by Sara H Ney
Frustrated, because I can’t stand not getting my own way, I call up after him. “McGrath. What’s it going to take?”
Slowly, Weston stops in his tracks...
...and I know I’ve won.
Chapter Six
Cecelia
“I caught myself smiling for no reason... Then I realized I had been thinking of you.” - Cece Carter
At some point in a person’s life, you need a direction.
For me, on this particular day, that direction was towards the closest Starbucks.
I sit in a corner table up against the wall, my laptop, latte, water, and books all spread out in front of me... Well. As spread out as it can get on these tiny squares they pass off as tables. Technically I’m scrunched in the corner table, but it works for me because at least here I can work without being interrupted.
Anytime I work from home, there are bound to be distractions: usually in the form of Molly coming into my room to talk... or Molly making a smoothie in the kitchen, running the blender until there are no chunks in it... or Molly laughing during a phone call. Or, at least once or twice during the week, Molly dragging Weston to our apartment - only to disappear into her bedroom... and call me crazy, but I don’t want to imagine what’s going on behind her closed door.
Basically what I’m getting at is, my roommate is loud.
Not on purpose. It just... happens.
I glance up and gaze outside the window: today it’s drizzling and overcast, and I’m bundled up in an Irish cable knit sweater, bright scarf tied around my neck to keep the chill out, leggings and boots. My hair is in a messy top knot, kept tidy by a thin headband.
Perched on top of my head are reading glasses.
Everything is laid out ‘just so’ and the dark weather outside makes it perfect to concentrate. People come in and out of Starbucks - the hustle and bustle, combined with my iTunes - is the perfect recipe for pounding out this 30 page thesis, the subject matter I am far from the expert on.
I’ll tell you the topic, but you have to promise not to get bored. Okay. Are you ready? Here it is; The United States was once a dominating strong force in all Global Economic industry... when did the shift in dominating control by other countries occur, and why?
Sounds simple enough, right!? (Because it really is) I could go on about this topic for days and days, but fact is, I cannot exceed the thirty page maximum - and that therein lies the problem.
Curbing my enthusiasm for the topic.
My phone on the white, carrera marble café table chimes.
291-555-2700: knock knock
I stare at the number, wracking my brain for whom it could possibly be. I hate responding to unidentified messages.
Me: who is this?
291-555-2700: the correct response is ‘who’s there?’
How annoying. I roll my eyes and tap out: FINE. Who’s there?
291-555-2700: Didn’t your mother teach you not to talk to strangers.
Me: “didn’t your mother teach you not to talk to strangers” who
291-555-2700: Wait, that wasn’t part of the joke.
Me: Good-bye.
291-555-2700: you can’t ignore me. you owe me.
Me: Owe you???? Are you nuts! I don’t even know who ‘you’ are.
291-555-2700: yes you do. you’ve been waiting for me to text you all day.
Just then, my phone chimes again, only this time it’s Molly.
Molly: don’t kill me.
Me: what are you talking about?
Molly: Weston just told me he gave my brother your number.
I stare at the screen on my phone, the message, illuminated in a tiny yellow bubble, blinks back at me. I can’t even formulate an intelligent response.
Molly: I’m soooo sooooo sorry!!!!!! He said Matthew was asking for it, and he had no choice.
Molly: don’t worry, I’ll take care of this.
Me, to Molly: Too late.
291-555-2700: hey.
Me to 291-555-2700: If I stop responding, will you eventually leave me alone?
291-555-2700: Didn’t we cover this once during an email?
Me: (loud sigh) Yes. But then you pissed me off and I had no choice but to respond...
291-555-2700: See. It’s like I said. The ladies can’t resist me. Plus there’s that issue of the 200 bucks you owe me.
291-555-2700: It’s kind of a lot of money, and I’m hard up.
Me: (Snort)
291-555-2700: LOL. Hard up. Get it?
Me: You’re an idiot.
291-555-2700: See, there you go insulting me.
