This Is My Brain in Love - I. W. Gregorio Page 0,49

largely abandon as soon as I hear her cheery message: “This is Jocelyn. You know what to do.”

It throws me, hearing her voice again. When I look down at my notes, they don’t make any sense anymore. After the beep I just start rambling.

“Hey, Jocelyn. This is Will. I’m calling because I haven’t heard from you, and I wanted to make sure you’re okay, and that you’re not in too much trouble. I…”

I curse myself. What can I do if she is in trouble if I am the trouble?

“If you’re satisfied with your message, please press two. If you’d like to rerecord your message, press three.”

My palms are so sweaty I nearly drop my phone in my rush to press three.

“Hi, Jocelyn. It’s Will. I wanted to check in and see how things are going. I hope things aren’t too busy at the restaurant, and that your family’s okay. I had a great time last week, and…”

Ugh. I sound like a creep fishing for some action. I jab the button to delete the message before the completion recording even plays. Then I throw my phone onto my bed, as far away as I can to avert voice-mail disaster, and put my face in my hands the way my dad does when the Jets make a particularly boneheaded play near the line of scrimmage.

In the darkness, with my fingers pressed tight against my closed eyes, I remind myself why I’m calling. I’m not calling to stalk her, or push an agenda, or to rush in like a knight in shining armor to solve all her problems.

I’m calling to show I care.

Before my third attempt at leaving a message, I take half a dozen centering breaths before dialing. As the phone rings, I remind myself how it felt to hold her hand, and remember the feeling of her forehead pressed against mine, how it grounded me and gave me a place to land.

“Hey, Jocelyn. It’s Will. Just wanted to call and say that I’m thinking about you. I miss you. Hope we can talk soon.”

In the first hour after leaving my voice mail, I check my phone twice to make sure the ringer is on. My clock tells me that it’s time to sleep, but my body is restless, buzzing with a physical need to hear Jocelyn’s voice.

I scroll through my curated news feed until my eyes sting. There’s another think piece about the Two Americas, and an investigation into yet another episode of police brutality. I read some analysis of recent events in the Middle East, and a feature on a couple whose baby was born intersex—with biological characteristics that don’t fit neatly into the definition of male or female—and their efforts to prevent unnecessary surgery on intersex kids. I read about campaign finance reform. Fracking. Islamophobia. The responsibility of the media in a post-truth society. Noise. Noise. Noise. What to say? What can I do?

Eventually, I sink into the darkness of sleep.

After another twenty-four hours incommunicado, I finally crack and tell Manny the whole sob story over a can of Pringles in the Amazing Stories break room. If any of my friends are going to sympathize, it’s the guy whose case of unrequited love is essentially a chronic condition.

“That’s shitty, man. I can’t believe you got canned, and then she ghosted you. Just when you were about to get some action, too. You have the worst luck.”

I don’t want to argue over the definition of “ghost,” but I’m reasonably sure that’s not what happened. “I think her parents may have just put her in total lockdown. The A-Plus Twitter and Facebook accounts have gone completely dark.”

“What shows up in your e-mail tracking?”

“My what?”

Manny practically sprains his eyeballs rolling them. “Have you learned nothing about how to obsessively follow someone over the internet, young Padawan?”

In less than five minutes he’s set me up and I’ve sent Jocelyn another e-mail:

Subject: Still thinking about you.

Hope you’re okay.

-Will

After I hit send, I stare at the little circle showing that tracking has been enabled until my eyes burn, half hoping it will turn into a green check mark, half dreading that I’ll finally get confirmation that Jocelyn has been actively ignoring my e-mails. It doesn’t take long for my brain to come up with scenarios where the program fails. For instance, if the tracker does show that the e-mail has been opened, it’s not guaranteed Jocelyn was the one who opened it, right? What if her dad made her give him her password and is