In the darkness, I stare at my phone for a few minutes, reveling in the warm feeling I got from the short conversation with Luke. I know I need to add details of the call to the note on my nightstand, but I don’t want to move just yet.
When I’ve finally willed myself to turn on the light and spoil my Zen moment, my annoying ringtone sounds again, and my heart leaps.
“Hello?” I say quickly.
“I forgot to tell you that you looked really pretty today,” Luke says in a whisper.
In the darkness, I feel my face flush.
“Thank you,” I whisper back.
“You’re welcome.”
For a few seconds, we are quiet. Every muscle in my body is tense, in a good way; it’s excruciatingly intimate. I’m lying in my bed, clutching the phone like a lifeline, hearing nothing but Luke’s measured inhale and exhale and my own quickening heartbeat.
If he were here right now, I’d kiss him. “Well, I guess I should go. My mom might come back,” Luke whispers, breaking the moment.
“Okay,” I answer, unable to say more.
“See you tomorrow,” he says.
“Okay, bye, Luke.”
“Bye, London,” he says before hanging up, the sound of my name from his lips sending chills through me again.
I clutch the phone to my chest and exhale sharply, then sit up and snap on the small lamp at my bedside. I update tonight’s note, and, as I’m doing so, my own mom pops her head into my room.
“It’s late,” she says.
“I know, I’m finishing up,” I answer, without looking at her.
“Sleep tight,” Mom says.
“Thanks.”
“I love you, London,” she says.
I sigh deeply and say halfheartedly, “I love you, too.” My eyes are still on my paper.
I resume writing, and sometime before I finish chronicling my call with Luke and turn out the light, my mom silently disappears.
23
Across the aisle from me, Jamie’s floral shoulder bag is packed and ready. There are five minutes left in class, and she’s making no effort to appear like she’s still paying attention.
>“I asked a boy to a dance?”
“It was a turnabout dance where the girls ask the boys. Jamie talked you into it. Anyway, you weren’t interested in him after that one date, but Carley’s always held a grudge.”
“I told you all that?”
“We used to talk more,” Mom says, with a hurt look in her eyes. I’m guilty of putting it there. I don’t say anything back.
The waitress returns and asks what we’d like to eat. Mom orders a plate of onion rings for us to share; I love onion rings. The waitress moves to the next table over, and I watch the father order for his family. I’m aware of my envy as he chats with his daughter and son.
“When did Dad leave?” I ask my mom out of the blue. Her eyes grow wide as she swallows the soda she’s just sipped.
“Where did that come from?” she asks. I shrug.