Shoelaces

Fat Fingers

The ceiling of my bedroom seems to be closing in on me as I lay on my bed, my phone held up above my face, its screen illuminating my eyes. I stare at the contact's name listed in my phone. Santiago. Just Santiago. I reach to click the name, yet my body convulses, and I find myself scrolling up to the "J" alphabetized section. I jam my fingers into Jazmine, written across my screen, and end up on the text message app. Let's see. What to say... Something casual is probably best.

D: "I think I might be dying."

Great choice, Darrion. I let the text stay up on my screen, praying that Jazmine is already done with her soccer game. Hopefully she played well. Who am I kidding? I already know she did- she always does. Suddenly, three little dots appear at the bottom of my screen.

J: "what?"

J: "do you need me to call someone?"

J: "okay im calling your mom"

The three texts reach my phone in quick succession, and I'm already regretting my first message. My fingers mash into my screen, hoping to type a message before she can call anybody.

D: "No no no, I'm overreacting. I'm fine."

D: "Well, no I'm not fine. But I don't know."

Hmmmm, how's best to get my emotion across via text.

D: "AAAAAAAAAAAAA"

J: "youre scaring me goobie"

D: "Sorry, sorry. Don't be scared."

D: "I'm just completely panicking."

J: "you are so annoying"

J: "now tell me what's up before I have to find out myself"

D: "Can I Facetime you? My hands are shaking, which isn't great for texting."

No text is sent in response, instead the Facetime call notification covers my entire screen. I sporadically click the accept button. She stares at me in silence through the camera as I look back at her. It's as if I'm a child who's trying to hide a cookie they weren't supposed to grab behind their back.

"So, how was your game?" I've realized that talking about this out loud might actually kill me.

"Goobie, don't you dare change the subject."

"Okay, okay, okay," she laughs, which brings down my heart rate ever so slightly. Yet, as soon as I speak again, my pulse jumps back up, probably trying to escape gravity's pull.

"So, I think I told you how I got locked out of my house this weekend."

"Classic Goob moment."

"Yes, yes," she laughs again. "Anywho, I, um, didn't necessarily tell you the full story..."

"You what?"

"I know, I know. Shame on me. Yet one of my many fatal flaws is to keep everything to myself, and I'm telling you know which is possibly any sort of apology, so-"

"Get on with it." She rolls her eyes and laughs once again.

"Okay, so, um, how do I say this. When I figured out I was locked out of my house, I panicked, as you could guess. Which led me to crumble to pieces in my back patio. Which led to a stranger thinking I was in trouble. A, um, uh, a very attractive stranger named Santiago."

I start to tell her the whole story of how I first saw him at the hospital. And how he invited me to his house. And how his smile filled me with feelings, which made me feel like I couldn't breathe. As if breathing was too insignificant to focus on. I tell her about the phone number, and my crumbling mental state due to the void of texts. And then tell her about the grocery store, somehow remembering the event in perfect detail. It was only a few hours ago, but still. The image is ingrained into my mind. Once I'm finally done with my story, I wait, practically shitting my pants for a response. Anything. Please.