Kingston: No. Should I have?
Me: Yes, great books. But I asked because the quote you left me this morning, which I really liked btw…it’s from one of the books.
Kingston: Ah, well they stole your story then, Love.
I’ve definitely unfairly judged the girls caught under his spell. The choice was never theirs. He’s that good.
Me: How do you figure?
Kingston: I searched “quotes for Echo Kelly” and that came up. As it should. Said it perfectly.
This—he—could get addictive. And lines clearly drawn in my head and heart could easily become blurry, if not completely obliterated, should I sit here any longer.
So I force myself back into friend mode and reply accordingly.
Me: You’re on a roll this morning. Better save some of those savvy lines for the tarts.
I hesitate before sending one last message.
Me: I’m late. Have a good day, playboy!
I run into school, out of breath for two reasons but satisfied with myself for taking back control of the situation that was headed in a direction I dare not explore.
First, you don’t leap from shy introvert who doesn’t date to Kingston Hawthorne: a smooth-talker with a face made for dreams, a body of unworldly men, and the entourage of a celebrity. He’s not the type of guy to get your feet wet with, or you’re sure to drown on your first swim. And secondly, the detour I threw worked, because the texts that continue the rest of the day are back on the track they need to be.
Case in point: In second period, my phone vibrates in my pocket. While the teacher’s back is turned, I read his message under my desk. It’s a picture of a girl I don’t know, and for a moment, I’m confused—until my phone buzzes again.
Kingston: Need my Echo Meter. What do you think?
Now this game I can play without fear of emotional risk.
Me: Does she speak in full, coherent sentences that, in any way, correlate to the topic at hand?
Kingston: You delight me. In comparison to even YOUR texts, no, she’s functional at best.
Well, there’s his answer then.
But before I can respond, he texts again.
Kingston: But yes, it is indeed English she is speaking.
Me: Can you, without spraining your neck, tell what color of underwear she’s wearing?
I glance up at the front of the room. The teacher’s still facing away, scrawling on the board. I have no idea what she’s teaching today, nor do I care. Kingston, among being a million other things, is a fun distraction. And I can’t remember the last time I’ve been so distracted.
He makes me smile, laugh…think. He challenges my mind, which has gone too long without a worthy opponent for splendid banter. Since his arrival, my life has more color in it—vibrant Technicolor that I now find myself stopping to notice and fully appreciate.
I miss my brother something awful. I do. But I’m glad Kingston’s here.
Kingston: She’s not wearing any.
I’m not sure whether he’s just trying to get a rise out of me. I’d hope so, because ew. But either way, it works—I have to slap my hand over my mouth to muffle my laughter. I don’t know why I find it so funny. Perhaps I’m just trapped in a perpetually good mood.
Me: Doesn’t that easy access make her an automatic 10? What do you need me for?
Kingston: Several things. And no, I’ve found that a certain new someone in my life has caused me to raise my standards.
I smile, glad I’ve made an impact. Kingston doesn’t have to settle. He can handpick someone worthy of him.
Kingston: Can I get that meter reading please? She’s becoming clingier with each minute you make me await your decision.
Me: She may have been out of clean underwear, so to be fair, I need more information. Her laugh: more human or small, distressed-animal sounding?
Kingston: Definitely the latter.
Me: Ask her to spell definitely.
There’s a gap in response time. Poor girl—I can picture her face scrunching up in what she thinks is “cute” confusion.
Kingston: Not even close.
I actually snicker before making a decision. I feel a bit guilty being so judgmental, but fake laughter, the inability to spell, and no panties? Nope.
Me: Two.
Kingston: Agreed. Thank you for your brilliant wisdom.
Me: I do what I can. Now I have to go learn something. You should try doing the same.
Either he got tangled up with the “two” despite my meter reading or actually took my advice on learning something, because I don’t hear from him again until the middle of lunch. And his message is accompanied by another picture.
Kingston: How about her? She has a certain “wholesome” feel.
I literally spit out the drink I’d just taken, scowling back at the people now staring at me.
“What was that about?” Savannah gripes, wiping my Coke off her sweater.
“Nothing, sorry,” I mumble, staring back down at my phone.