It was infuriating. It was exhilarating. But it was torture not knowing how to act on it.
Tossing and turning had plagued me for the better part of two hours. As it neared midnight and my mood graduated from mildly uncomfortable, to grouchy, to just plain over it. Now, after finally giving up and peeling my wide-awake eyes apart, my heart was beating like a bass drum as I contemplated doing something that had the potential to turn out embarrassing.
With extended arms, I held my phone above my face as I laid back in bed. The screen was blank. I was looking at nothing. I didn’t need to scroll aimlessly or kill time. I knew exactly what I wanted to do, who I wanted to contact. It was my traitorous heart that was stopping me from just going for it.
Before I could change my mind, I pulled up my text messages. With my lip between my teeth, I surveyed them. The only other messages in this thread were ones that had to do with work. But our dynamic had changed recently, so it might be okay if I changed that too.
Tapping swiftly, I forced myself to hit send on the message I’d been thinking about all night, ripping it off like a piece of duct tape Ceci put over my mouth when we were kids.
Me:
Are you sleeping?
Me:
This is Alta.
No more than a couple minutes later did a response come through.
A. Harper:
Is this a “u up” text, Boss?
A. Harper:
Scandalous.
A. Harper:
And I have your number saved, Alta. You don’t have to announce yourself.
Me:
Oh.
Me:
Well, hi.
Me:
I can’t sleep.
A. Harper:
Jesus, even your booty calls are sweet.
Me:
I’m not booty calling!
A. Harper:
You are so booty calling. I know a booty call when I see it.
A. Harper:
You’re supposed to ask what I’m wearing too.
