Perfectly Reckless

Twenty-Two

#chapter Twenty-Two

Would it be weird, Ian types, if we talked on the phone?

The cursor blinks in the little square box on my computer screen. We’ve been messaging back and forth for a while now. Not every day, but when we catch each other online, the conversations go for hours. There’s very little flirting, certainly nothing inappropriate. I’m allowed to have friends, I tell myself. And that’s all we are.

Except for the memory of his hands on me. His breath on me. Except for the helpless way I curse myself for having passed up the chance to discover the taste of his mouth.

No. That would be okay. Right now?

Can you?

Sure.

I know that Ian is divorced. No kids. One dog. Good job. I know where he went to high school and college, the name of his first girlfriend and of his ex-wife — they had the same name. He knows about my penchant for science fiction and horror movies, my allergies to bees, my fear of heights. We don’t talk about my husband or my marriage, though I can feel the subject hanging between us. I tell myself I’d answer any questions he asks, but Ian never asks.

My phone doesn’t ring, though I watch it like it’s a snake about to bite me. When it does, finally, I almost drop it in my haste to answer. My hands are shaking, and so is my voice when I manage to say, “hello?”

“Hi.” His voice is deeper than I remember it. Rougher.

I clear my throat and take a deep breath. “How’s it going?”

“Good. You?”

“Good.”

Silence.

“So,” Ian says. “Do you know why the big sale at the strip club was so unpopular?”

Surprised, I say warily. “…No?”

“Everything was only half off.”

I start to laugh, and it spirals up and up while Ian joins me. It’s a stupid joke, but utterly endearing for all that. It’s been a while since I laughed so hard. It’s cathartic.

We spend two hours on the phone until both of us, bleary eyed, agree we need to hang up or else we’ll be useless for work in the morning. But though I’m so tired I can barely keep my eyes open and certainly can’t manage to hold a coherent conversation, I don’t want to end the call. I listen to Ian’s soft breathing and wonder if he’s fallen asleep.

“You should hang up,” I whisper, half-hoping he won’t hear me.

“You hang up.”

“No,” I say with another laugh. “You hang up.”

“Where’s your husband?” Ian asks, and suddenly I’m as wide awake as if someone stuck a pin in me.

“He’s upstairs. Sleeping.”

“Ah.”

“He has a sound machine.” It feels simultaneously necessary and pointless to say that. Doublethink, the way they did it in 1984. I wonder if Ian’s ever read it.

“Well. It’s late. It was great talking to you. Goodnight, Maura.” No longer easy and light, Ian’s tone has gone formal. Bordering on cold.

“Right. Goodnight, Ian.” Before I can say anything else, he’s disconnected, leaving me to sit in the dark and stare at my phone and wonder what in the hell just happened.

I don’t hear from him for close to two weeks after that. He’s more active than I am on Connex, posting comments on news stories and quirky status updates that show up in the news feed I normally wouldn’t even check, so I know he’s been online even if he’s not logged into his messaging program. I tell myself not to care, but of course I do.

Then, one night when I’m up late because I can’t sleep, his name appears in my contacts list. I wait, breathless, my cursor hovering over it. Thinking I should send a message, but not quite able to do it.

Because what if Ian doesn’t want me?

Why should he, after all? What point could he have in pursuing me, when it’s so clear there isn’t anything to pursue? Still, I open a chat window. I type a message, then delete it, start another.

I shouldn’t send him a message. I know it. So I delete it and push away from my desk. I should go to bed. It’s late.

And then, just before I make my computer go to sleep, a chat window pops up. It’s from Ian. My heart leaps, then drops. I feel a little sick to my stomach, waiting to see what he ways.

Hey, is what he typed, and I return his message within seconds.

Hey.