“Oof,” I mumble, cheeks on fire. “The boy knows how to use his words.”
But I did, too. I thought it might make me cringe to read it back, knowing it was Connor on the other side of the screen, but some of it surprises me. Secret Folder Girl showed up, confident, aware of what she wanted. Talking to him like this—well, having phone sex—was easier.
I keep expecting my phone to ping. That’s been the weirdest part in the madness of the last two days. I got used to anticipating his messages, got excited at the notification sound on my phone. But he’s kept his word, leaving it to me to text him first.
It was hard enough to work up the courage to text Wyatt. I don’t know what to say knowing I have to face him at school, that he’s right next door.
What I need is familiar. Comforting. Safe.
I need to know I can walk away for a minute without someone like Connor breathing down my neck. Tossing my phone aside, I lean over to grab my laptop from the end of the bed and drag it over. Once it’s loaded, I go to my old blog.
The beauty of posting these pictures was that I didn’t know who was on the other side of the screen. It was an escape. The distance and sense of anonymity are what gave me the courage to be this version of myself, where I could experiment with the girl in my secret folder without judgement because no one knew me in person to realize how different I was in reality.
How much I fall short of the mark.
A comment on the second post catches my eye. It’s from two days ago, but the last time I posted to this blog was years ago. “What?”
Missing these intelligent eyes and talking to you. Where have you gone, love? Do you miss me, too? I dream of finding you, coming to steal you away for the whirlwind romance the world has to offer you. It’s me, I’m your world. If I held out my hand, would you take it? The thought consumes me.
Clicking on the other posts, I find a new one on each of them. It’s the same username. Henry_Your_GoodKnight.
It’s him. My old online boyfriend.
Mixed feelings swirl through me. It gives me a sense I’m wanted, desired, seen. But at the same time, there’s something about the comments that makes my blood run cold and my heart beat faster.
Time has given me a different perspective on the nature of these comments. He was only a few years older, but still. The age I was in these photos and when I was enthralled with our late night emails? A cold sweat breaks out on the back of my neck and I work to swallow past my dry throat.
Opening a new tab, I find the folder in my inbox where I saved our emails, clicking on the last one I never answered.
To: Thea Marie
From: Henry Knight
Subject: ramblings to a princess in a tower
Love, you’re all I think of. It’s been so long, I fear I’ll forget your perfect, porcelain face. Those innocent lips and your sea-blue eyes haunt my sleep. Why won’t you answer me? I’ll keep sending you messages. I won’t stop. Ignoring me won’t work.
Answer me, love. Talk to me.
I’ll tell you what I really want. At night I sit up thinking about our conversations, the things you’ve told me. I want to hear your voice. Let me call you. We’ll talk all night.
Once I hear your voice, I know you’ll stay in my heart forever. If you do this for me, I’ll reward you for being my princess again. We’ll do what we talked about. I’ll come find you, I promise. We’ll live the life we planned out. I’ll meet your every desire and give you what you ask for in those big sea-blue eyes.
—Henry
My breathing is ragged. I fan my fingers over my chest, rubbing.
I stopped because Mom was getting suspicious, and I was so scared of getting in trouble. There was no way I could let him call me in the middle of the night, with my parents asleep down the hall.
Closing the laptop, I climb to my feet. Pity party officially over. I will not sit around dredging up weird old memories to compare to the new ones.
The only comfort I need right now is comfort food.
A short while later, I’m elbows deep in baking to relieve the stress. The kitchen smells amazing. Two trays of finished double chocolate chip cookies sit to the side of our wide kitchen island, ready for baking once the first batch comes out, while Constantine sprawls at my feet, occasionally peeking up with a tiny whine to beg for scraps.
“I don’t know,” I tell Maisy on FaceTime, the kitchen iPad propped on the recipe stand.
She’s in her airy bedroom, running through yoga poses with her hair in a sloppy bun. I finally broke down and explained I’ve been weird for weeks because of a mystery texter who wasn’t Wyatt.