Kicking Reality

There was a lot of junk; emails from retailers with the latest purchases, and offers to inherit money from dying widows in Africa. My eyes immediately stop scrolling when I see a new email come in from John Smith.

Avoidance can only get you so far.

I checked my contact lists to see who John Smith was until it clicked—Logan. Jane, John, and Joe—the three Smiths. We did this so we could communicate with each other and keep our lives private but had been using text more recently. Ash sent me links to stupid videos of animals doing crazy things and occasionally he would send an article worth reading. Logan rarely emailed me unless we were in a group email.

My fingers rest on the keyboard, not sure how to respond. Tayla busied herself watching some hair tutorial on YouTube while I just stared at the screen. Slowly, at a snail’s pace, my fingers begin to move on their own accord.

Same with cockiness. Don’t you have another notch to make on your ever-growing belt?

I contemplated shutting down my email, but something made me keep it open, almost waiting to see how he could possibly respond to that. I swivel around the chair and see Tayla smiling at something on her screen.

“What’s so funny?”

She looks up, unaware that I had been watching her. “Oh, just a comment this guy left.”

“Oh,” I acknowledge with a grin “A guy?”

She nods, still smiling. “Yeah, we’re not dating. He has a girlfriend, I think. He leaves comments here and there and they are just funny.”

“Young love. I remember those days. Except we didn’t have cells so it was all about passing a note.”

“A note? That’s so old school.”

“You’re telling me. It would have been so much fun messaging a boy rather than passing a note down the classroom hoping that gossip queen Rosie Peach wouldn’t sneak a look at it.”

The sound of a faint ding catches my attention. Turning back around to face the screen, I see another email from John Smith. Anxiously, I open it, not realizing I am holding my breath.

I think I might hang the belt for a while. A wise woman once told me I was just like the rest of them. I’m out to prove her wrong.

My eyes dart over the email, and for some reason, I can’t hold back the smile. My words sunk in. I think of a witty response, only to come up with nothing but lame replies. I log out of my email and turn back around.

“Should we talk about what happened in the hall?” I raise the topic, wanting to clear the air and ease the guilt that is plaguing me.

“I think it was pretty self-explanatory. You screwed Logan. Ash, Mom, and Dad will kill you.”

“I . . . I didn’t screw him,” I stammer.

“Potato, po-tah-toe.”

Was this a potato, po-tah-toe situation? My crazy brain is justifying what happened as a slip of a finger. Maybe it accidently made its way around the groove and just got lost.

Okay, your brain is stupid . . . and on some sort of crack. Accidental ‘slips’ don’t result in such an intense orgasm.

“I really don’t want to delve into the semantics but it was a mistake. Can we move on? I’ve had a shitty twenty-four hours.”

Raising her perfectly sculpted eyebrows, she’s quick to remind me, “Sure, you brought it up you know?”

“I know,” I say lightly, desperate to switch topics and blaming myself for bringing it up in the first place. “Do you want to go for swim?”

“Yeah, why not.” Tayla hops off the bed, disappearing into her wardrobe. I tell her I’ll be back, sneaking out of her room and bolting to mine like a fugitive on the run.

“We rarely get to do the girl thing anymore.”

Mom is dressed in a white caftan and oversized sun hat, applying lotion as Tayla lays beside her drenched in oil. Mom hands the bottle to her, motioning for her to put some on or out comes the story of Uncle Larry and his mystery mole that developed into skin cancer.

“We should do a girls’ trip. No men, or boys. No cells,” Mom suggests, getting comfortable on the large cabana lounge.

“You lost me at no cells,” Tayla mumbles with closed eyes.