When Ruth and I return home that night, I lie restless in bed fidgeting with my phone. The urge to see Alistair has been spewing out my every pore ever since I left the bar. I don’t know why. I want to see his face, hear his voice, get wrapped up in his presence. I need him to make me forget some disturbing things.
I open my phone and go to my contacts list. My finger lingers over his name. Before I press it, a message pops up on my screen.
Are you awake? My heart drums in my chest.
Yeah. I reply. I was actually going to call you.
Same here.
Seriously? I don’t know what to make of this coincidence. Did something happen to him, too? I get another text: I was going to apologize for the storage room thing. I shouldn’t have yelled and acted like a jerk. I was out of it.
I bite my lip an
