I’m standing in my kitchen, about to feed my bird when my phone pings with a text from an unknown number. I set the food down and study the message.
Hey, you there? I want to talk.
I study the text. “Talk?” It feels serious, straightforward—no nonsense, which I appreciate. The number rings a bell, but I can’t quite place it. My brow furrows. It’s the area code for Magnolia, so it could be anyone around here.
I shrug. Unknown messages can be intriguing. I once got a series of texts about the best toga party on campus. Charisma and I ended up crashing it at a farm in the middle of nowhere, complete with free chardonnay—nothing fancy, but I’ll take any white wine. Charisma still claims she hooked up with some guy in the barn who blew her mind. Too bad she was too drunk to remember his name…
Anyway, you never know what kind of fun can come from snooping on someone’s texts.
“Talk about what?” I reply.
“It’s better if we do this face to face. I got your address from someone in class. Would you mind if I dropped by? I need to see you.”
“I need to see you.” I let out a low whistle. That’s a loaded phrase, and it makes my heart race. So emotional. Is this a guy or a girl texting? Given the brevity and directness, I’m leaning toward male. Probably a college guy, since he mentioned class, and they clearly don’t know each other well if he had to ask for her address… I imagine a lonely guy trying to make things right with a girl.
But what if it’s the mob? What if this is a trap for a hitman to take out a snitch? Maybe “face to face” really means “you’re about to get whacked.”
Too much Dateline, Penelope. Yet…
I’m fascinated as I pace around the kitchen. I decide to indulge my curiosity and text him back.
What do you want to talk about? Just text it. I want to know all the things!
There’s a pause, and I wonder what he’s thinking. What if this issue is a
big deal to him? Worry pricks at me, and I feel guilty for being nosy.
Are you okay? I send.
His reply arrives fast. Just a shitty day, but this isn’t about me. Look, I’m sorry for what happened between us. I want to make it up to you.
How will you make it up to me? I ask, excitement curling. Type it here.
Because this girl is dying to know.
My mom always said I was too curious for my own good and it’s landed me in trouble plenty of times, but I can’t resist prying away layers to get to the heart of the matter. It’s part of who I am. Maybe it’s what pushes me to be a writer, to get all those emotions out and bounce them around to see what they can do.
He hasn’t replied after several beats, and my conscience tugs at me again.
I waffle about coming clean just as another text comes in.
What do you want? he says.
You, I send, biting my lip. What if I read this scenario completely wrong?
Have I screwed everything up and given myself away?
Me? Are you sure? Yes, I reply.
I mean, I could be wrong and this isn’t a boy/girl love thing, but what if I’m not? I’m committed to seeing how this plays out now. Romance must always win! is my motto.
There are three dots on my screen for several moments, as if the person on the other end is typing and deleting his response over and over.
Come on, I think, clutching the phone in anticipation.
You can’t handle me, babe, is his reply.
Babe? My eyes widen. Oh. This is a bad, bad boy. And his words send a buzz right through me.
He sends another. Let’s talk about this in person. Do you mind if I come by your house tonight? 8:00 PM?
I study the words. Well, technically, I’ll be at my sorority meeting and then off to dinner with some pledges, so…what’s the harm? Maybe I’ll reunite two people who obviously need to talk.
Before I can reply, another message appears.
You see right through me and don’t take my shit, he replies. I dig that.
Oh, wow, he’s getting sweet? I grab a raspberry sucker from the drawer next to the fridge and pop it in my mouth.
I believe you. We can work this out, I send happily and then announce aloud, “Call me Dr. Phil, people. I’m saving a relationship somewhere.”
Can’t wait to see you, I send. Wait…was that too much? Nah. See you at
8.
Got it, is his reply.
I set my phone down and focus on my bird, a pretty African Grey parrot
who’s been watching me the entire time, his small pale yellow eyes going from me to the box of Ritz crackers on the counter.
“Jock is today’s word, Vampire Bill,” I tell him as I approach his cage by the bay window. “I know, normally I have harder words of the day, but a certain person named Ryker has been on my mind and he’s a real asshole.”
