Page 21 of The Write Place

“Just because you said that, I’m going to stuff my face full of carbs and meatballs,” I say as I pile pasta on my plate. Jenny comes behind me to do the same.

“It is your solemn, feminist duty,” she deadpans, and I laugh.

We take our plates to the couch. It’s Jenny’s turn to pick the movie, so she naturally picks a rom-com. After about two and a half servings of pasta and meatballs, Jenny is in a carb coma, sprawled out on my couch while I sit on the floor with my head against the seat cushion. It isn’t long before I hear her breathing deepen and slow, as usual. I smile a little as I take her plate and deposit it as quietly as I can in the kitchen sink. Jenny has a sunny, playful personality, and she’s always up for an adventure, but she works really hard. I cover her with a blanket and move to my room, only half closing the door so the noise doesn’t wake her.

We have a loose no-phones policy for pasta night, so I pick up my phone from where I had left it charging on the nightstand to see four missed messages, all from Daniel. I can’t help but smile a little.

Oh Mac. This book is kinky. I can’t believe you read this stuff in your spare time.

So he likes a little torture, which I expected, but what I didn’t expect was SO DOES SHE. What a twist!

Oh sorry, was that a spoiler?

Why am I wasting my time writing high-brow literary fiction when I could be writing this?

The last message was sent a few minutes ago, so I respond: Surely erotica is more lucrative than whatever you’re working on.

I turn out my bedroom light and curl up under my covers, laying on my side so I can see my phone. All I can see in the dark is my illuminated screen. His response takes a few minutes, and I hear my foot tapping furiously underneath the comforter.

I have to know. Are you into this stuff?

I cover my mouth to hold my laughter in so as not to wake Jenny.

OMG no. This was actually maybe the worst book I’ve ever read.

It does win an award, then, he responds.

If you mean in the way Tony’s wins awards, then yes, I fire back. I am probably reading into it too much, but I can almost feel his chuckle through the phone.

Am I a coward if I DNF? he asks, using the book-world acronym for Do Not Finish.

Yes, but your secret is safe with me. And then I add, I’ll only blackmail you a little.

Thank goodness, he writes back. I’m no prude, but this was a little much.

I bite my lip, trying not to grin too widely. I know he’s not a prude. In my opinion, his second book, Playing House, has one of the most sensual scenes in all of contemporary literature. It came out when I was a senior in college, and I’m pretty sure it ruined me for most of my adult sexual experiences because there wasn’t a single man who came into my life who could make me feel the way I felt reading that passage, no matter how hard I looked. I had almost forgotten about that, but all at once, memories of being curled up in my dorm room in almost the same position I’m in now, reading with a small reading light in the middle of the night so I could read slowly and undisturbed come flooding back to me.

I almost send back as much, but then I remember I haven’t yet told him how much I’ve loved his books. At first, I didn’t want to further inflate what I assumed was his overlarge ego, and now it hasn’t come up. I want to keep this particular secret for a little while longer.

My phone vibrates with a message from him, and I jump a little as it pulls me out of my memories. I hadn’t realized how engrossed I had been in remembering that scene in House and now I’m a little embarrassed. A penny for your thoughts?

I bite my lip again. Unable to admit to the truth, I give him a half truth: Curled up in bed and reminiscing about a really good book I read a while ago.

When he hasn’t responded after a few minutes, I decide to get a little daring. And your thoughts?

He doesn’t respond for so long that my phone clicks off, and I’m a little disoriented by the darkness. Then, it lights back up again: Well, now I’m thinking about you, curled up in bed, thinking about books.

I stare at the message. I’m disoriented again, this time by his bold admission and the way my heart is skipping at the knowledge of it. Do I want him to be thinking about me late on a Friday night? Maybe. No, it’s definitely only going to make things complicated. Then again, he has been making audacious statements like this since we met, even before he started shadowing me, and things are still running pretty smoothly. It’s harmless flirting, that’s all. But if that’s the case, why do I feel like I’m burning up right now?

Technically, I guess I was thinking about him, too. It was his book that was on my mind when he asked. As soon as I start typing something a little bold, too, he sends: Good night, Mac, and it’s silly, but it feels so sweet that it sends the butterflies in my stomach into overdrive. Not only is he thinking about me, but he’s going to sleep thinking about me. I smile softly as I type back, Good night, Daniel.

I stare at the screen for a minute longer, trying to bask in the warmth of our conversation and not worry about how screwed I am if I fall for this guy.

I sigh lightly and click the phone off, but this time when the darkness engulfs me, I see Jenny’s silhouette leaning against my bedroom door frame, her arms folded. In the gleam of the moonlight coming through the bedroom window, I’m pretty sure I can see a smug grin on her face. I sit bolt upright in bed.

“Oh, that was definitely the smile of someone being seduced over text message.” Her voice is self-assured. “Don’t let me interrupt.”

I toss a pillow at her, but it’s dark, so I miss. She practically cackles.