Lex sighs, heavy and burdened. “I’m not much of a talker, Nicks.”
I glance between the phones in our laps and think back to our limo ride that first night, on our way to the gala. “If you can’t say it, write it down.”
A glance.
“Text me,” I continue, nodding at his phone. “Sometimes it’s easier that way.”
He scowls like the notion is absurd. But then the creases in his face unfurl, and his posture relaxes. A few beats roll by, and he picks up the phone.
My heart teeters.
I sit there anxiously, my own phone clasped in a tight grip. I wait for the vibration, the little ping.
Ping.
With a sharp exhale, I open his message.
My Christian: Hey.
My lips twitch.
Me: Hey.
He keeps typing. Longer this time.
My Christian: Apparently I’m not much of a texter either.
Me: That’s okay. I have nowhere to be.
My Christian: Sometimes I wonder if I’m anything at all. Just a puppet living out these different roles until one of them sticks.
Sadness pokes pinholes in my chest.
I steal a quick look at his profile, but he’s unreadable.
Me: One of them will stick. The one that matters.
My Christian: I envy you. Always have.
Me?
I was the poor girl living on a farm, and he was the movie star, a bright light.
While I understand now, with added context, why he’d feel that way, he’s still so young. His life isn’t over. His story isn’t over.
Me: Why?
My Christian: You’ve always known who you are.
Me: That’s not true. I’m no different than you. Nobody knows who they really are until they’re tested. That’s when it counts.
My Christian: I’m afraid this place will ruin you.
Me: Only if I allow it to. And I won’t.
My Christian: Then we couldn’t be more different.
Emotion pricks behind my eyes. I breathe in deeply, watching his thumb pause over the keypad before I send another reply.