I recall the episode at Sugar’s and my chest hurts. Not to mention I saw him today in my upper level calculus class, one we unfortunately share. He attempted to speak to me in the hall before class started, but I sidestepped him, dashed into the room, and plopped myself between two people so he couldn’t sit near me. As soon as the bell rang at the end of class, I was up and darting out of my seat.
Whatever. I don’t care what he wants to say. He’s already done and said enough.
I push my fingers into the cage and give Vampire Bill an encouraging scratch on his head. He’s a small fellow by parrot standards, a runt really, only weighing about half a pound. One of his wings is also slightly smaller than the other. His beak is black and surprisingly delicate considering what a little pig he is when he eats.
“I know it’s hard to say, but you can do it, buddy. Jock.” “Shit!” he squawks in his high-pitched mimicry.
I roll my eyes. “That’s not what I said, but I like where you’re going.” “I want a cigarette!” he says, and I shake my head regretfully.
“No, and I apologize again for your previous owners who taught you those words. I just hope they never actually gave you a cigarette. Say, Ryker is a jock.”
He rolls his eyes at me and pecks at his soft gray feathers. I sigh and we have a stare-off. He wins.
“Fine,” I say, reaching for the box of Ritz crackers. He positively bristles in excitement, bouncing his feet on his perch.
“Oh? You asked for the meaning? Of course, let me get to it.” I clear my throat. “A jock is a guy who thinks he’s the best athlete in the world, but in reality he’s going to end up selling used cars or pumping gas. Go on, say it: jock.”
He moves his head around, studying me as if I’m the crazy one here. I pull out a golden cracker and wave it at him. “Say it. Go on.” “Jock! Ryker! Shit!” he squawks, and I hand over the Ritz.
“I’m glad you came along when you did, Vampire Bill. You make my days happy—even if you don’t like me.” I grin at him, and he uses a claw to grab some food pellets out of his bowl and fling them at me. Psycho bird.
My phone pings with a text, and I glance down at it.
Please come to dinner this weekend? You can see Cyan.
My fingers tighten around the cell. I definitely know who this sender is.
The message is from my dad, and Cyan is his new baby. I stare at the words, imagining my father typing them out, sitting at his desk in his office at Waylon, dressed in his nice suit. My teeth grind together until I make myself stop.
After Mom passed away three years ago, he retired from the NFL and moved back to Magnolia. He said it was for many reasons: to get back to his roots, to teach at Waylon, but mostly for me. So I wouldn’t be alone. So I’d have family around.
Liar. I don’t believe him.
He came back because his knee was blown out, and he had contacts here to get a teaching job. Something hard twists inside me, and I suck in a sharp breath. I can’t forgive him for not having a life with Mom while she was alive. They were college sweethearts—the cheerleader and the quarterback— but after she got pregnant their senior year, he left her to play for the Seattle Seahawks.
Magnolia is my town, the place I grew up. Why did he have to come and mess it all up?
“OMG, are you still trying to teach that dumb bird the word of the day?” Charisma says in her drawn-out New York accent as she bounces into the room. Petite, curvy, and sassy, she’s the product of an Italian family from the Bronx. She was my first friend in college, and we’ve been inseparable ever since.
“Crazy is here! Crazy is here! Shit! Give me a cigarette!” Vampire Bill belts out along with a screech that’s halfway between a wolf howling and a cat being murdered.
She flips him off. “I am not crazy. You are, bird.”
“Be nice to him. His species is the most intelligent in the parrot family.” “I am nice to him. I gave him the pineapple off my pizza last night and
still, this is how he treats me.” She throws her hands up in exasperation.
I laugh.
“You ready to go to the meeting?” she asks a few beats later as she grabs her purse. “I don’t want to be late for the first one of the year,” she adds, and my eyes flare as I realize she’s wearing slacks and a cute pink sweater. I check my watch and see we have five minutes to get there—ten if they start late. Crap. I haven’t even changed clothes.
“Dammit!” I call out as I fly past her and run to my bedroom to grab my pink jersey that bears our Greek letters, pairing it with my red skinny jeans. I slap on some lipstick and throw two-inch suede booties on my feet to dress it up. I check my hair in the mirror, and it’s a riotous mess. Oh well. It’ll have to do.
Better to be on time than to look good.
