Read Checked Again for Free Online Page B
Authors: Jennifer Jamelli
my license (even
though I did forget up until I read his text, I would’ve eventually
remembered). So instead of just telling me something that I already know, he
should have suggested a way to deal with this problem, suggested an acceptable
way to get the license back to me. Shouldn’t that be his job since he was the
one who left? The one who left me in the hospital with no explanation at all
(well, other than what I overheard from the nurses, but he doesn’t know that I
heard any of that). Why would it be my job to write a text that decides if and
when we’ll see each other again? Shouldn’t that be his decision?
Yes,
it should. I’m not giving him a solution.
I
hit reply yet again and then respond to that Unknown Number.
I
know.
Ooonnneee.
Tttwwwooo.
Ttthhhrrreee.
SEND.
Before
I even really begin to think about how he’ll respond, if he’ll resp—
He
writes back. I have one unopened message from Unknown Number.
One.
Two. Three. One. Two. Three. One. Two. Three. One. Two. Three. One. Two. Three.
One. Two. Three.
CALLIE!
I
clench my eyes shut and hit the button to open the message. Slowly, I peek out
of the corner of my eye and read.
I thought about
mailing it to you, but I don’t want you to worry about it somehow getting lost.
I could just leave it at the office, with Annie, for you to pick up when you
get the chance…but I don’t want you to have to run into other patients. So I’m
not sure how to get it to you. It would be stupid for you to have to go get
another driver’s license, though.
My
eyes are wide open now.
DAMN
IT.
He’s
still in my head. Right on top of my thoughts, as usual. No one should be able
to do that…to know everything about my mind…well, almost everything.
It’s
ridiculous.
{The
All-American Rejects storm in with “It Ends Tonight.” }
Quick
decision. Click reply.
Whatever
is fine. Let me know.
Send
quickly…trying not to think about the fact that “whatever” is certainly not
fine.
I
fling my legs over the side of my bed, toss my phone on my comforter, and head
to my hamper.
It’s
time.
I
scoop up both sets of pajamas and head straight to the washer, holding my
breath so I don’t accidentally breathe in a trace of him. I make it the whole
way down the stairs and to the laundry closet without taking a breath. {The
All-American Rejects get even louder.} Still not breathing, I get the water
running in the washer, add detergent, and hastily throw one pair of pajamas
inside. Then—
Then
I freeze, still holding the second set of pajamas. And…my body can probably
handle more time without a fresh intake of oxygen…it can last long enough for
me to at least get the second pair of pajamas into the water…
But
my mind can’t take it.
This
is it. This is what I have left. { “It All Ends Tonight” starts to
fade.}
Slowly,
I bring the bundle of clothes up to my face and take in a slow breath of air…a
breath of him…a breath of what it felt like to fall asleep in his arms…
I
inhale for a count of three.
And
then another.
And
another.
{With
each count of three, the song becomes more and more faint.}
And
I can’t help myself. I slam the washer shut, go back upstairs to my room, and
neatly place the pajamas back on my hamper.
{The
All-American Rejects stop altogether. Lit with “My Own Worst
Enemy” takes over.}
I
spend the rest of the afternoon with Emily Brontë, Wuthering Heights, and a notebook. I don’t get a lot of work done. I pick off all of my nail
polish and reapply it three times. I look at my phone every few minutes. I
check my email multiple times. No messages come for me (well, no important
ones—my email filter has managed to allow a lot of garbage to slip into my
inbox over the last week).
At
3:00 p.m., I start my thirty-three checks. Then I’m off to confession to seek
forgiveness for two whole weeks of sins—for lying to my family members about
staying on bed rest last week, for asking Abby
though I did forget up until I read his text, I would’ve eventually
remembered). So instead of just telling me something that I already know, he
should have suggested a way to deal with this problem, suggested an acceptable
way to get the license back to me. Shouldn’t that be his job since he was the
one who left? The one who left me in the hospital with no explanation at all
(well, other than what I overheard from the nurses, but he doesn’t know that I
heard any of that). Why would it be my job to write a text that decides if and
when we’ll see each other again? Shouldn’t that be his decision?
Yes,
it should. I’m not giving him a solution.
I
hit reply yet again and then respond to that Unknown Number.
I
know.
Ooonnneee.
Tttwwwooo.
Ttthhhrrreee.
SEND.
Before
I even really begin to think about how he’ll respond, if he’ll resp—
He
writes back. I have one unopened message from Unknown Number.
One.
Two. Three. One. Two. Three. One. Two. Three. One. Two. Three. One. Two. Three.
One. Two. Three.
CALLIE!
I
clench my eyes shut and hit the button to open the message. Slowly, I peek out
of the corner of my eye and read.
I thought about
mailing it to you, but I don’t want you to worry about it somehow getting lost.
I could just leave it at the office, with Annie, for you to pick up when you
get the chance…but I don’t want you to have to run into other patients. So I’m
not sure how to get it to you. It would be stupid for you to have to go get
another driver’s license, though.
My
eyes are wide open now.
DAMN
IT.
He’s
still in my head. Right on top of my thoughts, as usual. No one should be able
to do that…to know everything about my mind…well, almost everything.
It’s
ridiculous.
{The
All-American Rejects storm in with “It Ends Tonight.” }
Quick
decision. Click reply.
Whatever
is fine. Let me know.
Send
quickly…trying not to think about the fact that “whatever” is certainly not
fine.
I
fling my legs over the side of my bed, toss my phone on my comforter, and head
to my hamper.
It’s
time.
I
scoop up both sets of pajamas and head straight to the washer, holding my
breath so I don’t accidentally breathe in a trace of him. I make it the whole
way down the stairs and to the laundry closet without taking a breath. {The
All-American Rejects get even louder.} Still not breathing, I get the water
running in the washer, add detergent, and hastily throw one pair of pajamas
inside. Then—
Then
I freeze, still holding the second set of pajamas. And…my body can probably
handle more time without a fresh intake of oxygen…it can last long enough for
me to at least get the second pair of pajamas into the water…
But
my mind can’t take it.
This
is it. This is what I have left. { “It All Ends Tonight” starts to
fade.}
Slowly,
I bring the bundle of clothes up to my face and take in a slow breath of air…a
breath of him…a breath of what it felt like to fall asleep in his arms…
I
inhale for a count of three.
And
then another.
And
another.
{With
each count of three, the song becomes more and more faint.}
And
I can’t help myself. I slam the washer shut, go back upstairs to my room, and
neatly place the pajamas back on my hamper.
{The
All-American Rejects stop altogether. Lit with “My Own Worst
Enemy” takes over.}
I
spend the rest of the afternoon with Emily Brontë, Wuthering Heights, and a notebook. I don’t get a lot of work done. I pick off all of my nail
polish and reapply it three times. I look at my phone every few minutes. I
check my email multiple times. No messages come for me (well, no important
ones—my email filter has managed to allow a lot of garbage to slip into my
inbox over the last week).
At
3:00 p.m., I start my thirty-three checks. Then I’m off to confession to seek
forgiveness for two whole weeks of sins—for lying to my family members about
staying on bed rest last week, for asking Abby