Buzzed Hearts

64: drunk dialling duo

SINCE ADJUSTING INTO her virtuoso schedule, Camila Bean has kept her phone on vibrate and ring—to an almost obnoxious level. Reasons are:

    1. She needs to be able to distinguish it above the cacophony that is Juilliard.

    2. She doesn't want to miss calls from her family or friends. Camila is someone who prefers to answer messages right away, to clear her conscience, despite knowing she did nothing wrong.

    3. She zones out and needs a loud ring to jolt her out of her thoughts.

    So, while sleeping curled up on her side, her phone starts going off, vibrating and flashing. Scrambling to get it before her roommate throws a book at her, Camila swipes right to answer it, shrugging on her robe and stepping out into the hallway.

    "Hello?" Camila scratches her head. Her eyes scour the dark and she waits for an answer.

    When it takes too long, she looks at the caller—Heteroeyed. It's past midnight and he's calling.

    "So you finally call and it's in the most disingenuous way. Congratulations," she says.

    The slow breathing breaks as he laughs into her ear. This sound sends a chill up her bare ankles, and Camila leans against the wall, wondering where he is and what position he's in. Is he in bed? Or out on some street?

    "How've you been?"

    Even though they haven't left high school too long—only five months—it sounds as if he's changed. Laurent's voice is smoother, lower, and impossibly sexier. But that could be the sleep or the phone.

    "Great. Wait, let me get my socks. It's cold out here," Camila says and sneaks back into her room to pull on fuzzy socks.

    "I hope I'm not uh," he begins.

    "Hm?"

    "Interrupting."

    A grin breaks across Camila's face, which quickly transitions into a yawn. "You interrupted my sleep if that's what you're asking." Sitting on the ground, she tucks her feet under her, shivering. The heating in her hall is horrible, and she misses the comforting warmth of her covers.

    Laurent hums. It's been awhile and she almost forgot what he sounds like. Through their phone, and their assumed distance, Camila can hear the distant clinks of glass, and the quiet roar of a crowd.

    "Mila," he says.

    Missing the way he says her nickname, she forgets to reply. "Yes?" she finally responds.

    "Mila."

    "Yes?"

    "How've you been?"

    "You asked me this already," she says. "I'm busy, though. Too busy for a lot of stuff I used to do back home."

    "Busy as in?"

    "Busy. Too busy for relationships and drunk phone calls."

    There's radio silence before Laurent chuckles. "Wow, you've gotten blunt. Is that what they're teaching you at Juilliard?"

    "Are you drunk?"

    Slow breathing—sighing and inhaling. "Camila."

    "Go back to your bed and sleep it off. You're not making any sense right now." Camila rubs her forehead. "Where are you right now? Are you still in the States?"

    "I miss you."

    "It's too late for this, Laurent. You're drunk and I'm cold and tired."

    Nevertheless, a bullet tears through her chest, grazing her ribs and puncturing her lungs. The air grows thin and breathing starts to hurt. Camila shuts her eyes tight, mutters a goodbye, and hangs up. Clutching her phone between her hands, she shakes her head.