Broken Juliet(59)

I’m listening to Radiohead. Ethan always puts it on when I’m at his place. When I listen to it, I can almost pretend he’s in the room with me as he wraps his arms around me and pulls me against his chest.

My phone rings, and when I see his name, my mouth goes completely dry.

God.

He’s calling me.

He hasn’t called before. He usually texts.

I shouldn’t be this excited.

I let it ring. Don’t want to seem too eager.

Two … three times it rings. I pick up on the fourth and feign nonchalance.

“Hello?”

“Hey.”

“Uh … hey. Who is this?” Good one, Cassie. Keep him on his toes.

“It’s Ethan. Your caller ID would have told you that. Or do you just have me under World’s Greatest Lay?”

Hearing his voice does strange things to me. But I’d never let him know that, so I clear my throat and try to sound bored.

“Oh, hey.”

“Hey.”

This is awkward. People who aren’t us do this.

“Why are you calling?”

“Uh … Well … I don’t know, I was just…” The final word sounds like “jusht.”

“Ethan, are you drunk?”

“Not totally.”

“Drunk is like pregnant. You either are or you aren’t.”

“Then I’m not.”

“Drunk or pregnant?”

“Both. Although, I don’t know. I’ve missed my period. Pregnancy could be a possibility.”

I smile without meaning to. “Is that right?”

“Yeah. What are the other symptoms of pregnancy? I’m worried now.”

When I close my eyes, I can almost picture him lying on his bed, tugging at his dark, unruly hair. In my vision, he’s shirtless, and the hand that isn’t torturing his hair is grazing over the grooves between his abs.

I realize that in reality, at least one hand needs to be holding his phone, but the fantasy is hotter, so I roll with it.

“Cassie?”

“Hmmm?”

“I’m having a pregnancy scare here. You’re supposed to be reassuring me.” His words run together a little. It’s kind of adorable.

“Okay, sorry. Well, I didn’t really listen in freshman health class, but I think the first sign of pregnancy is fatigue. Are you tired?”

“Yes. Very.”

“Irritable?”

“Fuck, yeah. Super irritable.” I can almost hear him frown.

“Nothing new there.”

“Shut up.”

“Case in point.”

“What else?” he asks.

“Sore breasts?”

“Hmmm. Hang on.”

I hear rustling. “What are you doing?”

“Taking off my shirt, so I can check my breasts. Wait … mmm … yes. They are a little sore.”

More fantasy images. This time of him running his hand over his naked chest.

It does nothing for my deteriorating composure. “Your … pecs are sore?”

“Yeah.”

He clears his throat. “Maybe you should come home and kiss them better.”

I freeze. Did he call for phone sex? We don’t do that. Or at least, we haven’t yet done that. I mean, he sometimes whispers stuff in class to make me blush, but he doesn’t call me to flirt.

“Cassie? Are you okay?”

Maybe.

It’s unclear.

My chest is tinged with pain.

“I shouldn’t have called.”

“Why did you?”

He pauses. “I was lying here, thinking about you, and … I just wanted to talk to you, I guess.”

“Oh.”

Ask him why. Ask him, and see if he has the balls to tell you.

Of course, I don’t. What we have is working. We both get off, and no one gets hurt. It’s completely free from “I called because I miss you,” and “I miss you because I love you.”

What we share is an emotional desert with an oasis of sex, and we’re both happy with that.

“So…” he says, in an effort to push through the awkward, “what have you been doing?”

“Uh … I got a job.”

“Yeah?”

“At the diner. It sucks, but I need the money. What about you?”

“I’ve been pulling some shifts at the construction company I worked at before I got into The Grove. Long hours, but the money’s decent.”

“Uh-huh.”

We lapse into silence. I have the strongest urge to tell him I miss him, but I can’t.

“Well, I’d better go.”

He feels it, too. This is too personal. We can’t just magically become talk-on-the-phone friends. Texting is different. We can pretend to be detached. Anything more, and we’re heading back into areas that are murky and dangerous.

“Yeah, okay. Thanks for calling.”

He laughs. “Yeah. No problem. Worked out well. I’ll text next time.”

“Okay. Sure. Bye.”

“’Night, Cassie.”

I hang up and sigh. It’s better this way.

Simpler.