There’s something special about texting, about the way it pushes away all the awkwardness of face-to-face interaction and makes it easier to say the things I’d find difficult otherwise.
There are downsides, of course – like not being able to touch him – but at least we’re talking.
I wish I’d explained what I was doing today. But it’s so difficult. And I wish I’d told you how much you mean to me
You can tell me now
I’m standing at the edge of the bed, staring down at my phone, my thumbs quickly moving as I type the message. The three dots appear, filling me with anticipation as they always do. Then they vanish, causing my belly to lurch. Finally, they reappear.
It’s a rollercoaster ride, just waiting for his next message.
It’s not something I can say over text
I wonder what part of his message he’s referring to.
Is he talking about what he’s doing today or how much I mean to him? I want to ask, but I get the sense he’s not going to give me any direct answers over the phone.
Tomorrow, then?
I hope it’s going well today XXXX
I resist the urge to add… whatever you’re doing. He doesn’t need me sniping at him over text, making snide comments that reveal how little I know about what he’s doing.
My mind spirals with the possibilities.
A truly mean one touches me. What if he lied about it having something to do with his childhood? What if he accidentally let the word anniversary slip, and he’s seeing a girlfriend?
I struggle to believe Felix would be so cruel, but without knowing the truth, it’s difficult to be sure of anything.
It’s not going well. It’s impossible that this could go well. But we’re getting it done
It’s like he’s trying to torture me with tidbits of information. Suddenly I want to throw my phone across the room. I can’t ask for anything else since he’s already said he won’t tell me, but then he drops infuriatingly vague morsels like that and expects me not to be curious.
I just wish I could help
Even I know how obvious that is. I’m fishing.
But at the same time, I can’t just ignore how badly I want more information.
I’m sorry, Fiona. I have to go. I’ll text you later xx
This is getting bad now. I let out a gasping, shivering noise, a noise that should be reserved for when something truly evil happens. I can’t help it. It’s like he’s turned his back and walked away from me, even if it’s over text, even if he’s busy.
Okay, Felix. Speak later XXXX
At least I manage to keep any craziness out of the text.
Dropping my phone onto the bed, I rush into the shower, blasting myself with warm water. I can hear Rachel through the thin walls, playing pop music as she gets ready for her weekend shift.
I stand under the shower head, my head bowed, letting the water drip down and all over my body. It slides down over my breasts, tickling my nipples, and then down my belly. It teases at my belly, making me imagine a baby in there, kicking, eager to enter the world.
Washing quickly, I turn away from those thoughts.
I need to focus on the real things happening between Felix and me, the budding relationship, if I can even call it that…the secrets, the things he’s hiding from me. There’s plenty to worry about without adding the impossible on top of it all.
Back in my bedroom, sitting at my craft table, I check my phone again. I’m normally good at not checking it constantly since there’s nobody I’m desperate to hear from, but with Felix, I find myself picking it up every few moments.
There’s nothing. Whatever he’s doing, it’s keeping him busy. He hasn’t got time to worry about me.
After all, we’re not boyfriend and girlfriend. He doesn’t see us as life partners the way I already do.
I’m just the woman he got an expensive hotel suite for…who then backed out of having sex with him.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Felix
Mom kneels at Dad’s graveside, tenderly laying the flowers on top of it.
I stand back next to Sebastian, my hands crossed over my middle. There’s a lot of burning rage trying to bust out of me, especially when I see how gentle Mom is, far gentler than Dad ever was.
She insisted on honoring the anniversary of his death this year, something she’s never done before.
As I study her thin frame, the sun shining down on the hat she uses to cover her baldness, some of the anger diffuses.
I may not agree with this. I may despise that piece of filth for every fucked-up thing he ever did to us. But if Mom feels like she has to do this before she goes, then fine, I’ll stand here for it.
But I’m not going to kneel at his grave. I’m not going to kiss the headstone. I’m not going to offer flowers.