it a woman?”
“A woman?” Dillon stood beside Bobbi. “Are you seeing someone?”
Nathan leaned back on the couch. “You guys are kind of close right now. Could you back up, please?”
Dillon rolled his eyes. “Booty call. He’s embarrassed.”
“No.” Nathan paused until they both retreated. “I’d like to have a private conversation without being interrogated.”
“Is Dillon right?” Bobbi cornered him like a sniffing bloodhound. “Or is it serious?”
“There is no it,” Nathan snapped. “Could you guys talk to each other for a minute while I text her back?”
“Her!” Dillon pointed to Bobbi. “Told you. Our boy is back!”
Bobbi shuddered. “Uh, no. Fuck boy Nathan is your boy. Not mine.”
Nathan waited until they’d settled into another debate before picking up his phone.
Nathan: Anytime you feel like running away just say the word.
Those marching dots taunted him as she typed her response. He suddenly, intensely hated text messages.
Rachel: I feel that way every day.
He reread it, lifted his thumbs to type, and then lowered them again. He wanted to say, So do I. I’m not sure why I never could. But you didn’t put big things like that in a text.
Nathan stood and loudly announced, “I’m making a beer run. You guys need anything?”
Dillon looked confused. “Uh… more chips?”
Nathan took the steps down into the laundromat two at a time, barely reaching the stoop before dialing Rachel’s number. She answered on the first ring.
“I know that last message was pathetic, but you didn’t have to call.”
Her voice washed over him, soft with a hint of huskiness and smoke. He might never text her again.
“It wasn’t pathetic.” He leaned forward and propped his elbows on his knees. “I like hearing your voice.”
She was quiet long enough to give him palpitations. “I actually hate texting,” she admitted. “I’m too slow.”
“That’s because you care about punctuation.”
“Commas increase readability, and I will die on that hill.” She laughed. It was like audible honey. Nathan rocked forward, leaning into the sound.
“You’ve got a good laugh.”
“Really?” She laughed again, but this time it was muffled, like she was covering her mouth with her hand.
He groaned. “Did I make you self-conscious? Don’t be. Yours is sexy.”
She didn’t respond. Fuck. The filter between his brain and his mouth had been smoked down to nothing. “Rachel? Are you still there? Hey, I didn’t mean it like that.”
She cleared her throat. “It’s okay if you did.”
Nathan leaned back on the stairs and stared at the empty parking lot. His body felt heavy and light at the same time, like any minute, all the darkness weighing him down would fall away.
“God, this house is so empty,” she said. “There’s an echo.”
“You’re not alone. I’m here.” He could also be there if she wanted, even though he probably shouldn’t. But what was the point of playing by the rules while everyone else broke them? What would he get from standing still? “You know that, right? You can talk to me whenever you need to.”
“I do,” she said quietly. “And you can do the same.”
He wanted to. But their situations were different. Rachel’s big secret was that beneath that shiny, Instagram-ready exterior, she was chaotically sexy, smart but reckless, and viewed the world like a cynical poet. Meanwhile, scratching beneath his surface would be a disappointment. Whatever mysterious persona she’d conjured in her mind was better than the reality of how little was there. Bobbi was right. Having everything handed to you on a silver platter made it hard to know what to value. Which made it all worthless. Except his art. Money couldn’t make it easier to put his vision on paper. The starving artist was a cliché for a reason. The only time his life had meaning was when there was a risk of failing.
“You’re so quiet,” she said. “I didn’t mean to ruin your mood. Ignore me.”
“That is impossible.” He pictured her legs, smooth and bare beneath that cocktail dress. “Believe me, I’ve tried.”
She didn’t respond, but she didn’t hang up. She also didn’t say what she should have said, that he was out of line, and whatever this was, wasn’t happening. Her silence sparked the air like a dangling live wire.
“Nate! I thought you were getting beer!”