Jordan hasn’t texted me back in twelve hours. Twelve hours. All day. Literally half a rotation of the earth.
I know I sound crazy, so just let me back up. What started as casual conversation and live texting Lost carried over from one day to the next and then the next. More things came up in conversation, more twists about what was happening on the island were revealed, and then it just became an expected part of my morning, to grab my phone off the charger and see a text from him, saying good morning or continuing the conversation from the night before.
I found myself staying up late, willing myself to keep my eyes open to see what might materialize from his little type bubble.
And then I’d be smiling at my phone like an idiot and rolling around my bed giggling at nothing but words on a screen.
We would narrate our days and talk about our likes and dislikes. (We have a common love for Corona with lime, especially in the shower, as well as upbeat EDM music with sneakily deep lyrics. We both find baseball boring and horror movies to be like paying for torture. But he hates chocolate ice cream, finding it “too rich”—which is insane.) We never talked about what we were or what our correspondence meant. It was just a really good conversation that kept pouring over into the next day.
And it just hasn’t stopped.
Until now. He hasn’t texted me all day. All day. I’ve checked my phone, like, five million times. Easily.
I read our old texts to see where I royally messed up, but I seem perfectly charming. And look at that, at most an hour or two between replies.
God, I am going so crazy.
But really, in his last text to me he said, “Let’s Skype tomorrow.”
Skype. That’s, like, real. People do that with their moms and best friends and boyfriends. You don’t Skype the kind of people who you don’t text back. What kind of Jekyll and Hyde shit is this?
Ugh. I flop onto my bed. My phone dings. Just an email, though. My Warren account, so I’m probably being reminded about some sort of deadline. I open it, barely able to muster interest.
From: [email protected]
Subject: Critical Thirst
Heyyyyyyy
So yeah. my phone broke. But I’d still like to Skype later if you want to. Let me know.
Jordan “please think this is cute not desperate” Louis
I read it three times, smiling to myself before I type my reply.
From: [email protected]
Subject: Re: Critical Thirst
To Whom It May Concern:
As this is an email, I thought I would be formal:
Sounds good. Gotta run some errands and shower but could @ 10 my time.
Sincerely,
Cassie
PS: I like your middle name
From: [email protected]
Subject: Re: Critical Thirst
Ms. Davis,
Do take your time. I look forward to speaking with you.
Yours very truly,
Jordan Louis
I practically run to the shower, letting the warm water soothe my nervousness as I wash away far too many days of Netflix in pj’s and not touching a bar of soap. I shave for the first time in a week, even though my legs will not likely be visible.
Standing in my towel, I examine my reflection in the mirror, which is quickly clouding with steam.
I wonder if I look different from when I left here. I definitely dress differently: older, more daring. But I still look like me, right?
I wipe the mirror with my towel. It’s hard to notice change when you see your reflection every day. I wonder how I would feel if I could have a side-by-side image of me now and the night I left. Would all my inner changes show on the outside?
Shaking the thought from my head, I check the time. Okay. Focus, Cassie, focus. Twenty minutes until your Skype...not date but, whatever. Twenty minutes until your Skype Whatever.
I bite my lip. One day I’m gonna look back and be ashamed of myself, but I’m putting on makeup. I’m putting on makeup to sit in my room and talk to a boy online. After all, I’m only human.
“Hey!”
The call finally connects, and he appears on the screen, his beautiful brown eyes sparkling.
“God, it’s so good to see your face,” he says.
I smile and glance down at the keyboard. “You, too.”
“And look, it’s the house.” He picks up his laptop and spins around. “It misses you.”
“Aw, that’s swee—oh my God, your room is so messy.”
Mountains of clothes cover the floor, along with empty water bottles, plastic handles and red cups. And beer cans, so many beer cans.
“What? Oh, yeah.” He shrugs, setting his computer back down. “I’m not very neat.”
“Jordan, I can’t see, like, your floor.”
“Its maaaddness!” He shakes the camera.
I laugh.
“How do you even know what’s clean and what’s dirty?”
“Smell test, dude.” I can hear the duh in his voice.