Me: Because you’re acting like a 15 year old. WHAT DO YOU WANT FROM ME?
291-555-2700: Can you just ask Molly if she’s going to our parents’ house for dinner next weekend?
Me: Seriously?
291-555-2700: No.
Me: OMG. You’re so annoying.
291-555-2700: I’m pretty sure that’s what you love about me.
This guy is proof that evolution can go in reverse.
I don’t respond. Rather, I sit and look at the phone and thumb through all the previous text messages and the emails that Matthew and I have exchanged in the past few days. A few of them even make me chuckle. One of them makes me cringe.
Boy do I sound like a bitter bitch.
And here’s something I don’t get - and you might be wondering the same thing yourself: why is he sending me messages? I grab my pen and start tapping it on the table, a nervous habit I picked up when I first began my Master’s thesis (which doesn’t compare to my friend Sylvia, who started smoking cigars when she started hers).
291-555-2700: knock knock.
I roll my eyes before responding: Who’s there?
291-555-2700: See? Now you’re catching on!
Me: OMG would you finish the joke?!
291-555-2700: I can’t. There IS no joke.
Me: I don’t have time for this.
291-555-2700: Yeah, I’m pretty sure you do...
Me: Um.......
291-555-2700: Gotta go. TTYL
Wait. What?
Chapter Seven
Matthew
“If it makes you feel any better, I don’t have a favorite child. You both annoy the crap out of me equally.” - Clayton Wakefield
I’m not sure what is possessing me, but I cannot make myself stop sending messages to Cecelia. Sure, at first I was doing it simply to piss her off and get a rise out of her - which, honestly - is super easy. The real bonus here is that Molly had her email me - that itself was like a Christmas gift, all wrapped in a tidy bow, dropping into my lap for my very own personal amusement.
At first it was entertaining. Then it became fun. Something to look forward to.
And now...
It’s kind of becoming a ‘thing.’
I absent mindedly fiddle with the tab on the top of my beer can and lean against the counter in my parent’s kitchen, watching my mom put the last plate in the cabinet after unloading the dishwasher from the family dinner we all just shared. And yes, before you jump to conclusions and climb up my ass about just standing around doing nothing - I helped. Actually, I’m the one who loaded the damn thing.
It was my job growing up, and one I still do whenever I pop in.
The aluminum can tab makes a hollow ‘ping’- one that’s loud enough to cause my mom to glance over her shoulder.
“Everything okay sweetie?” she asks, shutting the cupboard door and turning to face me with a look on her face that only a mom makes.
I scrunch up my brow, instantly annoyed as Molly flounces into the kitchen carrying what’s left of the taco dip tray. She narrows her eyes at us; so suspicious, that one...
“What are you two talking about?” she immediately wants to know, setting the tray on the counter and running the sink.
Jeez she’s nosey.
Mom gives me a knowing look and gives Molly’s shoulder a little squeeze. “Nothing. I was just asking your brother how he’s been.” She wi
nks at me and I roll my eyes - she thinks she’s so sly when we were talking about nothing.
“Oh reallyyyy,” Molly smirks, dragging out the word before crossing her arms in a defensive pose, and makes a loud ‘pfft’ sound (which is just short of snorting). “Did he happen to mention he’s been harassing my roommate?”
My mom’s head rears back a tad, surprised, and she cocks her head as she studies me anew with narrowed eyes at this information. It’s a move that runs in our family, and is meant to be intimidating. “Do tell.”
Before I can get any words out, my dad walks into the kitchen, Weston nipping at his heels.
Great, an audience.
Just fucking great.
Weston looks at me, looks at Molly with her arms crossed, and at our mom who’s still glaring at me suspiciously.
“What’s going on in here?” He asks cautiously, like a dog that’s been kicked a few times but still wants a treat.
“Nothing that’s any of your business,” I shoot back, sounding nastier than I probably should.
“Matthew!” Molly scolds, and moves forward to peck her boyfriend on the lips. “Don’t mind him. He’s just pissed because I told Mom he’s stalking CeCe.”
