Total pages in book: 50
Estimated words: 48372 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 242(@200wpm)___ 193(@250wpm)___ 161(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 48372 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 242(@200wpm)___ 193(@250wpm)___ 161(@300wpm)
I hold the phone up to my ear again. I think I hear something—a little blup, like blankets or a hand over the phone. I inhale—through my nose, so he won’t hear.
Luke…
I turn the phone a little toward the street. A taxi’s rolling by. The wind is whipping into my phone’s mouthpiece.
Hey. I’m walking home. I’m in the city. He knows I was in a bar. I swallow hard. If he could see me dancing tonight…but he didn’t. Something crushing heavy moves through my chest.
I suck in another deep breath.
Please don’t hang up.
* * *
Luke
I drag my gaze around the capsule: curved white walls…the scent I think’s supposed to be vanilla…dimmed neon-pink light.
I clench my jaw and clutch the phone. Every part of me is shaking, so my breaths are coming kind of ragged, but I’ve got the phone pointed away from my lips.
I shut my eyes and listen to the noise on his end. Sounds like the city. New York, I assume. He was in a club. Maybe a concert. He left…and now he must be walking somewhere.
I picture him on a dark street. He’s sort of warm from drinking, wearing a nice, thick coat…but I bet his fingers are cold, if he’s holding the phone. I take a deep, slow breath. I hear a little static, and I’m pretty sure it’s windy there. I take another long breath…let it out. I make myself imagine something: a harbor. Some sidewalk by the river. He’s walking by park benches, little glow-wreathed streetlamps.
I hear a car horn and ditch the harbor scene. He’s in the thick of things. It smells like New York. Sort of stale and sort of oily…sort of like food and maybe old, wet brick. I’ve got a cold, so nothing smells like anything to me. Not even Tokyo.
I suck more air into my tight lungs, realizing that my shaking has let up a little since I called him. Then I think again of why—of what happened—and shut my eyes. They’re throbbing.
Focus on him. Listen.
Somehow I know he’ll stay with me. Knew before I called. Just as I knew after what happened, I would call him. Too much bad stuff…and no one I want to talk to.
You.
I want to talk to you.
I still hear his voice in my head. I can see his smile like I was with him yesterday. Thinking of yesterday sets me off again. Don’t think about that now. Focus on Vance.
I’ve been meditating lately, but I’m no good at it. Now I practice again, closing my eyes and setting my breaths up right before I drift along with the sounds on his end. I hear brakes squeal…the clack of something on asphalt. I hear something like his mouth brush the phone, then the sound of wind and his light breathing.
That’s him breathing.
Hot tears blur the pink light in the corners of my pod. They spill down my temples. He rubs the phone against his scruff, and in my head, I hear him talking.
Hey, Skywalker. How’s it going?
I squeeze my eyes shut, and more tears trek toward my ears. I want to talk to him. I take a few deep breaths and wipe my face.
A minute later, the traffic sounds fade, and I think I hear him climbing stairs. The jangle of keys is unmistakable, followed by the thump of a door opening. His breathing changes…maybe evens out. Now that he isn’t walking.
I smile as he opens the refrigerator. He pops open a can’s tab. Whatcha drinking, buddy?
He’s undressing. I can hear it. Just as I can hear when he gets into bed. The phone rubs over his scruff again. I bet you aren’t shaving. Maybe busy getting ready for that art show?
The lump in my throat is so hard, I can barely swallow. I pull the blankets over my shoulders and fix my eyes on the sign on my wall. In Japanese it reads: The Mask Room. Beside the text, there’s a picture of a Kitsune mask. The mask room. I move the phone off my ear…hold it near my chest.
* * *
Vance
I open my eyes to inky darkness. For a second, I don’t know what’s wrong. Then I’m jerking upright, my hands trembling as they search the covers. Fuck. It’s under my leg. It’s 5:03. The call is gone. A quick glance at my call log shows it ending at 4:13 AM.
“Fuck!”
I jump out of bed and pace the kitchen.
“FUCK!”
I lean against the counter, grip its cool edge with my fist. I squeeze my eyes shut. My throat’s a knot.
I hold the phone for fucking ever, hoping for a call-back. Then I check his Instagram. He was tagged four days ago at a panel on love at UCLA. I enlarge the picture. He’s standing with the woman who posted the shot…wearing gray dress pants, a pink shirt, and a warm smile—looking like a whole damn meal.