Chapter Thirteen
Gia
After my phone call with my mother, I’m in a state of anxiety. I have to stay put in my room. Morgan knows me well enough to know when something is wrong, so I just need to avoid her. I’m trying to watch the newest season of Fuller House on Netflix when my phone pings with a text. I casually find it in my rumpled bed and see a number I’m not familiar with.
1-234-5555: Hey.
Uh, yeah, this must be a wrong number. I swipe the text to the left to delete it. Now, focusing back on the show, I really just wish DJ would pick a guy. I used to love Steve but now, being presented with a smart, way sexier vet, I’m so rooting for Matt. Several minutes go by when my phone pings again.
“Really, again?” I mutter.
1-234-5555: OK … leaving me hanging I see …
Whatever, I don’t know you. And I’m not all about talking to random people. I know some people like to have fun with wrong number calls and texts, but I don’t have time for that. Again, I swipe and delete.
This actually used to happen to me all the time. About a year ago, I started getting these calls from an older lady, she sounded like she was in her late 60s and when I would answer, she would ask for Lou. I’d tell her it was the wrong number and she would apologize and hang up. But I started getting a call every week. She called one night, and I told her as nicely as possible that she has been calling the wrong number for months; to please check the number she had. She was friendly but so confused.
“Well, if Lou isn’t there, can I speak to her husband, Jeb?” she asked. I hung my head in frustration.
“No, ma’am. You have the wrong number, there is no Lou here and no Jeb. I also think you’ve asked for an Eric as well in the past. It’s just me, and I’ve had this number for about five years now.”
“Oh. Well, why didn’t you just say so, dear? I would have stopped calling the wrong number.”
With a heavy sigh, I said goodbye and we hung up. From that point, I stopped answering unknown calls and texts. She never called back, by the way.
My groan is accompanied by an eye roll when, once again, my phone pings. Damn it. I am going to have to text back. I grab my phone, ready to unload on this wrong number person, but I’m surprised when I read the next text.
1-234-5555: I’m guessing that you don’t know who this is. You’re probably just deleting my texts.
What the frack?
Should I even reply? Who could this be? They could still have the wrong number.
I weigh my options for a few minutes.
1-234-5555: Shit. I just realized how creepy that sounded.
1-234-5555: It’s Simon, btw.
My eyes go wide at the screen. While I’m relieved I don’t have some crazy unknown creep harassing me, and possibly trying to catfish me, I’m equally confused (if not a little giddy) with the fact that it’s Simon. Why would he be texting me?
Me: Yeah, kinda creepy.
Me: Hey back, btw.
1-234-5555: Sorry. I figured you had my number. Morgan seems like the kind of person who would have backup emergency contacts for ppl, so I assumed …
Me: You know what they say when you assume.
1-234-5555: I know, Mom … you make an ass out of you and me. <eye roll emoji>
Me: Haha. Just channeling my inner Mrs. Palmer. <smiley>
OK, so we are doing this. This is a good start. Texting is easy, no awkward lulls in conversation. He’s probably right though, it’s good to have his number in a case of emergency.
Simon: Would you have eventually texted back?
Me: Nope, you were one text away from being blocked.
I see the little bubbles pop up and then go away. And minutes pass. I wonder what’s going on over in his apartment and then I reread my reply.
My face starts to heat when I realize what I said. That I was about to block his number. Aaah!
Shiitake mushrooms. Apparently, this is a sore subject since it’s what I did years ago.
Did I make him mad? Would he even realize that I blocked his number? Has he decided to stop texting me because he remembered?
I throw myself backward onto my bed and let out a distressed groan slash cry.
My phone pings. Ugh, a moment of truth.
Simon: Hmm. That’s definitely your M.O., so I can’t say I’m surprised.
I bite my bottom lip. Alright, I deserved that.
Me: Yikes. How many lashings will I be receiving this time, sir?
Simon: What kind of lashings are we talking about?
Well, that’s not where I was going with it.
Me: So who gave you my number?
Simon: And why am I texting?
Simon: Link, who got it from Ruby, so everyone is probably walking around in stunned silence like fools.
Me: Ha! Dex would have been the better source. You gone and f’ed up, my friend. Ruby and Link are the worst schoolgirl gossips I know!
Simon: Is that what we are now? Friends?
This leaves me a bit perplexed. I mean, I want to be friends again. God only knows how much I’ve missed him. But he is the one who texted me. If I say yes, is he just going to say “too bad, so sad, I still very much hate you!” or is that what he wants too? Surely, if he didn’t want to at least be civil, he wouldn’t have texted me.
Me: I’d like to be …
Simon: Good.
Me: OK, then. Friends …
Now what? The little bubbles never pop back up. I stare at the phone for longer than I care to admit until I realize what I’m doing, shake my head, and toss my phone on to the bed. I sit up and rewind the show that’s still playing.
But, no sooner than I get back into the show—seriously, Kimmy still annoys the shit out of me—my phone rings. I snatch up my phone and see that he’s calling me.
Ah! What?! NO … I’m not ready for this! Why is he calling me? What the fuck, Gia? You are 24 years old. Get a grip.
“Hello,” I answer a bit breathlessly from my near freak-out.
“Uh, hi,” Simon answers and he totally notices my tone because he sounds confused. “Am I … uh… interrupting something?”
“What? Oh. No! I’m just … doing sit-ups,” I spew. What the—?!
“Really?”
“Yes! Of course? Why would I say that if it wasn’t true?” Gah!
He chuckles.
“OK, Gia. I believe you. It’s just, you used to hate anything that had to do with physical activity.”
I let out a defeated breath. That’s still true.
“So … you’re texting me. We’re friends again, and now we are talking on the phone …”
“Yeah, I’m on my way home for the night on the L, and we went through a dead spot. So, I thought I would just call now, since I’m walking.”
“Ah. What were you up to tonight?”
I’m greeted with silence. I can hear him breathing, though, so I know he is still there.
“Simon?”
“I was just out.”
My face starts to heat. And a pang of jealousy—I won’t pretend that I don’t know exactly what it is—stabs me in the chest. He doesn’t owe me an explanation, but the fact that he hesitated and got really vague about it, tells me he was probably on a date. Most likely with that chick from The Bar. I start to get mad when I remember one crucial fact. We are just friends. And barely that.
Check yourself, lady.
“Cool. So, what was your reason for the creepy text tonight?” I’m rewarded with a deep chuckle.
“I don’t really have one, to be honest. Is that OK?”
My pangs of jealousy fade almost as quick as they came, and a different feeling takes hold.
Our conversation is light and comfortable for the next few minutes.
“So, I was thinking …”
“Uh-oh,” I chuckle. He laughs.
“I thought that we should go see a movie or something.”
“Hmm. OK. Like, get the group together?” I'm cautious here.
“No. Just us.”
“Like a date?”
“More like a two-friends-who-haven’t-hung-out-in-eight-years kinda thing.”
I’m just a little shocked right now because we just established we are friends, we’ve talked more in the past 10 minutes than we have in eight years, and now he wants one-on-one time with me. Don’t get me wrong, I’m really happy about this, but I can’t help but be a little hesitant.
“Or we don’t have to,” he grumbles into the phone.
“No, no! I want to, it's just … all really fast.”
“We spent most of our time back then as just us.”
The way he says “us” makes me nearly melt.
“I miss us,” I whisper, unsure of how he will respond.
“Me too.” His voice is kind and soft now.
The silence across the airwaves lasts a few seconds.
“OK. When and what movie?” I ask. He clears his throat.
“Anything but a chick flick.”
“What?! Those are your favorite!” I laugh.