Page 54 of Made for Wilde
The whiskey in my glass is warming my hand but doing nothing for the cold that’s settled deep in my chest. Outside, the wind howls through the pines, a lonely sound that matches the hollow feeling in my gut.
I made it until Wednesday afternoon before breaking down and texting her.
I stared at my phone for twenty minutes, typing and deleting like a teenager with his first crush, before finally sending the most pathetic message possible: “Hey, just checking on you. How’s your car running?”
Her response came two hours later, polite and distant: “Hey, it’s going great, thanks!”
That’s it.
No questions about me, no hint that she was thinking about me, nothing to suggest that what happened between us meant anything more to her than a storm-induced mistake. I read those five words about fifty times, looking for some hidden meaning, some secret code that might tell me she was feeling even a fraction of what I was.
There was nothing.
I toss back the whiskey, welcoming the burn.
The truth is, I’ve spent the entire week acting like a fucking stalker. Monday, I circled her apartment complex on my way to work, just to make sure she got out okay. Tuesday, I drove past the beauty school three times, telling myself I was checkingthat her car was running. Wednesday was when I finally texted her, and Thursday I actually parked across the street from The Summit during her shift, watching the door like some psycho ex-boyfriend.
Today, I followed her from school to the grocery store, staying two cars back like I was conducting surveillance in a war zone instead of trailing a hair stylist in training.
I watched her load bags into her trunk, saw how tired she looked, how her shoulders slumped when she thought no one was looking. I almost approached her then, almost gave myself away, but a guy from the produce department came out to help her and I slunk away like the predator I am.
My phone sits on the coffee table, its screen dark.
I wonder what she’s doing right now.
If she’s at home with her roommate, laughing about her week, maybe getting ready to go out. Maybe she’s already found someone new, someone her own age, someone who doesn’t carry years of baggage and a best friend who would kill him if he knew the truth.
Maybe she’s already forgotten what it felt like when I touched her, when I tasted her, when I made her come apart in my hands.
The thought makes me want to put my fist through the wall.
I grab my phone, navigating to her number before I can talk myself out of it. My thumb hovers over the call button.
This is a bad idea.
The worst idea.
But I’m tired of pretending I can stay away from her, tired of acting like I don’t think about her every minute of every day.
I hit call before I can change my mind.
It rings three times. I’m about to hang up, cursing myself for my weakness, when she answers.
“Hello?” Her voice is soft and hesitant.
“Hey.” I clear my throat, suddenly at a loss for words. “It’s Koda.”
“I know.” There’s a small pause. “Is…is everything okay?”
No. Nothing is okay. Nothing has been okay since the moment I watched you walk away.
“Yeah, just checking in.” I sound like an idiot. “How’s school going?”
“Good.” She pauses again. “Passed my midterm. Thanks for asking.”
The conversation is so stilted, so formal, it makes my chest ache.
This isn’t us. This isn’t the girl who laughed in my shower, who touched me without fear, who looked at me like I was something worth wanting.
