But even silly phone games with their bright colors and funny sounds couldn’t chase away the lingering nightmare. Or the knowledge that, even though the rec room was bright and familiar, I was still alone in here.
I can’t explain what I did next. It was stupid and self-destructive and wrong on many, many levels I didn’t care to think about. But I was lonely, and I needed to talk to someone. Anyone would have done, really. But there was only one person I knew might be awake at one in the morning on a school night. Which just so happened to be the first Tuesday in November. Well, I guess technically it was Wednesday now. Whatever.
So did your dad win the election?
Ryder had texted a few times in the past couple of days, but I’d either not responded or just replied with emojis that made no sense in the context of his comment or question. And when he sent back a question mark, I didn’t reply. How was that for flaky? Honestly, it was probably pretty good progress on the make-him-think-Amy-was-a-weirdo front, but here I was.
Messing it all up again.
Just as I’d expected, he was awake, and it only took him a second to text me back.
He did. Unfortunately.
Not so unfortunate for his constituents, though. I looked him up. He seems to be doing some good things.
Sure. When he’s not doing the model.
Before I could respond, Ryder sent another message.
He still wants me to come visit for Thanksgiving.
Will you?
Of course not.
But don’t you want to visit DC? I know you miss it.
I don’t think I do anymore. I’m pretty sick of DC.
I frowned. I knew things were bad with his dad, but this was a sharp turnaround for the guy who’d compared every little detail of Hamilton to the infinitely superior Washington, DC, since he’d arrived. But, thinking about it, I had seen far fewer snarky Facebook statuses since he’d learned the truth about his dad. Still, DC was his home. It was where he’d grown up. It was where his old friends were, even if they had drifted apart some. I would have expected him to take any opportunity to visit, even if for only a day or two.
He didn’t seem eager to talk about that, though, because he sent another message straightaway.
I know it’s only been a week, but I’ve missed these late-night chats.
Yeah. Me, too. I’ve been keeping my insomnia mostly at bay. But I couldn’t sleep tonight. Nightmare.
What about?
It wouldn’t make any sense if I explained it.
Try me.
I almost didn’t reply. I almost ended the conversation right there. I should have.
I’d never told anyone about my nightmare. Not even Amy. I’d called her in the middle of the night a few times, panicked and desperate to hear someone’s voice, but I’d always glossed over what the dream was about. I’d just say something like, “Something bad happened to my mom” or “I was trapped in a dark house.” I never went into details. I didn’t want to open that door. To expose that dark, broken place inside of me where all the bad things lived.
But for some reason, I wanted to tell Ryder. Maybe because — and yes, I knew this was sick — he wouldn’t know it was me. There was security in knowing he’d think it was Amy’s nightmare. Amy’s dark, broken place.
I was still freaked out and didn’t want to cut off the contact with another person just yet, so I found myself writing out the dream, taking up several long texts to do so. When I hit SEND on the last one, the one that explained my mother’s bedroom, I felt a pang of regret.
Too much, I thought. Too honest. Too close.
I didn’t think he’d reply. Maybe this would help him get over Amy once and for all.
But then:
Things really are bad with your mom, aren’t they?
Yeah.
I’m sorry about the nightmare. But they say if you talk about it, you won’t dream it again.
Does that count with texting?
I guess you’ll find out.
I smiled. Actually, I did feel a little better having it off my chest. The shaking had stopped and my heartbeat had slowed down. I might even manage to fall back to sleep if I tried to.
But right now, for better or worse (definitely worse), I wanted to keep talking to him.
Thanks for letting me share.
Of course. I just wish I was there with you.
I felt a mischievous smile tugging at my lips as I typed my response.
Oh, yeah? Why? What would you do if you were here?
For a minute, he didn’t respond, and I was worried I might have scared him off. I should’ve known better, though. At the end of the day, he was still a guy.
Are we really doing this?
Do you WANT to do this?
I do, but I have no idea how. I’ve never done it before.
You never sent sexy texts to Eugenia?
No. Have you?
No, I have never sexted with Eugenia.
You’re hilarious.
I know.
Pause.
If I were there, I would lie on the bed next to you and pull you into my arms.
I’m actually on a couch right now.
Are you TRYING to make this difficult for me?
No. Sorry. Continue.
Then I would … kiss your neck?
I snorted.
You seem unsure about that.
You make me nervous. I’d be nervous if I were there with you.
I felt my heart pound harder. There was something so sweet about him saying that. About the snobby, confident Ryder admitting he’d be nervous if we were alone together.
I’d be nervous, too.
Here’s another truth: I was a virgin. Not only that, but in seventeen years, I’d only been kissed one time, by Davy Jennings at the ninth-grade homecoming dance. His breath tasted like root beer and it had been enough to kill our fledgling romance. Most of what I knew about sex came from copious amounts of television, unintentionally hilarious Cosmo articles, and my interrogation of Amy, who had swiped her V-card at summer camp last year.