wanted from her, and nearly drowned herself to depression in dramatic scenarios in which she could never love again.
I missed you.
Well, there could only be one response to that.
I missed you, to o , she answered, and waited for her screen to light up again, having lowered the volume and turned off her phone’s vibrate function so that Mags would suspect nothing – or, at least, have no reason to ask more meddling questions.
Alexandra and Devon have invited us to dinner. It’s tomorrow.
The sweetness from the ice cream faded from Cecelia’s mouth. As she did not reply instantly this time, Andrew seemed to think that this allowed him a second message:
I’m sorry. I thought it was best to be straightforward?
Why ? Cecelia answered.
He wants to make nice, I think. I hope. And Alexandra likes you.
Alexandra probably likes everybody , Cecelia thought darkly, but knew that would not be the kind of reply that would advance the ball. Well, what if Devon is trying to be nice? Who says he can’t square everything between us? Then her phone lit up with another message, this one clarifying what she already knew:
It would mean a great deal to me.
They’re like brothers , Cecelia reminded herself, and with a guilty pit forming in her stomach, she knew that she couldn’t refuse. She would have to put her hatred of Devon aside if Devon meant so much to Andrew – there were no two ways about it. Or else she would lose Andrew entirely, a thought that for some reason she couldn’t bear, and feared to analyze.
Okay.
Thank you.
There was a long silence after that. Cecelia set her phone back on her desk after a few minutes had passed, and looked back to the open document before her. She had written only five pages, and knew that they were of a dismal quality, given her level of distraction. Just as she was about to attempt another sentence, her phone lit up again.
I’d like to see you tonight.
The bottom dropped out of Cecelia’s stomach. She decided to send what was becoming a standard reply, since she knew that Andrew liked to have the upper hand.
What would you like to do?
His reply made her drop her phone and stand up from the desk suddenly, banging her knee on the underside of one of her drawers. With a yelp, she stared at the phone as it clattered to the floor, and Mags exclaimed: “What is wrong with you?”
“Nothing!” Cecelia lied.
“You know, I tell everyone that I have a quiet roommate, but if this keeps happening I’ll just have to go to the library like the rest of the unwashed masses,” Mags snapped, the picture of frustration in pink pajamas.
“I’m sorry,” Cecelia said, knowing that her voice sounded anything but conciliatory. She rubbed her knee, and added more apologetically: “I’ll try to be less noisy.”
“Try harder,” Mags grumbled. Clearly disgruntled, Cecelia’s friend returned once more to her homework, unaware that Cecelia’s mind was still on her texting. Stooping, Cecelia reached under her desk, retrieved her phone, and stared again at the message which had so startled her:
I want to take you last night. But harder. I want to make you scream my name again. And again. What would you like to do?
She kept staring for at least five minutes more, stupefied.
I’d like that, too, she typed out, then immediately erased the words. I’d like to make you scream my name was her next attempt, but she was horrified by how forward this sounded and didn’t even save the message to her drafts. This all looked too eager. This isn’t anything a good girl would think , she informed herself, a good girl wouldn’t be tingling all over right now thinking of his touch … if he touched me again like last night ….
I have homework.
It was a truthful yet cold reply, and Cecelia regretted it with profound embarrassment the second she pressed “send.” Aghast, she attempted to cancel the message, jabbing the “cancel” button furiously with her thumb, but, too late: SENT blinked on
I missed you.
Well, there could only be one response to that.
I missed you, to o , she answered, and waited for her screen to light up again, having lowered the volume and turned off her phone’s vibrate function so that Mags would suspect nothing – or, at least, have no reason to ask more meddling questions.
Alexandra and Devon have invited us to dinner. It’s tomorrow.
The sweetness from the ice cream faded from Cecelia’s mouth. As she did not reply instantly this time, Andrew seemed to think that this allowed him a second message:
I’m sorry. I thought it was best to be straightforward?
Why ? Cecelia answered.
He wants to make nice, I think. I hope. And Alexandra likes you.
Alexandra probably likes everybody , Cecelia thought darkly, but knew that would not be the kind of reply that would advance the ball. Well, what if Devon is trying to be nice? Who says he can’t square everything between us? Then her phone lit up with another message, this one clarifying what she already knew:
It would mean a great deal to me.
They’re like brothers , Cecelia reminded herself, and with a guilty pit forming in her stomach, she knew that she couldn’t refuse. She would have to put her hatred of Devon aside if Devon meant so much to Andrew – there were no two ways about it. Or else she would lose Andrew entirely, a thought that for some reason she couldn’t bear, and feared to analyze.
Okay.
Thank you.
There was a long silence after that. Cecelia set her phone back on her desk after a few minutes had passed, and looked back to the open document before her. She had written only five pages, and knew that they were of a dismal quality, given her level of distraction. Just as she was about to attempt another sentence, her phone lit up again.
I’d like to see you tonight.
The bottom dropped out of Cecelia’s stomach. She decided to send what was becoming a standard reply, since she knew that Andrew liked to have the upper hand.
What would you like to do?
His reply made her drop her phone and stand up from the desk suddenly, banging her knee on the underside of one of her drawers. With a yelp, she stared at the phone as it clattered to the floor, and Mags exclaimed: “What is wrong with you?”
“Nothing!” Cecelia lied.
“You know, I tell everyone that I have a quiet roommate, but if this keeps happening I’ll just have to go to the library like the rest of the unwashed masses,” Mags snapped, the picture of frustration in pink pajamas.
“I’m sorry,” Cecelia said, knowing that her voice sounded anything but conciliatory. She rubbed her knee, and added more apologetically: “I’ll try to be less noisy.”
“Try harder,” Mags grumbled. Clearly disgruntled, Cecelia’s friend returned once more to her homework, unaware that Cecelia’s mind was still on her texting. Stooping, Cecelia reached under her desk, retrieved her phone, and stared again at the message which had so startled her:
I want to take you last night. But harder. I want to make you scream my name again. And again. What would you like to do?
She kept staring for at least five minutes more, stupefied.
I’d like that, too, she typed out, then immediately erased the words. I’d like to make you scream my name was her next attempt, but she was horrified by how forward this sounded and didn’t even save the message to her drafts. This all looked too eager. This isn’t anything a good girl would think , she informed herself, a good girl wouldn’t be tingling all over right now thinking of his touch … if he touched me again like last night ….
I have homework.
It was a truthful yet cold reply, and Cecelia regretted it with profound embarrassment the second she pressed “send.” Aghast, she attempted to cancel the message, jabbing the “cancel” button furiously with her thumb, but, too late: SENT blinked on
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