TEN
I’ve been waiting for Jesse to text me at the end of the day for ten whole-a*s minutes. I’m sitting on a bench in the women’s locker room, glaring down at my phone like it insulted my mother, and I can’t figure out a good enough comeback.
If ten minutes have passed by, it means he’s not going to text you.
Just when I feel like an invisible eighteen-wheeler has parked itself on my chest and I’ve gone and swallowed a bowling ball, my phone buzzes in my hand and I open my messaging app so fast, my thumb knuckle cracks under the strain I’ve put it under.
Windy: Had to talk to Coach. I’ll be outside in five minutes if you’d like a ride home.
Well, here goes nothing. Should I wait longer to text back? Nah, I have to keep reminding him how much he likes me.
Me: Be outside in ten. Thanks
