Take my ponytail out. Brush my hair.
Go to the toilet, pull down my bottoms, and sit, trying to pee. When that doesn’t work, I stand back up and look around the bathroom, deciding any more loitering is pointless.
I mean, I’m home alone—who am I going through this whole song and dance for?
Click off the light and go to stand next to the bed, palming my phone.
Before I open his message—assuming it’s him—I quickly give my social media a brief glance before allowing myself to finally tap on the little green messages icon at the bottom of my phone screen.
Noah: Glad to hear from you. Can you talk?
What does he mean by talk? Talk talk or text talk? I hope he explains more once I respond.
Me: Yes?
Noah: I meant is it okay for me to call?
Shit. He wants to call me? On the phone? Who even does that anymore?! This is an outrage! I won’t even pick up when my grandmother calls unless she calls twice in a row!
If you need to get ahold of me, text.
If it’s an emergency—still text.
Video chatting is fine, and easy. I can move the phone around while I continue about my business, but for some reason, it seems more involved having to listen to someone on the other line rather than watch them on a video call.
My pits begin to sweat. I won’t lie—this whole thing makes me twitchy and I lose steam. Earlier while I was on the phone with Claire, she got me all worked up and I knew what I wanted to say, how I wanted to say it—I was ready! Then he goes and throws this wrench in my plan by wanting to speak to me!
There is nothing I can say to him except: Sure.
I busy myself, fluffing my pillow on the bed, trying to be cool, so my discomfort doesn’t come through in my voice when I answer the phone.
“Hey,” I say, practicing, going so far as to lean against my nightstand, one hand propped there as if I’m at a bar using a pick-up line. “What’s up?”
Lord, I sound like Joey from Friends. How you doin’?
I clear my throat. “Miranda speaking.” Way too formal considering it’s bedtime; well, it is for me anyway. Maybe he’s a night owl.
I try again. “Hi.” Blah, why is this so hard!
I’m chastising myself when the phone rings, his name popping up on my screen since I programmed his number in—because right now, he’s the only one forking over five figures for vintage sports memorabilia. Everyone else who’s contacted me has either tried to lowball or hasn’t followed through and I don’t have time to deal with anyone who isn’t serious.
Noah is serious.
I take a deep breath and accept the call. “Hello?”
Oh, well done, me! I sound so natural and casual, as if this could be anyone calling.
“It’s Noah.” Deep and gruff, those two words.
“Hi.” Okay, that was lame.
He clears his throat, just as I did moments ago, and says, “I’m sorry.”
“For what?” I deadpan, feigning indifference.
“For lying.”
“It’s weird for me thinking of you as Noah right now. I’ve had—what’s your friend’s name? Buzz? In my mind since I met him.” I pause, choosing my words carefully. “Why didn’t you tell me when we were at Rent?” It would have been the perfect opportunity; he could have blamed alcohol. He could have blamed any number of things if he had spilled his guts and confessed right there.
Though I don’t remember his buddy coming clean either. Two liars turning me into a joke. Well ha ha, no one is laughing.
Noah is quiet and I practically hear the wheels churning in his mind as he racks his brain for an answer that won’t upset me. “I don’t know.”
Well. That’s not what I was expecting him to say. Thought he’d at least say something like I thought you’d be mad or I didn’t think it would matter since we’re not friends. Or even the standard I didn’t think I’d ever see you again.
Except he knew he was going to see me because I’m selling him my stash. Was going to sell him the stash—was. Past tense.
Instead he goes with another truth: I do not know.
Hmph. What the heck do I say now?
I say nothing.
“Are you mad?” His low voice sounds a bit tired.
“Why would you care?”
I mean, seriously—I don’t even know him.
“I’m not an asshole.”
“I didn’t say you were.”
“No, I mean…I don’t want you to think this is the kind of thing I do—I don’t get off on embarrassing other people.”
“You didn’t embarrass me.” He did, but just a little, not that I’d admit it.
“Okay.” He pauses. “Good.”
I hear the tenants in the apartment above mine flushing their toilet, one of the downsides of living in a place this old. Shiny, new high-rise apartments are nice, but not when you’re scrimping and saving every dime to start your own business.
Maybe I should move into my office and sleep under my desk… Jeez, just the thought gives me chills and not in a good way.
“If you’re calling because you thought you embarrassed me, you’re good—we are good. No worries.”
Tick, tock. The seconds go by quietly as we both decide what to say next.
“Was there anything else?” I wonder out loud, trying to urge this quiet guy into opening up. “Anything at all?”
Literally anything. Please just say something.
“What…” He stops. Groans. And I get the sense he’s struggling with his words. Maybe even at home right now, in whatever apartment he lives in—or condo, with all that money he has to burn—running a frustrated hand through his hair. Bet it’s sticking straight up, too, all wild and frantic.
I hate having to pry information out of people. If he has something to say, he shouldn’t be a pussy about it.
“Fuck. Tell me how you really feel.”
A hand flies to my mouth. “Shit. Did I say that out loud?”
“Yes.”
“Sorry.” Then. “Not sorry.”
We both laugh and the temperature warms