Weston’s eyebrows shoot up, but for once he’s smart enough not to open his big mouth. Instead he grabs a chip out of a nearby bowl, and drags it through the taco dip tray, even though it’s been in the sink with running water.
Disgusting.
And to think: my sister kisses that mouth.
Still, if I’m going down, he’s coming down with me.
I point to Weston and casually add, “Yeah, but he’s the one who gave me her phone number.” I grab an apple out of the fruit bowl, and take a big bite, chewing slowly but crunching loudly.
“You blackmailed me!” Weston shoots back cautiously.
“Dude, please. It hardly took any convincing.” I snort and take a drag of beer.
“Matthew!” My mom scolds, looking around the room. “Can someone please tell me what’s going on?”
Molly, the blabbermouth, steps forward. “Oh, I’ll tell you all right. I had Cece send him one innocent email on my behalf, and suddenly he won’t leave her alone. He is driving her nuts.”
“She said that?” My mom whispers, looking absolutely horrified. The kind of look one might have if they found out their child was a serial killer. A bit over dramatic but... there you have it.
“Hello,” Molly says sarcastically, holding up her fingers and begins ticking off my many offenses. “First he emails her back incessantly after she sends him one measly note. He even freaking emailed her at a bar from across the freaking room. Cece sooo doesn’t have time for his B.S mom!” Molly holds a second finger perched in the air, and now pokes at a third. “Secondly, Matthew gets her number from this one,” she pokes Weston in the chest. “Thirdly, now in addition to emailing, he’s also texting her. I can’t take it anymore!”
“Man Wakefield, I knew you were hard up, but I didn’t think you were desperate.” Weston laughs, and my sister has enough loyalty to smack him in the arm.
My dad shoots him a stern look - he is clearly not as amused as the rest of us as he stands, arms folded in the corner even as he sips from the long neck of his Pale Ale bottle.
Weston swallows guiltily, and clears his throat. “Uh, sorry, sir.”
Dad nods and points at me with the hand holding his beer bottle. “Son, maybe Weston has a point. Are you, in fact, stalking her?”
Defensively, I say “No goddamn it, I am not stalking her.”
Molly starts fake coughing like a twelve year old boy. “Lies.”
“Is anyone even going to let me defend myself?” I begrudgingly ask - and I’ll admit, it kind of sounds like I’m pouting. There’s a lot of silence that fills the room, and this is the moment my dad choses to bite down on a carrot that was laying on the counter.
His loud crunching is the only noise, until my mom says, “Sweetie, maybe you should just leave Cecelia be,” Mom says gently, patting my arm. “Besides, I don’t think you’re her type.”
Agitated, I shout, “Jesus Christ, I am not bothering her! And what the hell do you mean I’m not her type? I’m everyone’s type!” I shoot Molly a dirty look and slice my flat palm across my neck - the way I used to do when we were younger: a move that clearly says ‘I am going to murder you.’
Molly, completely unthreatened, shrugs, raises one brow and rolls her eyes at me. All at the same time. It’s an understated move she’s been perfecting for years - one that has always managed to completely piss me off. “Well, you haven’t exactly denied the cyber stalking now, have you?”
“Would you please. Shut. Up.” I glare at my sister, seriously wanting to duct tape her to a kitchen chair like I did one time when we were younger.
Okay, it was three times.
But all these accusations and crunching and eating are taking their toll.
Until...
“Well, I personally think you should send her an apology note,” Mom says in an attempt to be helpful, having moved to the sink to scrape the cream cheese from the taco tray down the garbage disposal. She slaps Weston’s hand away when he goes in with another chip.
“Mom, no!” Molly shouts, throwing her hands up in the air. “Are you insane? Seriously mother, that’s so counter-productive and not what I meant at all. He needs to stop. Period.”
I scratch my chin, which is stubbly from lack of shaving, pretend to mull the idea over, and snap my fingers. “Hmmm, the idea does have merit. Good thinking Mom.” The words come out slowly.
