The Real Thing (28 page)

“I don’t want you driving when it’s dark.”

“I know.” She holds on to my shoulders and I help her off the car. “Have fun tonight.” She kisses me.

“Drive safe.” I kiss her.

“I’ll text you when I get there.” Another kiss.

“
When
you get there. Not during the trip, please.”

“Yes,
when
I get there.”

We kiss again, and I cup her face, let it linger and try to memorize her taste and how she feels, so I can have it with me for the weekend. “Love you, Emmy.”

“Happy birthday.” Her face is that gorgeous, freckled red as she slips into the car and drives away.

“Shit, I forgot my cell. I’ll be right back.”

Tolani leans against the stairwell railing. “You’ll be twenty-two by the time we get to the bar.”

“I’m hurrying!” I call over my shoulder as I take the steps two at a time back to the condo.

Mom’s rocking the walls with her snoring as I creep inside. My phone’s docked in Em’s room, since that’s where I’ll be sleeping for the next few days. When I open the door, Em’s tropical scent hits my nose and I curse, because hell, I miss her already and it’s only been a couple of hours.

Her computer is open, a screensaver of rotating pictures showing. She has a lot of selfies. And she keeps taking pictures of me while I’m sleeping. I’m going to have to hide her phone before we go to bed.

I unplug my cell, and there’s a text from her.

I almost turned around four or five times on my way here. But I made it, safe and sound, and you’ll be proud of me! No phone time while in the driver’s seat :)

My lips turn up and I tap back.

You sound a bit like Dr. Seuss ;)

LOL, totally didn’t even mean to rhyme so much. It must be rubbing off on me. Maybe I’ll call you later and read you one.

YES!

I miss you.

Miss you, too. Happy Birthday, love.

I type out an “I love you,” but then Em’s Skype sounds, drawing my attention to her computer.

My chest burns as I look at the picture that shows up on the screen. She Skypes with this guy? I didn’t think she even talked to him anymore. Ever since our fight, she’s kept the online time to a minimum. When I ask her what she’s doing on her phone, she shows me the book she’s reading. I clear my throat and take a step toward the computer. My fingers twitch over the mousepad.

The ring ends, and the notification of the missed call pops up on the screen. I check my breathing and shake my head. It could be nothing. There’s no indication of any other calls before this one. My phone buzzes in my hand just as another noise indicates a message on Em’s open Facebook browser. Is he messaging her now?

Gritting my teeth, I click over to the message, just to see if I’m right. My stomach squeezes all the air out of me as I fall into the desk chair.

Scott: Hey, you busy? I just tried Skype, but you didn’t answer.

I’m ready to kill him, or call Em and ask her why the hell this guy is talking to her, but then I see Em typing back.

Mia: Not near my computer. What’s up?

“What’s up?” How about “Leave me alone, I have a boyfriend” or “Hey, I am busy” or how about not answering at all?

Scott: Bored. Did you get a chance to read that email I sent you?

I look at the open tabs at the top of the screen, and Em’s email is one of them. It takes every ounce of restraint I have not to click over to it.

Mia: Not yet. I was busy for most of the day, and driving the rest of it.

Scott: Did you find a really good book or something? You’ve been scarce.

A little bit of tension releases at that, but it builds right back up as I scroll through the previous messages. Replies nearly every hour or two over the past few days. That’s
scarce
?

Mia: I told you I’d be off the grid for a bit.

Scott: So what were you up to today?

Mia: Didn’t we have this conversation already? ;)

I want to shoot that winky face. I want to stop looking at this message thread. I want to move my ass from this chair and call Em and ask her flat out what’s going on, in case I’m misinterpreting things. I want reassurance, but I can’t stop looking. I can’t move. And the next message pops up and I feel my chest crack.

Scott: That’s right. Best friend’s birthday. Did she get pissing drunk?

Forget restraint. I mouse over to her email, scroll through, and find not one, not two, not even three or four or five … I mean, there are countless emails with this guy. The top one is titled “Guess I’m not sure how I feel” and I don’t care that it’s not mine. I don’t care that I’m probably never meant to see it or that it’ll piss off Em to no end. I open it up and read, red dots and fury flooding my vision. I swipe at my eyes and slam the lid on the laptop down so hard I think I hear a few keys break. My phone buzzes in my hand again, and I open up the two unread texts from Em.

