Several hours later, I can't stop looking at my phone. Every few minutes I find myself glancing over at it. I even go as far as tapping the screen to make sure I haven't missed a notification. I can't even focus on the episode of Master Chef that's playing on the T.V. Sawyer is paying closer attention to the show than I am.
What the hell am I doing?
I exhale sharply through my nose and turn my phone over.
This isn't happening. I'm not going back down that road. I can't.
I pull my knees up to my chest and attempt to focus on the show. Sawyer lounges next to me on the couch, his legs stretched out to the coffee table. He drums his fingers against his stomach, clearly bored with the episode. But true to his word, he's watching without complaint.
My phone vibrates next to me and I scramble to grab it. I unlock the screen and search for the notification. Just an email. I sigh.
"Is it just me or are you a bit distracted?" Sawyer speaks.
I lift my eyes to him. "It's nothing," I drop my phone onto the table.
He shrugs one shoulder and looks back to the T.V. I silently curse myself for acting like an idiot. I've never been the type of girl who sits and waits by the phone for someone to call. If anything, I've always been the girl that other people wait for. Not because I'm irresistible – I'm the furthest thing from that – but because I'm not confident enough in myself to believe anyone would want me. So, I just avoid the interaction altogether.
My eyes can't stay focused on the television. They keep tracking my phone on the table. As if it knows I'm watching, it vibrates again. My muscles tense in anticipation of reaching for it but I don't move.
I'm not desperate.
Sawyer shifts next to me, pulling my eyes from the phone. He turns onto his side, his eyes closed. A soft snore escapes from his lips. The remote is still clasped in his hand.
I smile at my little brother. I've never told him but I'm grateful for our relationship. We've always gotten along extremely well. Sure, we have our typical brother-sister spats but nothing serious. We always have each other's backs.
And even though he fell asleep during Master Chef, I still have to give him credit for making it through a few episodes. That's something you can always count on with Sawyer – he always keeps a promise.
I take this opportunity to grab my phone. I tap the screen, lighting up the background. The photo I have of Max takes up most of the screen but a single notification sits at the bottom. It's a text from a number I don't have saved. My heart stops for a beat.
I tap the notification and my phone unlocks, bringing me to my messages. The message thread opens with a single text.
Hey stranger. It was nice to see you today.
I stare at the text, a lump forming in my throat. I open the keyboard, knowing well that I shouldn't be doing this. I type a short reply, hoping that she won't pursue the conversation.
You too.
I go to close the messages when her chat bubble pops up. The three dots keep me waiting, my chest getting tighter as the seconds tick by. The bubble disappears but no message comes. I feel a mixture of relief and disappointment.
My phone buzzes once with her incoming message.
I was serious earlier, by the way. We should catch up. I'm sure there's a lot to discuss. And if there's not, we'll find something.
She adds a winking emoji at the end of her text. I gulp at her forwardness.
Mallory has always been a confident person. When I first met her, I was intimidated by her. Even back in 8th grade, she was a force to be reckoned with. We became friends by default. Mark and Sawyer played on the same soccer team and were at each other's houses all the time. And since I was the older sister, I was either stuck babysitting them or being dragged along to the Toller house.
If I had to use one word to describe the relationship between Mallory and me, it would be toxic. She was fickle, dishonest, and sometimes malicious. We had a mixture of good and bad days – the latter outweighed the first. One week she would say we were dating, show affection, and shower me with compliments, and the next she would disappear, block my number, and act as if I didn't exist.
I was naive – or just plain stupid – because I still stayed. I still tried to be with her even though I knew she didn't truly want me. She was just bored. She even admitted it.
"I'm not gay," she had said to me one night after sneaking into my room. "We're just having fun, right?"
I didn't know how to answer. I was hurt. I hoped we could have something more than secretive meetings and casual sex. As much as I hated Mallory for how she acted, I couldn't push her away. Because then I would be alone. And I never dared to tell her how I truly felt. I didn't want her to know that I was becoming dependent on her attention and affection. So, I kept my mouth shut and let Mallory use me as she pleased for years.
Our on-and-off 'relationship' finally ended when Mark caught us in the pool house two years ago. She had been ashamed and embarrassed, scrambling for an excuse to tell her brother. She even went as far as accusing me of sexually assaulting her.
Luckily, for me, Mark didn't believe her story. But that was the end of us. Mallory ghosted me for the thousandth time and eventually moved away for college at the end of the summer. Mark and I never spoke of her, and I never saw her again. Until now.
Now, all those emotions and wounds that I had buried and bandaged are coming back. I know I shouldn't. Mallory was a factor in my relapses. She scarred my body, my heart, and my mind in ways that have taken years of therapy to repair.
I sigh heavily and delete the messages. All my healing can't be for nothing. Mallory will have to find someone else to torture.
Instantly, a weight is lifted from my shoulders. I close my messages and instead open Instagram. The page resumes where I left off – on Reese's profile.
ReesesandRoses. I smile at the name – her name. Her profile photo is her standing in a field of wildflowers. Her bio is short and sweet: Reese. 21. Find me with the flowers.
I scroll through her profile, studying every photo she's posted. They're a mixture of selfies, flowers, her friends, and family. I recognize her friend, Emma, in a lot of the photos. One thing I notice is that she doesn't have any photos with her dad. Every family photo consists of only her mom and Julian. I scowl at the little boy's face.
Before I know it, I'm looking at photos from over a year ago. The next photo to come across my screen is one of her. It's the same photo as her profile picture. She's standing in a field of bright purple and white wildflowers. Her white dress is flowing around her with an invisible breeze. She's looking off to the side, her expression mid-laugh. Her dark-chocolate waves blow in the same direction as her dress.
She looks ethereal.
I spend far too much time staring at the photo. I've never seen someone look so perfect. From the way, her dress compliments her complexion, to the pure happiness in her eyes. I find myself smiling along with her.
A small red heart appears above the photo and my heart stops.
Shit. Shit. Shit.
I look beneath the photo to see the horror of what I've just done.
You liked this photo.
"Oh, no, no, no," I whisper to myself.
I just liked a photo from a year ago. She's going to know I was looking at her profile. Shit. Fuck. Shit.
I panic and quickly retreat from her profile altogether. I return to the home page. My eyes are glued to my phone as the regret sinks in.
What do I do? Do I go back and unlike it? She's going to see the notification.
I scroll through the home page, my mind not comprehending anything I'm looking at.
Maybe she won't notice.
A notification drops down from the top of my screen at the same time a red indicator pops up on my Instagram profile. My heart drops down to my stomach.
I open my direct messages, my throat going dry.
ReesesandRoses: doing some late-night stalking?
Fuck.