LYRA
”Henderson, pick up. Pick up.” I chanted, pacing back and forth in my room, my eyes glued to my phone screen and my nails getting crushed against my teeth.
The line rang for a minute and cut off. He didn’t pick up. I called him again, for the twentieth time. My heart rate increasing for the twentieth time. At some point in my hysteria, I slapped my ass down on the bed, shaking one of my legs vigorously.
“Henderson please. Please I beg you, pick up.”
The lone went through.
“Fuck.” I sprang from the bed. “Are you mad Henderson? Where the hell have you been?! I called, I texted, I called some more.”
“Worried about me?” he asked in a flirtatious tone.
“Dude this is not a joke. Where have you been?” I demanded to know.
“Downstairs. At a dorm party. Jezz, why are you so worked up?”