You there still? Or are you out drinking already?

Okay, guess you are. I love you and miss you and can’t wait to see you again. Talk to you tonight! (can’t wait to hear slurred Dr. Seuss, lol)

It’s like it’s nothing. Like she’s not lying to some other dude about me, not lying to me about this other dude. And because I know I won’t be able to call without screaming at her, I text back something vague, but she’s smart enough to figure it out.

You left your computer up. You have a missed Skype call.

Then I chuck my phone on the bed and leave without it.

Emilia Johnson posted on Eric Matua’s timeline

2 days ago

I love you

Sixty-seven text messages. Forty-one unanswered calls. Two very upset roommates. And one desperate and stupid Internet junkie.

Text message number sixty-eight.

I love you. Please talk to me.

Eve adjusts on her bed, drawing my teary gaze to her. She gives me a light smile.

“He’s still not talking to me.”

“I’m sorry.” She winces and grabs her abdomen. “You can head back. I’m fine here. Paul will be home tonight.”

I shake my head. We’ve argued about this since her shower ended. I tried to keep it together for her, thought I was killing it, but we got back to Paul’s place and she grilled me about what was wrong. It all flooded out. The messages from Scott, the arguments about online time with Eric, the
lies
. I’ve been crying in spurts all weekend, but I’m still trying to be strong for Eve so I can take care of her. Seems like I’m the one who needs coddling, though.

“Fine, but as soon as he walks through that door I want you out of it.”

“I’m so sorry.” I sniff. “It’s just … he’s …”

“Important.”

The
most
important. And I can’t talk to him. I can’t explain. I can’t work my way out of this. It’s just stewing, boiling, and I’m afraid of what will explode when I get back. Yet I can’t wait to get back there, so I don’t feel so helpless.

“Um, Mia?” Eve asks, a little out of breath. “Could you get me my bed buddy?”

I nod, tucking my phone in my pocket and grabbing her pregnancy pillow. I help her get settled on her side, wrap her leg around the pillow, and pull the blanket over her shoulder. She lightly grabs my wrist and looks up at me, eyes tired, and I feel like crap all over again for not being more attentive.

“It’ll be okay,” she says, and my tears threaten to spill over. I kiss her forehead and whisper a thank you and tell her to get some rest. My phone buzzes a few minutes after I flop into their secondhand couch, and I grapple for it, heart beating loud. But it flatlines when I see Scott’s name on my IM. I move his chat bubble to the
X
without reading it, then I bury my face in my hands.

I want to blame Scott for not leaving me alone. I want to blame Eric for looking at my computer without permission. I want to blame Dad for living forever far away and getting me hooked on the Internet. I want to blame the makers of Kindle, Google Chrome, Dell, and Samsung … I want to blame everyone because it hurts to face the harsh truth.

This is no one’s fault but mine.

The condo is empty when I get there early Monday morning. I panic on my way to my room, but it slowly fades when I see all my stuff still out, practically untouched. Minus my laptop, which was open, but it’s closed.

It smells like Eric’s fresh-laundered scent. I drop my bag on the floor, chewing on the inside of my bottom lip. His phone is sitting on the bed, face up, blinking with all the messages I left him. My panic’s back, rushing through my stomach, and I yank out my phone and dial Eric’s work.

“Sunset Hills Nursing Facility, this is Liv, what room can I connect you with?”

“Hi, um, actually, I’m looking for Eric Matua.”

“Name?”

“Mia. I’m his … roommate.”

“One moment.”

It’s so quiet on the line my ear starts ringing. My heart thumps in my throat and I shake as I sit on the edge of the bed.

“Mia Johnson?” she asks when she comes back on the line.

“Yes.”

“He’s in with a resident right now. He said he’ll call you on his break.”

“Okay, thank you.”

I hang up, and calm the storm swirling in my stomach. At least he’s okay.

Mad, but okay. My hand grazes his phone as I sit mine next to it. The one thing that connected me to him when he was away and now it’s the thing dividing us.

There’s not a single clock in this living room. I’ve been checking the clock on the microwave, counting seconds, flinching at any sound that could be Eric’s key in the door.

