Page 28 of Tomorrow Belongs to Us
I call the college where Lance works and ask to be put through to the Department of Mathematics.
How can he get the wrong idea? I’m only returning his pen, but the quiver in my stomach belies my calm outward exterior.
“Lance Turner?” the receptionist asks. “Putting you through.”
I bite my lip, anxiety coiling through my body as I fiddle with my earring.
“Lance Turner’s office.” A woman answers, in a sing-song voice, and it completely throws me off guard.
“Uh.” I’m startled to silence. “Uh, I was hoping to speak with Lance Turner. Is he there?”
“He went home earlier. Don’t tell him I was in his office.”
I laugh and assure the woman that I’m not about to tell Lance any such thing. “Uh. I-uh, I have something of his that-uh, uh… I need to return … uh … his … uh … pen.” I seem to be unable to string together a sentence. I was calm and collected when I was a student. As a grown woman I’m falling apart and getting ridiculously tongue-tied and it’s not even him I’m talking to.
“Youhave it! He was complaining about it going missing the other day.”
“I forgot to give it back.”
“You can call him on his cell phone. I’m assuming you’re not one of those blood sucking reporters? If you have his pen, you can’t be. He wouldn’t let any of those people within a couple of meters of him.”
“Uh—” I bite my lip again, feeling embarrassed by my lack of composure and for using Neanderthal grunts as a form of communication.
“Do you have his number?”
“Uh, no.” I don’t want his number. I really don’t. That would make him think I’d deliberately called his college to get it. “I can call back another time.”
“It’s up to you but he’s in and out at different hours. It might be better if you just call him direct.”
I’m about to protest but the sweet lady at the other end rattles off Lance’s cell phone number. I hastily write it down, before thanking her and hanging up. I stare at the number before me. It’s a direct link to him. Shivers scurry along my spine. My nervousness takes me off guard because I don’t understand it.
I twiddle the pen around in my hand. I’ve read the inscription many times. “Love, Anna.” His sister. This pen has sentimental value. No wonder he was complaining about losing it.
I make the call and hold my breath, which doesn’t help the way my stomach is churning. “It’s me, Megan,” I announce when he picks up.
“Megan!” His voice is a joyous exclamation, like he’s incredibly happy to hear from me.
“I have your pen.”
“I know.”
“Oh.” I’d assumed, from the way that his friend mentioned it, that he’d been looking for it. “Why didn’t you call me to get it back?”
“I didn’t have your number, but I do now.”
“You could have stalked me at work like you did the last time.”
“You didn’t like me stalking you,” he reminds me.
“You’re admitting that you did stalk me that last time?”
“I wanted to see you.” His voice loses its playfulness. There is meaning behind those words. Meanings I could project into them. He. Wanted. To. See. Me.
I have pleasured myself at night since we last met. His voice, his face, him in my life; it was enough to get me to do that. I clear my throat, hoping to clear my mind of its thoughts. “I read the inscription.”
He’s silent.
“You’re not in a hurry to reclaim it?” He had a good excuse to seek me out, but he chose not to. The thought grates on me like a fingernail on a blackboard. Maybe this is all in my head. Maybe he has a girlfriend. Maybe he isn’t interested in seeing me.
