Page 55 of One Night Only
13
Two weeks later
You up?
The text comes through at 2:06 a.m. on a Saturday night.
I am up. I’ve been watching a twelve-part documentary series about serial killers and signing random petitions about microplastics.
Now I have a booty call.
I roll onto my back, squinting at my phone. The number is saved under the helpful description of “Glasses. Has a cat.”
Strangely, that does help me place him. The blond-haired analyst from Denver who I hooked up with a few months ago.
I can’t remember his name.
But his cat’s name is Derrida.
Which honestly tells me a lot.
I think about replying, toying with the idea for about thirty seconds before I toss my phone to the side again. I don’t have the energy. Maybe two in the morning will be my new cutoff point.
I stretch until I feel my bones crack and press pause onEpisode Seven: The Killer Next Door.
Maybe I should cut my hair. I’ve always worn it long and used to take great pride in it but in the last few months I’m pretty sure I’ve traded the “luscious locks” look for a “why doesn’t that girl own a comb” vibe. Maybe I’ll cut it and lose ten pounds and suddenly have cheekbones.
Maybe then I’ll feel better.
I groan, rolling onto my stomach and hear the crinkle of a candy bar wrapper somewhere beneath me.
Well. That’s sad.
My phone buzzes again.
Sorry.Cat man texts.Wrong number.
My mouth drops open at the indignity of it and I immediately block his number. “Rude.”
I swipe through my notifications, looking for some distraction. But there’s nothing. No new messages. No emails. No likes. No news updates. No nothing.
Made you look.
The last text Declan sent me. It’s saved under “Dark hair. O’Shea’s.”The name of the bar where I met him. I didn’t know his name when I got his number. I didn’t know his name when I slept with him.
He still hasn’t collected his watch.
I still haven’t asked him to.
Maybe he forgot about it. Maybe he doesn’t want to see me again.
He certainly hasn’t tried to get in touch. I thought he might the first few days I was back. Then the first weekend and then…
I stare at the screen and, like I dared myself, click on the reply box, the flashing line taunting me, goading me to type.
But I don’t know what to say. I don’t know what to say because I don’t know what I want. I know what Ishouldwant, which is nothing. Nothing to do with him anyway. But I don’t like how we left things.
Closure. That’s all I need. One moment ofHey! Wasn’t that crazy? Also goodbye forever!to put him behind me.
