Date Me, Bryson Keller(18)

Are you there, Loneliness? It’s me, Kai.





7


Bryson does text me.

I’m lying on my bed, reading the next few scenes of Romeo and Juliet. It’s a habit of mine to read ahead. I always want to be prepared for the inevitability of being selected to perform. I’m still a bumbling mess whenever I’m assigned a role, but I am certain I’d be one hundred times worse without having done this preparation.

I spot a message from an unknown number and reach for my phone. Another one comes through. I swipe to unlock my phone and open the messages.

Sorry, I meant to message you earlier, but I had to cook.

It’s Bryson btw.

Another message: Keller, that is.

I smile. As if anyone at Fairvale Academy would need the clarification.

I reply: I know. You cook? Color me surprised.

I take this opportunity to save his number. I start entering his name but stop midway before deleting it. Instead, I save him as Kelly. The CIA should seriously recruit teens living in the closet.

    Bryson responds: Yes. I am a man of many talents.

I sit up and rest my head against the wall.

Huh. Who would have thought it?

Bryson replies two minutes later. Not that I am watching the clock or anything.

Well, I’ll cook for you sometime.

I drop my phone.

Haha. You dropped your phone, didn’t you?

Another message follows hot on its heels, and it sends more heat rushing to my face.

You’re probably blushing right now. Haha. It’s awesome.

I exhale. Here in my room I can be anyone. I can have the confidence that I never would have dreamed of when it came to Bryson Keller.

Why do you like me blushing so much? I ask. I add a tongue-out emoji for kicks. Let’s see just how much Bryson Keller likes me flirting. Sometimes in life you have to give just as much as you get.

I don’t know. I guess I like how honest it is. Your mouth may lie but your face can’t. It’s like a siren.

Well then, I promise to blush for you a lot. I’m not much for emojis, but sometimes one is required. That it’s my second in such quick succession is unprecedented. The winking face mocks me as I hit send. Who have I become?

I watch the dancing ellipsis as I wait for his response. And when the dots disappear, I worry that maybe I overstepped. Maybe I shouldn’t have flirted with a straight guy. I move to lie on my back. I’m holding my phone above me when I see his reply. I drop my phone again and it smacks me right in the middle of my face. And only that pain proves that this is all real and happening.

    On my screen is a selfie of Bryson Keller. His face is pulled into an overdramatic shocked expression. And he captioned it: Are you flirting with me?

Let’s see if you’re blushing. Send me a selfie. You have to give as good as you get. I read his new text and am surprised to find that they are words that I just thought. I start to type a response saying no but I stop halfway. When, if ever, will I be given a chance like this? Yes, this relationship is fake, but for a few days it can feel real. For these five days I am allowed to act cute with my boyfriend.

A boyfriend who wants a selfie of me.

With a pounding heart, I open my camera and tap the front view. Instantly I am assaulted by the sight of me. My curly hair sticks up in different directions. It’s longer than I normally keep it, and in a week or two I will need to visit the barber with Dad. The galaxy of freckles on my face stand loud and proud against the redness of my skin.

Whoever thought that the front-view camera was a great idea was surely mistaken. Just as quickly as I opened it, I close it. This is a bad idea. There’s a reason my Instagram only has fifteen photos total, and why only five of them are of me and my face.

Ticktock. His words mock me. They urge me on.

    I open the camera again and extend my arm. There’s a click and a flash as I take the picture. I turn to study it. It’s terrible—a crime against humanity. For the next two minutes I try to perfect the art of the selfie, until finally I succeed. The last photo that I take before giving up isn’t half bad. I’m posing with my arm behind my head, and my brown—almost black—eyes surprisingly don’t look vacant and/or dead. I’m also smiling wildly—showing off perfectly straight teeth that are a result of years of braces and a great orthodontist. And before the shambles of my confidence scatter on the wind, I hit send.

I add a caption: happy now?

He responds not even a minute later.

See. I shall make a boyfriend out of you yet.

It’s followed by a stream of confetti-cannon emojis.

And I know that it shouldn’t, but my heart catches on the word boyfriend. On the fact that he has referred to himself as that. It’s physical evidence of this, whatever it is, actually happening.

As we chat, it almost becomes like he’s sitting next to me. So much so that I imagine him doing just that. There is no distance between us now, there are no phones and texts. It’s just him and me here in my bedroom.

Bryson’s light brown hair is damp from a shower. He’s wearing a white tank top that shows off his toned and tan shoulders and basketball shorts revealing the light sprinkling of hair on his legs. His large feet are bare, too. Okay, so maybe I’ve had this exact fantasy one or two times before.

    “So, we should talk about our five-day relationship,” he says.