Why is she calling me?
And more important, why don’t I want to answer it?
Guilt washes over me. I shouldn’t be avoiding her. She doesn’t deserve that. But I can’t keep balancing on this rope between them; eventually I’ll slip.
Nora’s voice saying “I’ll come back to you” plays and plays in my head. I think about the way her eyes flash with mischief when she challenges me, and the way my name sounds when it comes out of her mouth. I lay my phone on my chest and let the call go to voicemail and continue to make up plotlines for Nora’s Lifetime movie.
The night I followed her, she changed her clothes before she got off the train. We can refer to that night as the Scarsdale Night. She changed her shirt and took her hair down from its braid. She even ran her fingers through the messy strands, and they bounced on her shoulders. She shook her head, and I remember thinking she should star in a shampoo commercial.
But enough about her bouncy things . . . I need to focus on my conspiracy theory surrounding this girl. I raise my hand and hold it up over my face and make a fist. I lift one finger for random subway rides an hour away. What else? Hmmm . . .
She’s had shady phone calls come in while with me and then left my apartment. I raise another finger. As for disappearing, she’s done that more than once, and I would have to be an idiot to ignore the warning signs as I raise another finger. If I get to five, I need to enter witness protection and escape her.
Speaking of witness protection, is she in it? She does have two names . . .
Was her ex-boyfriend in the mob or something?
Does she have a boyfriend now, and if so, is he in the mob?
I’m not sure why my brain goes straight to everyone’s being in the mob; I’ve definitely watched too many movies. I did watch The Godfather when I was a teenager. More than once.
It’s amusing to think about, but I’m not one of those people who blame their inability to function in society on a movie they watched at some pivotal age. Tessa made me watch this movie the other night that had a scene where a woman was sitting with her mom, telling her that she failed her by letting her watch Cinderella as a child. That’s what happened to me: I watched The Godfather and soapy Lifetime movies with my mom, and now I’m convincing myself that my girlfriend is an assassin or an ex–mob member.
Maybe Nora has a secret child? She is older than me, and she does have that soothing voice. I could totally see her as a mom.
Maybe she’s hiding something bigger, like that she actually does like Gatorade after all?
I would rather find out she’s an assassin than discover she’s been falsely throwing shade at my favorite drink.
I’m getting way, way too creative here. I need something to do.
Pronto.
I lay the remote down on the coffee table and sit up. Should I call her?
She promised she would come back to me. Will she?
She was looking straight at me. Am I a fool to think that I could tell if she was lying? Can I trust her to actually keep a promise?
“I promise to not say things I’ll want to erase,”she told me.
We made a deal. It was set in stone from that second on, and I fully expect her to keep her side of the agreement.
If she comes back today, I’ll make a promise to myself to trust her. If she keeps her promise, I’ll keep mine. I’ll make sure I give her time to open up to me. Her petals deserve to have time to bloom.
I busy myself by walking into the kitchen and opening the fridge. I should have checked in on Tessa today to see how she’s doing. She seemed fine the last time I saw her. Hardin did, too,