Phone Sex | Jack Hughes

6

Jack

I SPEND THE NEXT TWO WEEKS IN THIS SORT OF WEIRD slump that I can't seem to get out of, no matter how hard I try. Lyla won't answer my calls, or my texts, or anything, really. I get it, I'd fucked up, royally. In my head at the time I figured she wouldn't be mad, but the more I thought about it, about what I'd done, I realise that if I'd been the one in Lyla's position, I'd be mad too.

It didn't matter that we hadn't properly met in person, we'd been in this weird relationship for a month, an entire month. Not once had I indicated that other people were off the table, but at the same time, neither of us had even entertained the idea of having another person.

When I spoke to Lyla, it was just her. Only her.

Sure, I'd been drunk, and sure, the puck bunny I'd picked up at a club had basically thrown herself at me, but that didn't really give me any excuse. Lyla had told me secrets, shown me every inch of herself, put herself out there, and for fuck sake, I told her I loved her.

Maybe it had been heat of the moment, or maybe it had just accidentally slipped, but words like that don't just slip out for no reason. If I was telling her I loved her, even if it was an accident, it meant I absolutely did.

So, I understood why she wouldn't talk to me. Still, I missed her like crazy. And not the phone sex, though I missed that too, but it wasn't even the part I missed the most. I missed her smile and her laugh and her pretty eyes and the way they blinking at me through my phone innocently when she was trying to stay awake late at night, just so we could talk.

I missed her for the sake of missing her.

Sometime in the past fourteen days I'd followed her on Instagram and started stalking her profile at least four times a day, even accidentally liking a picture from 2019, but I didn't care. I wanted her to know that I was constantly looking out for her, that I wanted her.

I commented on her most recent photo, a picture of her at the beach at sunrise with a blanket over her legs and her hair held down by a beanie, she had this stupid pretty smile on her lips that was overwhelmingly big and showed that maybe she was laughing, the sun was making her eyes glimmer and she looked, for lack of better word, fucking perfect.

So, I left her a comment, telling her she looked stupidly pretty, but she never commented back, didn't even like it. I was just glad to know she'd at least smiled this week.

She must have blocked my number, because none of my texts are delivering and my calls aren't going through, and I don't know why, but it sort of rips my heart out.

By Friday of the second week, when I'm positive I've called her a million times, I do something pathetic, and I cry to Luke. He slaps the back of my head when I tell him what I'd done, which is perfectly warranted, then tells me I need to get my ass down to her school or house right the hell now.

But I don't know where either of those things are.

I feel a bit stupid but we'd never really spoken about her school, or my hockey, or anything like that really. Our conversations were more on the topics of what we liked to do on Sundays, our favourite holidays, why tacos are supreme over burritos, which we entirely disagree on, all the places we want to travel. Who our first love was.

Lyla doesn't have one, which then leads me to believe that it very well might be me, and maybe that's why she's so upset.

By Friday afternoon, I call her one last time, telling myself that if she doesn't answer this time that I'd give up, and let her go, if that's what she really wanted. But I'm not immediately sent to voicemail, which makes my heart race, and by the fifth ring, she picks up.

It's silent on her end of the line, the only sound being the slight rise and fall of her chest as she breathes.

I feel my heart stop. "Lyla?"

And when she doesn't answer, I try again.

"Lyla?" I whisper, chewing on my bottom lip. "Are you there, baby?"

I don't know it, but she swallows hard, pursing her lips. "Yes."

My whole stomach flips at the sound of her voice, sort of like when you drop on a roller coaster, but more intense. And then I can't help myself, but I ask her: "Are you okay?"

She paused, contemplating, which tells me all I need to know. But then she's responding with a lie. "Yes."

I chew on the inside of my cheek. "Why'd you finally answer?"

She doesn't respond, and I know that I've got a lot of fucking work to do to win her back.

"I missed you," I tell her gently. "So so much."

"I missed you too," she breathes, without missing a beat.

"Is that why you answered?" I try again.

This time, she gives me a shaky breath. "Yes."

I bite back the urge to smile so bright that the entirety of my fucking teeth show. "Can I see your face?"

"Why?" She asks, and I can hear the frown in her voice.

I frown too. "Because, you're beautiful," I tell her like it's obvious. "You're beautiful and I've been deprived for two whole weeks of you and I can't take it anymore, not for a second longer."

She FaceTimes me, and suddenly I'm staring back at her, flushed cheeks and all, like I've made her blush.

The sight of her calms me, so much so that I physically relax, my shoulders dropping and my chin dropping to my chest as I close my eyes, breathing in. I rake my fingers through my hair, glancing back up at her, but she doesn't look so calm.

"I'm sorry, Lyla," I tell her, my tone as serious as it's ever been. "I understand if you don't believe me, if you never want to talk to me again, if you want to cut me off, I get it. But please believe me that I'm sorry."

She chews on her bottom lip. "Why'd you do it?"

I pause, blinking, then I shake my head, not looking at her. "Because I didn't think you'd care."

She scowls at that. "I get it, everything that we've been doing, the late night calls, the . . . the sex, if that's what you can call it, this doesn't mean a thing to you."

"No," I cry, frantic with my words. "No, baby, no. I just, it's new. I've never fallen for a girl I haven't touched, let alone met, I don't know, okay, it was a mistake."

"I don't even know why I'm mad," she laughs, but it's not a happy laugh. "It's not like we're together, I'm not your girlfriend, you're not my boyfriend, it shouldn't matter."

"It does matter," I tell her with a frown. "I am yours, and I'm going to prove it to you, baby—"

"Ethan!" She shouts, a smile plastering on her lips that makes my blood run cold. "Hey!"

"Ethan?" I repeat, a bad taste in my mouth. "Who the hell is—"

"Hey, Jack, I gotta go," she says, suddenly the happiest I'd seen her since before I fucked up and bulldozed her life. My heart clenches in a way I'm not used to, and then suddenly there's this dude in the frame with dirty blonde hair and brown eyes.

He's taller than Lyla, which isn't hard, but it still makes me angry that he's less than a foot from her, and what makes it worse is that he's wearing a hockey hoodie.

He's a hockey player.

"Lyla?" I breathe, the frown obvious on my face, and she notices it immediately, her frown faltering. "Where are you, baby? I want to make it up to you."

She sighs, smiling sadly. "Another time, Jack."

And that's that. She hangs up, and my heart collapses in on itself.