21
Busted
After deciding not to wear McCoy’s T-shirt right away, I’d safely stashed it in my drawer along with the rest of my laundry. I’m not quite ready to give in and admit just how far off the proverbial wagon I’ve fallen. And, apparently, it’s not the stealing but the wearing of his shirt tonight which would be crossing the line. So, instead, here I sit on my overstuffed bluish-grey couch with my laptop, my mind consumed with thoughts of Coy and the afternoon we spent together. Like an addict not ready to give up my drug of choice, I decide I need another hit.
“Fuck it,” I whisper, clicking the blue Facebook icon on my desktop, watching the wagon roll off into the distance without me. Within seconds, without regret or hesitation, I find myself pulling up McCoy Grave’s profile.
We’ve been friends on here for years, but I’ve made a point never to like or comment on his photos. Over the years, he’s liked the odd status update of mine, and made a few comments, but we’ve never been what you’d call active Facebook friends.
Scrolling down his page now, I smile when I see that he’s been more social since returning home. I read his last few statuses, pausing on a few pictures of him and my brother. God, McCoy is a beautiful man. Clicking through the pictures, I can tell he really loves his sweet new boat. My silent stalking is going smoothly until about the twelfth photo.
That’s when it happens. Reflexively, I click the “love” icon. I panic immediately, fumbling with my trackpad to “un-love it” as fast as I can. I can’t tell you what I was thinking, all I know is that I really do love that photo—one of McCoy standing in the middle of his boat, shirtless, his sunglasses flashing, and a dashing smile splayed across lips I’ve longed to kiss for so long. Taking a deep breath, I begin to relax, thinking I’m in the clear.
It isn’t until my inbox signals I have a new message that I know I’ve royally messed up. Moving the cursor to the top of the screen, I click the icon and see his name pop up immediately.
McCoy: What happened?
“Shit,” I mutter to myself, feeling that familiar heat filling my cheeks. Of course, the jerk’s online.
Eastlyn: What do you mean?
I try to play dumb.
McCoy: I saw a notification that you “loved” my picture, and then it was gone again?
I sit, staring at his words. I’m at a loss about what to say or how to explain this one.
“Dammit.” My hands start to shake as I contemplate whether or not I can get away with denying it, but we both know the stupid notifications don’t lie. I just got totally busted creeping his page.
After a few beats of radio silence, I think I’m maybe dodging the bullet when three tiny dots appear in the window, letting me know he’s typing.
McCoy: Why did you change your mind? Don’t you like what you see?
Fuck. Me. Sideways. I screw up my courage and type back.
Eastlyn: Why are you stalking Facebook? It’s Saturday night.
I try the get-off-the-topic route, and think this is what Hell must feel like. I’m hot and sweating where I sit, my laptop perched on my knees, silently praying he lets it go.
McCoy: This is clearly about your Facebook habits, Ms. Hatfield, not mine. Now tell me: do you or don’t you like what you see?
Oh my shit. McCoy Graves is flirting with me via Facebook! I try to think of something witty to say, but come up empty.
McCoy: Well?
Eastlyn: Yes. I do.
I wait with bated breath, that all-too-familiar drum of mortification pounding in my chest, watching and waiting for those three damn circles to appear. After what seems like ages, I see he’s finally responding.
McCoy: Good. And, FYI, I like knowing you’re checking me out. I might have done the same a time or two, but I never let my finger slip, no matter how beautiful the picture may have been, no matter how much I’d like to feel the slip of my fingers where you are concerned.
I let out an audible “ohhh…” at what he’s implying.
I will my brain to function, but I’m too taken aback to reply. Thankfully, Coy decides to put me out of my misery.
McCoy: Goodnight, Sprinkles. I’ll see you at school on Tuesday. Enjoy the long weekend, and say hi to your parents on Monday. Sorry I’ll miss their Labour Day BBQ, damn brotherly duties. It’s always been my favourite.
I feel a wave of excitement at our exchange. Holy shitcakes!
And with his departing words, our first conversation over social media ends.
I can’t wipe the smile off my face, even when I climb into bed an hour later.