Dylan: Sorry?
Riley: For what?
Dylan: I don’t know. Did I say something wrong?
Another long wait.
Riley: No.
Riley: Are you in bed?
Dylan: Yeah.
Riley: What are you doing?
Dylan: Thinking about you. You?
Riley: Same.
Dylan: What exactly are you thinking about?
Riley: You don’t want to know, Dylan.
Dylan: I think I do.
Riley: Maybe we should stop.
Dylan: Stop what?
Riley: I’m going to try to sleep.
Dylan: Okay.
Riley: Good night.
Dylan: Good night, Riley.
I don’t go to sleep. Instead, I let my mind continue the conversation. One hand slipping beneath my boxers, the other on my phone, I look at the picture she sent through—my eyes focused on her lips—lips I’ve tasted. Devoured, almost. They drift shut when my hand circles my cock. I picture her in her bed, her sheets around her waist, one hand on her breast, the other down her panties… fuck.
I start to stroke myself, remembering the sounds she makes when she comes, wishing I was there to hear it—or better—be the reason she’s moaning, her lips pressed against her pillows and her hand working her to climax.
It doesn’t take long for me to blow, and when the buzz fades I heave out a breath and look at her picture again.
With my mouth dry and breaths heavy, I reach for a dirty sock and clean myself up, then smile when my phone sounds with a text.
Riley: Are you still awake?
Dylan: Yes.
Riley: What have you been doing?
Dylan: Lying in bed.
Riley: Me too.
Dylan: So.
Riley: So…
Dylan: What are you wearing?
Riley: Nothing anymore.
Eighteen
Dylan
I spend the next morning in my room talking to her through a computer screen. We don’t talk about what happened last night and how close things got to becoming appropriately inappropriate. In the afternoon, Dad and I go out and look for shells for the engine again. We decide on a white ’97 Honda Civic and make plans for it to be towed to our house. We also go to the store and get food and drinks for the gang’s visit tomorrow. Riley doesn’t text as much when I’m out because she says it takes longer for her to try to decipher the messages I type on my phone than it would to actually wait until her mom goes back to work and she can see me again.
As soon as we’re home, I go straight back to my room and get on the computer.
Dylan: Home.
Riley: Yay.
Dylan: What are you doing?
Riley: I just finished reading one of those books you got me.
Dylan: Oh yeah? I didn’t know you started.
Riley: I started when you left earlier today.
Dylan: Those are full-size books. Are you a speed-reader or something?
Riley: I am, actually. I used to love reading but I hadn’t had enough focus (sobriety) since you know…
Dylan: That’s cool. You and my friend Lucy would get along well.
Riley: Lucy?
Dylan: My buddy Cameron’s wife.
Riley: Wife?
Dylan: Yeah. They got married last November.
Riley: Your friends from school? Aren’t they seniors in college?
Dylan: Yeah.
Riley: A little young, no?
Dylan: Love is love, Riley Hudson.
Riley: That’s true.
Riley: I’m actually pretty mad at you.
Dylan: Uh oh.
Riley: Yep.
Dylan: Should I ask why?
Riley: That book you got me ends on a cliffhanger, and now I don’t know if the couple will ever get back together. Do you know how frustrating that is? When’s the next one out?
Dylan: No clue. I just picked random ones from the romance section.
Riley: And why romance?
Dylan: I don’t know. Cam’s always talking about Lucy reading romance books. Gets her turned on or something. Was hoping for the same effect with you…
Riley: You’re such a guy. Lol.
Dylan: I’m sorry about the cliffhanger.
Riley: It’s okay. It was more of a pause than a cliffhanger.
Dylan: A pause?
Riley: Yeah. A pause. Like, sometimes in life you just need a pause before you start to play again.
Riley: Like us.
Dylan: Us?
Riley: Exactly like us. You deployed and I… de—something’d. And now we’re playing again.
Dylan: Playing?
Riley: And you’re my favorite toy, Banks.
Dylan: I am?
Riley: You and the vibrator under my bed.
Dylan: ?
Dylan: !!
Dylan: ??
Dylan: ????!!!!!!?????!!!!!
Dylan: aehfaincgfiqehrusdlkfjlsdhflkjasdhflkasjhdf
Dylan: I mean, what?
Riley: LOL. Such a guy. I gtg eat dinner with the mumster. I’ll message you later.
Dylan: You’re mean.
Riley: Says the guy who walked out of his house shrugging on a shirt. Nice abs, by the way.
Dylan: Stalk much?
Riley: Not the first time, Banks. You’ve always been the boy next door. ;)
She has me looking at the clock. All day. All night. Even when I try to sleep I wake up every fifteen minutes, checking my phone, hoping for a message. How the hell did I live without this kind of technology for so long? Now it’s four in the morning and I can’t get back to sleep, my mind running wild with thoughts of her.
Dylan: Are you awake?
Riley: Now I am.
Dylan: I wake you?
Riley: It’s fine. You okay? Did you have a bad dream?
It dawns on me that I haven’t had a nightmare in the past week. Not since I’d been seeing her more and more. Since I spoke to her about it, I guess. Maybe all those years of silence were a waste. Maybe I should’ve spoken up more.