Weston, the big dope, just stands there silently shaking his head, even though his eyes are covertly meandering back and forth to the heap of cream cheese at the bottom of the sink.
“One last note and then you are done young man. Do you hear me? Then you leave that poor girl alone,” my mom lectures from the sink. She pokes at me with a wooden spoon. “I’m not kidding. If I hear any more about this I’m calling her myself to apologize on behalf of you.”
I grin. “Got it. One last note and I’m done. Thanks for the advice, Mom.”
Winking at my sister, I saunter out of the room, spring in my step.
**Cecelia**
TO: Cecelia Carter
DATE: September 19, 2014 at 11:32:12 PM CST
FROM: Matthew Wakefield
Subject: One last note.
Hey. My mom is making me send you this letter. She said I have to leave you alone and not send you any more messages - you have Molly to thank - she ratted me out. I told everyone you liked me & that when you received this letter you’d most likely slip into a deep depression.
Don’t blame me; blame my family.
MSW
Sent from my iPhone
“Um... Molly, can you come in here for a second,” I yell out my bedroom door. Granted, it’s eleven thirty at night, but I can still hear her banding around in her room.
Her head appears in my door a few moments later. “What’s up?”
I hold up my phone and shake it around. “Take a look.”
She walks over, bends at the waist and reads the small screen. Her face gets red and contorts her features into what I call her ‘ugly face.’ It’s similar to her ‘ugly cry’ but minus the tears. “What the fuu.... That asshole!”
I shrug. “Hey, you said it, not me.”
“This is bullshit! I’m telling my mom.” I laugh when she storms out, and her door slams across the hallway. When she’s gone, I re-read message and lay flat on my back in the center of my bed. A bubble of laughter escapes my throat. Can you blame me? I mean really, this shit is kind of funny.
Matthew’s note, and Molly’s reaction to it: priceless.
I scan it again, committing every line to memory. I flip over on to my stomach, and tap out a reply.
TO: Matthew Wakefield
DATE: September 19, 2014 at 11:38:23 PM CST
FROM: Cecelia Carter
Subject: LOL
I’m sorry, but this is hilarious... Your sister is in her bedroom having a meltdown. You better brace yourself: Don’t say you haven’t been warned. - C
Sent from my Android Smartphone
TO: Cecelia Carter
DATE: September 19, 2014 at 11:45:45 PM CST
FROM: Matthew Wakefield
Subject: RE: LOL
You’re warning me - does this mean you care?
MSW
Sent from my iPhone
TO: Matthew Wakefield
DATE: September 19, 2014 at 11:47:23 PM CST
FROM: Cecelia Carter
Subject: RE: RE: LOL
NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOoooooooooooo! - C
Sent from my Android Smartphone
TO: Cecelia Carter
DATE: September 19, 2014 at 11:52:36 PM CST
FROM: Matthew Wakefield
Subject: RE: RE: RE: LOL
How does that old saying go?
Me thinks thee protest-eth too much. It’s Shakespeare I think.
MSW
Sent from my iPhone
TO: Matthew Wakefield
DATE: September 19, 2014 at 11:55:13 PM CST
FROM: Cecelia Carter
Subject: Well color me surprised.
Whoa, I’m impressed. That is Shakespeare, but the actual line is: “The lady doth protest too much, methinks” (Maybe you should have stayed in school a little longer than six years). - C
Sent from my Android Smartphone
TO: Cecelia Carter
DATE: September 19, 2014 at 11:58:19 PM CST
FROM: Matthew Wakefield
Subject: Uh.....
!!!!!!!!NERD ALERT!!!!!!!!!!! I don’t even want to know how you know that. I’m going to have to assume you’re a total bookworm. And just for your information, I was only in school FIVE years. I, um, changed, um, my major a few times?
MSW
Sent from my iPhone
TO: Matthew Wakefield
DATE: September 20, 2014 at 12:01:25 AM CST
