Page 26 of Unmoored

“Damn it, I’m doing it again.”

My phone’s out in my hand, and I’m scrolling through my message thread with Eden. We texted all yesterday evening, after I got home from work. Then, first thing this morning, he sent me a photo of his instant coffee and instant oatmeal.

I scroll back up, smiling all over again.

EDEN:

Breakfast!!!

MURPH:

Is that edible?

And I thought I was worried about you before…

EDEN:

No no it’s good, I can run the kettle AND the fridge at the same time!

I see your point though

It’s sweet of you to worry!

The string of heart-eye emojis makes me blush all over again. I’ve been paused on this message for a few seconds now. I’m staring at them, but picturing the way Eden looked up at me after I kissed him…

“Whoa!” I yelp. My phone almost buzzes right out of my damn hand. “What’s?—”

New voice note from Eden.

I grin, impatiently swiping to scroll to the new message. I turn down the phone volume and press play, raising it to my ear.

“Hey, sexy. So, when are you taking me for another ride?”

The voice note ends with one of Eden’s perfectly-calculated giggles—the ones that make me feel like I’m the tide under his moon, pulled this way and that by nothing more than a gleam in his eye.

It’s easier to send a voice note when my upstairs brain is barely keeping its hands on the wheel. So I clear my throat, hopping to my feet to pace the barge as I press my thumb to the record button.

“How about I come by tomorrow night and put some gas in your tank?”

I pause, suddenly mortified as I stare down at my phone. Is that too cheesy? No, I don’t think so. If Eden doesn’t blush, at least he’ll laugh. I’m okay with that.

Okay, do it.I let go of the record button, shove my phone into my pocket, and pace furiously until it buzzes again—and again, before I can even grab it.

Eden’s switched back to texts—a slew of them.

EDEN

Yes, skipper!!!

Then there’s several strings of emojis: the flustered face, the pleading face, the salute emoji. As I stare at them, another text arrives.

EDEN

Can I make you dinner?

I grin, because I already know the answer to that. It doesn’t matter where we’re eating, orwhatwe’re eating. What matters is that it was made by Eden’s own hands. Or transferred from a readymade meal container to a plate—I don’t mind.

The sweet part is how hesitant he sounds, even after his boldness moments ago. I don’t think I’m the only one who’s nervous.

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