He didn’t call. He’s already forty-five minutes later than usual.

But I’m not surprised.

Finally, at 7:48, I hear his key.

I sit up on the couch and slowly rise to my feet when he walks in. He’s not in his scrubs. He’s wearing gym shorts and his shirt is dark with sweat. His eyes make contact with me for less than a second, then he drops his duffel on the floor, tosses his keys on the counter, and goes straight for the shower.

Heat boils up the back of my neck, and before he can lock the door, or have time to strip, I barge into the bathroom.

“No. You’re not going to do that. You’re going to talk to me.”

“I smell like shit.”

“I don’t care.”

“Fine.” He turns to face me, crossing his arms over his sweaty shirt. “What do you want me to say?”

“Tell me why you’re so mad.”

His eyes narrow. “You
know
why I’m mad.”

“No I don’t.”
Not really.
“You left me a text message about a missed Skype call—”

“And you know damn well who it was from.”

Warmth spreads up my neck and I grasp for any explanation I have to make sure he knows I don’t think of Scott in any romantic way at all. “I didn’t answer it. And I wouldn’t have if I was sitting in front of my computer.”

“But you’ll chat with him all you want, right?” he fires back. “Even after I told you it bugged me.”

A fist locks around my throat, making it hard for my voice to get out. “You looked at my Facebook messages?”

He shakes his head, as if that’s hardly the point. “It was up. And even if it wasn’t, you should be able to show me that shit and be okay with what I see. You can pull up any of my online shit and you won’t find me talking to some girl. Every. Single. Day.”

He’s right. It would kill me if I found ongoing interactions between him and another girl. But … I’m desperate. I can’t change what he saw, and I really am trying to disconnect from Scott, so I set my jaw and cross my arms, too. “Those messages are innocent. It’s not like I was sending him nude photos or anything.”

A growl erupts from the back of his throat, and it makes me take a step back. Eric pulls at his hair and talks to the bathroom floor. “I asked you flat out on the fourth, Em. I asked when the last time you talked to him was. And you … you lied to me.” His voice lowers, and his eyes flick to mine. Waves of pain and betrayal are etched into his face, and I feel the burning sensation in the back of my eyes that tells me I’m not going to make it through this conversation without crying.

“You’d just talked with him, hadn’t you? Probably shoved your phone away the second I came in your room. The fact that I have a relationship with someone who always has a screen in her face is hard enough, but now that I know some, or most, or hell, maybe the whole thing was dedicated to talking to some prick who knew you had a boyfriend, that’s just … I can’t. I can’t do it.”

“Eric,” I say, reaching out to him, but he jerks back. “
Nothing
about the friendship I have with him is anything to worry about.”

“You sure about that?” His voice is getting stronger again. “I feel like we did the same thing, Em. We talked online for years. I got online just to be close to
you
. And I thought you were the same way, but now we’re actually physically in the same room, and it’s like the real thing isn’t good enough for you.”

“Don’t you dare compare how I feel about you to how I feel about some guy I barely know.”

“So I know everything?” he asks. “He hasn’t come on to you or implied there’s more between the two of you than just being online chat buddies?”

“No, it’s
not
like that.”

His brows pull in. His neck gets redder and redder the longer we just stand here. “There’s nothing more than Facebook chats then? No Twitter or text messages… or
email
?”

The fist around my throat tightens. “Did you read my email, too?”

He blinks. He crosses his arms. His head tilts to the side and I’m wondering why it’s taking him so long to answer that simple question. Or if he’s just mad I asked at all.

“No,” he finally says. “Is there something there that I should know about?”

I shake my head. “It’s all the same stuff. Stupid conversations.”

“If it’s stupid conversations, why are you talking to him so much?”

I’ve been asking myself the same thing for the past few weeks. There’s a part of me that doesn’t want to be rude and not reply, so I do. There’s a part of me that is bored, and doesn’t feel like reading, and he’s the convenient person online. There’s a part of me that likes the attention. That craves all the messages on my phone, the notification dings, the likes on my statuses, the retweets, the favorites, the instant gratification of knowing that someone is out there and hears what I’m saying and wants to talk to me. That’s what I love about the Internet. The connections I make. I cling to the online friendships because they are always right there when I need them. Not everyone in real life is like that.