Scary Out There (6 page)

It all came so fast in her mind it made her dizzy.

But there was the one question that had been the drumbeat underlying everything from the beginning.
Is this a joke
?

NO.

Of course he would say that. Even if it was an elaborate prank, he'd never admit it.
How can I trust you
?

BECAUSE I'M A FRIEND.

This gave her pause. She thought back to the students at the chapel service she'd seen with their phones out.
Do I know you
?

YOU DO NOW.

That wasn't an answer at all. If anything, it made this all feel like even more of a trick.
But before now. Have we met
?

A pause. Then bubbles. Then:
YES.

It was as though the air around her had come alive.
When?

Minutes passed. So many that Cynthia almost panicked that she'd somehow driven him away. A half-dozen times she typed out some sort of apology and then deleted it. Afraid to press send because then he'd never answer.

WHY DOES THIS MATTER TO YOU?

Inside, she warred, because it didn't actually matter to her if they'd met. What mattered was the assurance this wasn't all a practical joke. But his refusal to answer—to tell her his name, to explain how they knew each other—that's what scared her.

I just
 . . .
don't know if I should be talking to you.

WHY NOT?

Frustration buzzed along her arms. It was so obvious, she felt stupid having to type it out.
Because. What if you're not who you say you are
?

A FRIEND?

She rolled her eyes. Heat flushed her cheeks, the back of her neck, dampening the nightgown at the base of her spine.
You could be someone from school playing a joke. A serial killer. A pervert. A monster. Insane
.

OR A FRIEND, LIKE I SAID.

But the reality was, she didn't believe that. Because she didn't have any friends. So, why would one suddenly appear? So out of the blue? There had to be a reason. Some sort of ulterior motive. She shook her head, trying to find the words to explain.

He responded before she could even type her reply.
WHY DO YOU BELIEVE THE WORST ABOUT PEOPLE?

She didn't know how this had turned around on her, but she felt judged. As though he found her somehow lacking. Not good enough. She wanted to prove herself to him.
I don't believe the worst about people.

YOU BELIEVE THE WORST ABOUT YOURSELF.

At this she choked on a laugh born of outrage and leaped to her feet. She quivered with anger, knuckles white from gripping the phone. She started her response a dozen times and a dozen times she deleted it.

Because maybe he was right.

It was so much easier to blame her loneliness on herself. That she wasn't interesting or smart or pretty or fun or cool enough to attract friends. Because, somehow it would be worse if she was all of those things—brilliant and beautiful and witty and vivacious—and folks still rejected her.

She didn't believe that it was better to have loved and
lost than to have never loved at all. Loss meant you somehow failed. That you couldn't hold on tight enough.

Defeated, she stood in front of the window, shoulders slumped. The phone buzzed in her hand.

WHY CAN'T I JUST BE SOMEONE WHO WANTS TO BE FRIENDS WITH YOU?

Her first thought was: What if I want something more? But she shook it loose before it could sink hooks into her mind. She couldn't help but wonder what kind of a loser took a string of texts from an anonymous stranger and spun them into such a far-fetched fantasy.

It was absurd. And yet . . . she couldn't stop.

She didn't know how to answer his questions. She couldn't just tell him that it was an empirical fact that no one wanted to be her friend. Then the real question came. The one thing she'd really wanted to know.
But how can I know for sure
?

LIFE DOESN'T COME WITH GUARANTEES.

Her answer was simple and raw and honest.
It would be so much easier if it did.

There was a long break, enough so that Cynthia had settled back into bed and allowed her eyes to start drifting shut. The familiar hum lit the room.

SWEET DREAMS.

She wanted to feel disappointed, and, to be fair, she did. But that didn't stop the smile from spreading in the darkness.

•  •  •

The next morning Cynthia downloaded every Bob Dylan song she could find, playing them on an endless repeat. She wore earbuds to school so she could listen between classes. It made the waiting between texts easier.

Because, even given their lengthy conversation over the weekend, the texts were as sporadic as ever. Cynthia began to wonder about his life. When he texted her in math class on Wednesday that he was thinking of her, had he also been in school? Perhaps snuck away to the bathroom so he wouldn't get caught with his phone?

And late at night, when her eyes burned with the need for sleep, was he maybe just getting off work somewhere? Did he race home, thinking of her? Slip into bed, a smile on his face, and pull up her number?

Or maybe she was just one of a dozen. A hundred or a thousand girls, and maybe even boys, he rotated through.

All of these questions and doubts would crush into the silence. They'd fill the empty screen as she waited for him.

It became too much. The edge she sat on too razor sharp. So that when her phone buzzed late on Friday, she didn't even stop to think. She flicked the button to call him. Holding her breath during the long pause before it began to ring.

Panic ran through her, sending her heart thundering. Her brain screamed at her to hang up hang up hang up, but she pushed the phone tighter to her ear. He'd just texted. Which meant he'd been holding his phone.

Which meant there was no way he didn't see her call coming through.

Yet he wasn't answering.

She wanted to picture him sitting somewhere, staring at her name on his screen. But she couldn't, because in her mind he was only a shadow.

She closed her eyes. Not wanting to accept what was obvious.

It rolled over to his voice mail, and for a moment she thought that at least she'd be able to construct an image of him from the scaffolding of his voice. But she was met with only the robotic recitation of his number and the offer to leave a message.

She hung up without saying anything. Waited for him to text some sort of excuse or apology. He did neither, and she worried she'd broken an unspoken rule. Pushed too hard or too far.

Her fingers trembled as she typed out:
Why didn't you answer?

She watched the bubbles of his response.
YOU DIDN'T WANT ME TO.