“What’s the smell test?” Part of me already knows, but I need to make sure it’s as bad as I think it is. I immediately regret asking.
He picks up a shirt and sniffs it. He raises his eyebrows. “Clean.” He throws it back on the floor and grabs a gray T-shirt. “Basically clean.” He sniffs another and shakes his head. “Not clean, not clean.”
Boys are so gross. “I can’t believe I live among you freaks.”
He laughs. “No wonder they gave you your own room.”
We talk for hours, and I pray my parents don’t overhear. Although, I guess I’m only talking to a friend, so what is there to be worried about?
I yawn, but I turn away to try to hide it.
“I should go to sleep soon. I have to be at practice early,” he says. “We’ve been talking for—shit, three hours. Is that right?”
I check my phone and laugh. “Oh my God, yeah.”
“Damn. And with the time change, it’s so late there. I’m sorry.”
“I’m fine.” But I yawn again, giving myself away. “I’m kind of a night owl.” Which is true, I’m not staying up just to talk to him. Although I probably would.
“God, I used to love staying up late. But I can’t with soccer, you know?” He picks up the computer and starts to walk.
“Where are you going?”
“I have to brush my teeth, but I thought you could come along.”
“Okay.” I laugh. “I feel like R2-D2 or something.”
“What?” He furrows his eyebrows.
“Oh no, c’mon, Louis. Do not let me down like this. You have seen Star Wars, right?”
“Um...” He glances away from the camera.
“You have to be one of three people on this earth who haven’t seen Star Wars. How is that possible?”
“I don’t know. I just haven’t—”
“That’s it. Forget Lost, we’re starting a George Lucas marathon tomorrow.”
“George who? Why don’t we just watch Star Wars?”
“Oh my God,” I say with my head in my hands. Deep breaths, Cassie. Patience, patience. “You have so much to learn.”
“Hold on.” He sets me down on the floor and steps toward the sink, giving me quite the view of the lower half of his body, clad only in boxers.
“You’ll have to be my official Star Trek tutor,” he says from somewhere out of frame.
“Mmm-hmm,” I say. I mean to correct him, but I’m distracted by the sight of him in just boxers as he reenters the frame.
Wow, brush those teeth.
When he’s done, he picks up the computer and smiles at me. “Okay, cool. Why is your face so red?”
I cover my cheeks. “No reason.”
He carries the computer back, and my view changes from tile to the carpet of the hallway.
“Hey, look, your room!”
He turns the laptop so I can see my door, then a sliver of Sebastian’s as he turns it back. Just a reminder of how much trouble I could get in if any of my fantasies from a few minutes ago were to come true.
“Can’t wait for you to be back,” he says as he sets me on the desk.
“Me, too.”
“I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”
“Okay.” I look into his eyes, even though he’s thousands of miles away. Everything I want to say but can’t is hanging in the air.
“’Night.”
“’Night.”
The window goes black and closes with a quick beep. My screen saver, a beach as far away as Jordan, replaces his face.
I click on the calendar icon.
Less than five days until I see him in person and...and I don’t know exactly. I go to bed, dreaming of Jordan and what can’t be.
* * *
Contrary to what I’ve been taught to expect from numerous December film releases, the holidays pass and there’s no major emotional breakthrough in my family. The Hallmark Channel would be baffled to witness our silence over goose and champagne, no spirit moving either party to make amends.
In fact, the closest I get to a “God bless us, everyone” moment is at the departure drop-off area at Indianapolis International Airport. Not exactly a feel-good movie set, but I take what I can get.
“Listen,” my mother says.
I turn, the door half open, the wind cutting through my coat.
“What you’re doing...it might not be what I’d choose.” She exhales with her whole body. “And it’s certainly not what your father wants. But I love you anyway. And I am proud. You’re...you’re very brave.”
“Thanks, Mom. Really. That means a lot.” I lean across the console and kiss her on the cheek.
I climb out of the car and watch her drive away, giving me a small wave before one of the airport staff whistles at her and she has to speed forward, disappearing.
I just stand there, in the cold, for a second before heading inside.
Wondering if I will ever get used to the feeling of airports and leaving.