Peyton: Humor me.
I laugh into the darkness. Those two words. We toss them back and forth to lighten the moment. But those two words weigh heavily each time they are said.
Micah: Fisted in my hand.
And just like that, my innocent inquiry has flipped to sexting. Well, suggestive sexting. Will my response freak her out?
Peyton: And how does that feel?
This woman will be the death of me. Via text messages or her smart mouth. Either will do, though.
Micah: Nowhere near enough.
Peyton: Sometimes, not enough makes the end result that much sweeter.
Micah: What end result would that be?
I will not put words in her mouth. Other things, perhaps, but not words. With our history, Peyton needs her voice. Needs to use it to guide me. To guide us. I won’t mislead her, but I also want the same in return.
Peyton: My crystal ball says that still remains to be seen.
Micah: Hmm. Think your crystal ball may need to be cleaned.
Peyton: Really?
Micah: Yep. I offer up my ball cleaning services to you.
Oh lord. I really need to think before I type and hit send. And I’m not drunk. Maybe a little buzzed, but not drunk.
Peyton: I bet you do.
Micah: Sorry. Was that too much?
Peyton: I’m a big girl, starlight. I handle balls just fine.
And now my vision fills with images of Peyton and the ways she could handle my balls. I am so fucking screwed.
Micah: You really are a hellcat.
Peyton: You wouldn’t want me any other way.
There are several ways I wouldn’t mind having Peyton Alexander. But it is too early to put those out in the open. Even with both of us braver behind our screens.
Micah: True. Question… why do you call me starlight?
Her new nickname for me is quirky and cute, but it also feels childish. God, I hope it isn’t something so inane.
Peyton: Really want to know?
Micah: Humor me.
Seconds drag on for minutes as the dancing gray bubble pops up and disappears again and again. Either she is typing a novel or she deletes her words and starts over. The wait is gruesome.
Peyton: Because of your eyes.
Not a novel. And definitely not what I expected.
My eyes? What about my eyes made her come up with starlight? I picture Shelly’s twin irises. The rich blue with lighter hints. But nothing makes me think of starlight.
Micah: What about my eyes?
Peyton: Hidden in the blue, you have these little gold sparks. Like stars.
Like stars. I read those two words over and over. Sift them through the confines of my mind. Interpret the fact she has studied my eyes hard enough to notice small gold flecks. Like stars. That every time she uses the nickname, it has more meaning than other pet names people share. That she sees deeper than surface level. Like stars.
Micah: I never noticed.
The screen dims after no response for a couple minutes. I tap the screen and it brightens. Then I note how late it is. Seeing as she has to be up earlier in the morning, it wouldn’t surprise me if she fell asleep.
Micah: Night, hellcat. Sweet dreams.
I lay my phone back on the charger and stare up at the ceiling. After texting Peyton, staring at the slight texture above the bed seems less interesting. Worth less of my time. So, I close my eyes and let my imagination wander.
Images of Peyton from earlier in the evening pop up from my memory. Of her relaxed attire and loose strands. Of her easygoing smile and breath an inch from my lips. How at ease she was around my friends, my family. And how perfect she felt flush against my chest, my hips. Most of all, I recall the way her brilliant eyes studied mine.
Like stars.