every single day, I think about calling them. Yet, every single day, I don’t. When I was at boarding school, I still called them just about every other day.
Luke shifts on the couch. He’s not coming to hug me, though, or tuck me into his arms, but he does pass his phone over to me with a sorrowful look that says he knows all about loss and missing people. Usually, he tucks it away in his heart, and he never wears it on his face.
“Call them.”
“But I…”
“This isn’t your number. It’s mine. And it’s private anyway. They won’t be able to see who’s calling, so just call. You need to hear their voice. You need to just make small talk if you can’t talk about the other stuff.”
There’s something off about Luke’s expression now, something wary in his tone that I don’t quite understand. Maybe it’s just grief, or maybe he’s thinking about how we don’t always get the chance to tell the people who we love that we love them and how I should take it while I can. If something happened to my mom or dad, and I hadn’t talked to them after leaving the house, I would never forgive myself. Maybe that’s what he’s telling me with the wary glint in his eyes, his lips in a hard line.
My fingers close over the phone. It’s warm from being in Luke’s pocket. Yeah, it might have been pressed against his butt, but he has a nice butt, and it still makes me shiver when I take it.
“I’ll just go outside for a few minutes if that’s okay?”
“That’s fine. Don’t worry. You don’t have to sit here and watch me watching you while you call.”
He’s attempting to be funny, but there’s something wrong, I can tell. Maybe he had a long day, or maybe he doesn’t know what to do with me when I cry. Some people find tears really uncomfortable, so I make a note to break my rule about not talking about our personal lives and make a plan to ask him what might be wrong when I get back.
I head out to the backyard. It’s quiet back here since it’s late. The sky is a wash of black overhead, but there aren’t any stars I can see. I wonder if they’re there or if they aren’t out because it’s sometimes hard to tell with the lights from the city. I think it’s cloudy, but I can’t be sure.
As I perch on the top step of the deck, I have this sense of being super small and insignificant, swallowed up and dwarfed by the sky above. Those stars, when they are out, just look like little pinpricks, but they’re likely huge in the sky. What do I look like to them? Do I even really matter at all?
Okay, I didn’t come out here to have an existential crisis, so I slide my finger along the bottom of the phone. Luke doesn’t have a password on his phone, which is weird. Don’t most people? Maybe this is also his way of showing me he trusts me. A phone is a personal thing, and I wouldn’t let just anyone touch mine.
I let my finger rest on the screen until it goes dark. Then I flick it open and do the same thing again. I repeat it a few times before I get frustrated with myself. Just freaking call them already. Luke probably wants his phone back sometime this century.
I swipe the screen again and go to press the phone icon. I mean to barely look, type in the number, and hit call, all before I can lose my nerve, but stabbing at the screen doesn’t produce good results. The first time, I open some calendar thing right by the phone icon, and the second time, I accidentally open his email. I’m about to exit the app and try again when the title of the third email down the list catches my eye because it’s all in capitals from someone named Ashley Johnson.
MAX, PLEASE READ. IMPORTANT!!!!
I know I’m being snoopy, but I click the email. It still hasn’t hit me yet that the first word in the title was a name, but it becomes more than clear when I read the brief email.
Max,
We’re seriously behind right now, and I have a bunch of problem areas I need you to go over. No, don’t tell me to pick and choose. You’re the head of things and the one running the show,