Me: Yes, well—I’m halfway across the globe and my family treats me like I’m still in nappies. They can’t help themselves, crawling up my arse.
Eliza: Where are you headed this morning, maybe we can meet?
Me: The gym, then the science building, then study group, food, playing field.
Eliza: Are you purposely being difficult? How are you not chomping at the bit to get this phone back?? Surely there are things you NEED.
Me: Nope.
Eliza: Okay well there are things **I** need. So we have to switch them back.
Me: Fine, we’ll find time today, just keep messaging me and we’ll figure it out.
Me: By the way, you might have a date this Friday.
Eliza: Stop it.
Me: His name is Jessie and he’s from Mexico City originally, plays soccer, loves movies. I think you’ll like him.
Eliza: I hate you right now.
Me: Listen, it took me hours to find a suitable mate for you, so don’t be picky. A blind date will be brilliant.
Eliza: All right—how about we make it a DOUBLE first date?
Me: Really Eliza, you would do that to Kaylee? Set me up with someone else while she’s trying to get in my pants?
Eliza: I…I…you…
Me: Have I rendered you speechless?
Eliza: Yes, you asshole!
Me: I love how Americans say ass. Much cruder than arse.
Eliza: Good day.
Me: Oh come on…
Eliza: I said good day, sir.
Me: I was kidding.
Eliza: Bye.
Her last few messages have me laughing out loud—Eliza is pretty stinking adorable, if I do say so myself. It’s been a long time since I’ve allowed myself to be attracted to someone emotionally. Typically I only allow surface-level stuff, not really wanting to commit myself while I am in the States, knowing I am not going to stay here.
Lust.
Physical attraction.
It’s true that I’m going to be here for at least four years, returning home only for the holidays, like Christmas and such. Easter. But at the end, when I graduate with a degree, I will not live here. That is not and will not ever be my intention. So is it wise to fall in love with someone?
I stare down at Eliza’s message with a smile on my face, grinning as I finally shove it back into my bag, and lock up when I leave the house before hopping into my truck.
My brother’s truck.
Well, my parents own it, so…whatever.
Semantics.
I go through my day preoccupied, only checking my mobile a dozen times or so an hour, expecting a message from Eliza to be there. Or maybe if I stare at the blasted thing long enough, one will magically appear without my having to reach out first.
Ugh.
Why hasn’t she messaged me? It’s been three hours.
Why do you care?
I don’t.
Yes you do.
So?
Stop talking to yourself. People will think you’ve gone mad.
No one can see you talking to yourself, halfwit. You’re not moving your mouth.
By the time I have to go to my study group for astronomy, I’ve completely lost all focus, tucking the mobile in the back pocket of my jeans, removing it every one to three minutes to stare at the screen.
The blank screen.
Eventually there is a notification, but not the kind I want to see—it’s from the dating app, and it’s Jessie, the bloke I matched with last night who I jokingly said I was going to set her up on a blind date with.
I scowl down at the dating app notification.
I’m not sure what’s gotten into me, but the sight of the little red flame has me agitated.
As I stalk to the student union after my study group, my stomach growls and appears as angry as my face. The moods match.
Students greet me as I grab a tray and stand in line to get a hamburger, loading it with potato chips, a fruit cup, French fries, and condiments. I root around for the mayonnaise, almost losing my shite when I can’t find any. Luckily there’s one floating in the sea of mustard packets no one wants.
Fucking Jessie.
I’ll be damned if he’s going on a date with her.
Ha.
Good luck, lad.
Good. Bloody. Luck. Buddy.
Buddy: an American term I learned today that I locked away in my memory bank so I can use it in a sentence out loud later, perhaps at rugby practice. Also a huge fan of the word pal. An older gentleman called me pal at the grocery store the other day and I took a shine to it, always banking new words for my American vocabulary.
Sometimes it doesn’t do to sound like a stuffy British wanker.
I pull Eliza’s mobile out of my bag once again. Isn’t she the one who wanted to swap so badly? She was in such a damn rush, and suddenly she’s radio silent. Haven’t heard from her all day.
What am I supposed to do, keep it?
If I hold on to it any longer, eventually I’m going to start snooping. As it is, it’s taken all the self-control I possess not to go trolling through her text messages or her photo gallery.