Page 59 of If Not for My Baby
Clementine:Oh God it’s terrible.
Clementine:The word for the V lines.
Tom Halloran:We’ve come this far.
Clementine:No, you’re gonna hate it.
Tom Halloran:Come on. Spit it out.
My cheeks heat at the double entendre he doesn’t even know he’s made.
Clementine:…
Clementine:Cum gutters.
Now I’m certain I can hear him laughing. I grin, too, alone before the glow of the phone screen.
Tom Halloran:The dreadful things I could do with that information…
Clementine:I warned you!
Tom doesn’t say anything after that and I stare at my phone until the screen fades to black. But I’m buzzing. Practically caffeinated by our exchange. His cleverness, his subtle yet bald flirtation—I’m a greedy addict. I’d do appalling things for just one hit more. But I jump-started the conversation last. So if it dies here, so be it.
The bus grumbles over another dip in the unpaved road, and the springy mattress depresses beneath me. Then my phone vibrates in my palm and illuminates the bunk in pale blue.
Tom Halloran:Your turn.
I hold my breath.
Tom Halloran:What are you wearing?
It’s so much sexier coming from him. I’m warmed like the AC’s been shut off. The truth is I’m not wearing anything to write home about. A big T-shirt and underwear like every night. I debate lying:Silk nightie. Garter belt. Knee-high socks, if you’re into that.Then consider taking the shirt and panties off so when I saynothingit’ll be true. But all options reek of desperation and while I type and erase about six different answers, he messages a third time in a row.
Tom Halloran:Clementine. What are you wearing?
Holy shit. My stomach dips as I type.
Clementine:Tattered high school theater T-shirt (Cabaret) and a thong (lacy & very small)
And then I hit send, toss my phone down toward my feet, and bury my face into my pillow. For long, torturous minutes, the silence drowns me. I regret every moment that led me to this point. That response was not sexy. Or was ittoosexy? Trying too hard? Not trying hard enough?
I’ve accepted that he’s never going to respond and made peace with my future in the witness protection program when a notification vibrates against my big toe.
Sheets fly as I dig through the tiny bunk for my phone, hit my head, locate it, and slide open his message faster than socks along hardwood.
Tom Halloran:Jesus fucking Christ, Clementine.
My entire body lights up like it’s Christmas.
I read the text fifteen times at least—I can hear his thick, Irish accent. Husky and rough in the quiet blackness of his bed.Jaysus fokin’ Christ, Clementine.
Tom Halloran:You’re killing me with that.
Clementine:Should I make it worse?
Tom Halloran:Please, yes. Make it worse for me.
Clementine:No bra