The sound she let escape was a cry of frustrated desperation wrapped in a laugh. And then Cynthia did something she never thought she'd do. She turned off her phone. Then she rolled over in bed and cried.

•  •  •

That week his texts stacked up on her screen. All left unanswered.

HEY.

YOU THERE?

EVERYTHING OK?

TALK TO ME.

It was the last one that broke her. It said simply:
CYNTHIA
. And it came in late Saturday night as she lay in the darkness of her room.

She couldn't quite figure out why it brought tears to her eyes. Perhaps because it was the first time he'd used her name. Or perhaps it was confirmation that none of this had been a mistake—a wrong number.

It had been about her the entire time.

It's not fair that you know my name and I don't know yours
, she finally wrote to him.

She should have expected the answer. It was the same as before:
IS THAT WHAT YOU REALLY WANT TO KNOW?

No
. She typed quickly.
Where did we meet?

And then she wrote:
Wait. Not that.

Why me?

WHY NOT YOU?

It was an unsatisfying answer. Flippant in its own way. As though there was nothing particularly interesting about her that stood out—separated her from the herd. She set the phone down, thinking that perhaps she should be done with this. Maybe even block his number.

But when it buzzed again, she couldn't resist.

I'VE NEVER SEEN SOMEONE WHO WANTED OUT OF HER LIFE AS MUCH AS YOU DO.

Heat flushed up the back of her legs.

He kept going. As her breath came faster and her knees grew weaker.

EVERYTHING ABOUT YOU IS A GIFT.

CAN'T YOU SEE THAT, CYNTHIA?

YOU MEAN SOMETHING.

She felt spent, emptied but in a way that seemed somehow delicious. She pushed herself deeper into the mattress, skin humming, as she let that last phrase repeat endlessly through her head.

Except she added “to me” at the end. Because it was clear that's what he'd meant.
You mean something to me.

YOU STILL THERE? I CAN SEE YOUR LIGHT ON.

Cynthia frowned.
My light isn't on.

There was a long pause.
AH, MUST BE YOUR FATHER'S THEN.

She stared at the words before pushing from the bed. The long hallway outside her room was dark except for the wash of light sweeping underneath her father's bedroom door. She swallowed. Her flushed skin turned cold, clammy.

Quietly, slowly, she tiptoed back into her room and over to her window. A few doors down a car idled in the street, tucked in the black shadow of a thick tree. A weak glow lit the driver's
side, only enough to give her a vague outline of the figure inside.

He was tall. Skinny. His elbow rested on the edge of the open window as he typed something out.

A moment later her phone pulsed against her fingertips.

YOU COULD INVITE ME IN.

But she knew that could never happen. That somehow him stepping into her house would be wrong. Would break whatever it was between them.

She had to go to him.
I'll come out.

She glanced down at her nightgown—white lawn cotton grown thin from hundreds of washes. It ended with a ruffle below her knees, and pink bows decorated the hem, most of them missing after so many years.

She suddenly realized how much it made her look like a little girl. That's not how she wanted him to think of her.
Just let me change first.

His response was swift, lighting the room before she'd even reached for a pair of jeans.
NO. AS YOU ARE.

Something inside of her squeezed in a way she'd never felt before. She couldn't decide if it was from fear or anticipation or both mixed together. But she thought she might like it.

Her breath came shorter.
Okay.

But she didn't move. She just stood, staring out her bedroom window at the car idling in the darkness.

And she realized how ridiculous this all was. She knew nothing about this man. Not even his name.

Not even the sound of his voice.

She thought that if she could just have that, she'd know. Whether to trust him. To go to him. To believe in him.

She pressed the call button, holding the phone to her ear as she watched him. Waiting for the flash of light from his phone to illuminate his face. She thought she saw him shake his head, and a profound sense of disappointment weighed on her muscles.

Not for him. But for herself. Because she felt she'd somehow let him down.

She was about to hang up when she saw him lift his hand. The ringing ended with a
click
. And then she heard breathing. That's all there was. Him breathing, her watching him. Neither saying anything.

“Tell me I'll be okay,” she finally whispered. “That you won't hurt me.”

“You already know I can't promise you that, Cynthia.” His voice was more sense than sound, as though the words somehow bypassed her ear and lodged directly in her thoughts. Each time she heard the roll and timbre of him it was a surprise, like discovering the sound of him over and over again.

She wanted more of it. “Then, tell me something about yourself. Something true.”

There was his breathing again, an even rhythm that she unconsciously matched. “You already know it all.”

“Tell me anyway,” she whispered.

“I'm no good for you.”

And he was right. She did know this.

“But it won't stop you,” he added.

She pretended to think about those words, because she felt that somehow they should be important to her. But they weren't. Because she already knew the answer. “You're right. It won't stop me.”

“It never does.” He sounded tired.

She heard something in the background, a change in the tenor of the engine as though he'd shifted out of park. Outside she watched as his car began to ease from its place by the curb.

He was leaving. Without her. “Wait!” she called, starting for the stairs. When she pushed through the screen door and started across her lawn, he was already pulling down the road. Almost to her house. She sprinted, not caring about her nightgown or bare feet, to the middle of the street and stood with one hand raised.

For the barest hint of a moment she wondered if he'd just keep going. Plow through and over her. She thought she heard the cycle of his engine rev. But still she stood her ground.

He braked, his bumper coming to a stop inches away from her thighs. She was afraid to move, thinking that if she stepped aside, he would drive away. So she stayed in the wash of his headlights, their brightness throwing everything behind into darkness.

Something buzzed in her hand, and she realized she no
longer pressed the phone to her ear. She looked down to find a text.
YOU SHOULD GO BACK TO BED.