The Party Crasher(27)

  As I watch him, I start to bristle slightly. Am I the bad dream he’s trying to escape? Was I so awful? Who does he think he is? Saint Joe? Before I can stop myself, I type a new text:

            For someone who looks after hearts, you can be careless. You know you broke mine, don’t you?



  As the words arrive on his screen, I watch the shock on his face and feel a surge of satisfaction. There. Just saying it like it is.

  I was hoping he would come straight back with a reply, but he seems stricken. He’s staring at his phone, motionless. I’ve clearly bludgeoned him into silence, which might have been a tactical error, I realize.

  I’m not going to backtrack, because it’s true. He did break my heart. And from his expression, he knows it. But it’s strange: Watching him now, I realize I don’t feel quite as raw as I once did. I don’t feel quite as broken. I feel like I can have a conversation, at least. And maybe I can turn that conversation to my advantage. I briskly type a new message:

       Anyway. I’m not here for recriminations. I’m here to help you.



  Joe looks startled, which is what I intended, so I press on quickly with a follow-up:

       I expect you’ve been wondering all these years how you can ever make it up to me. I expect you lie awake at night, desperately racking your brain. I expect you’re longing for me to suggest a way that you can make amends. Aren’t you??



  As he reads the message, Joe’s face lightens a little. His mouth twitches in amusement; he seems to come alive.

      Just seeing his reaction reminds me of how we used to make each other laugh, which gives me a little stabbing pain in my chest. Oh God, I wish I didn’t have to engage with Joe to achieve my goal. It’s not good for my health. But I don’t have any choice.

  I watch breathlessly as he types a reply, and a moment later it arrives in my phone.

       You read my mind.



  Is he being serious? Or sarcastic? I don’t really care. I tap out my answer:

       Great. I always was a mind reader. By the way, your shoelaces are undone.



  They’re not, but I couldn’t resist making him start. He glances down at his shoes, frowns, then swivels on the spot, looking cautiously all around the drive. Then he peers up at the windows of the house, while I bite my lip, trying not to giggle. At last he sends a message:

       Where are you?



  At once I reply:

       Never mind. You’ve agreed to help me, right?

   Well, I suggest that we form a pact. We will drop everything and help each other out if we ever text the single word “rosebush.”



      Joe stares at his phone, then types a new message, an expression of concern coming over his face.

       Effie, do you need help?



  Thank you! At last, the response I needed! I briskly type two words and send them.

       Yes. Rosebush.



  Immediately he replies:

       I get it. We have a “pact.” I agree.



  Oh. Duh. I should have expressed myself more clearly.

       No. ROSEBUSH. Look at the rosebush.



  I watch, breathing hard, as Joe swivels. He glances cautiously at the bouncer, still standing at the front door, then surveys the row of rosebushes lining the gravel. His gaze moves over them, peering, questioning, half-suspicious, as though this is a windup…

  Then, as he sees me, his eyes explode with shock.

  Disbelief. And some expression I can’t read. For a while we’re both motionless, gazing at each other in silence. This is the longest eye contact we’ve made for years. It feels as if we’re connecting almost like we used to—even if it is through a tangle of rosebush, half-obscured by leaves. I feel an irrational craving to gaze at his familiar face from this place of safety all night.

      But I can’t. And I’m being stupid, because this isn’t old Joe, whom I loved and understood. This is new Joe, who is cruel and inexplicable. They only look the same. So I tear my eyes away and type:

       Come over.



  He doesn’t move a muscle at first, just stands there, looking annoyingly handsome with the evening sunlight behind him. But at last he responds. Not by coming over, which is typical, but by typing another text:

       I understand you’re on a date. I wouldn’t want to interrupt. Where is your beau, by the way?



  For a few moments I just stare back fixedly, my cheeks blooming with color. Damn it, damn it. I almost can’t bear to reply, but I have to. So at last, reluctantly, I type:

       “Date” may have been an exaggeration.



  To be fair, he doesn’t laugh, although his mouth twitches. I’m half-tempted to tell him not to bother after all—but that won’t get me my Russian dolls. Come on, Effie, I tell myself firmly. Who cares what he thinks, anyway?