“Really?” I still need her to convince me, which I feel incredibly stupid about.
“Yes!” she snaps, “He can sit there and wait. See how he likes being ignored for a while.”
She has a point, and the wound is still raw. He knew I was there, but said nothing while some rando chick hung all over him right in front of me. The only feeling I can compare it to is when I was in 8th grade and my “friend”, Ally Dishong, said she would go “talk” to Eli Scalise for me at a party. She did, and somehow returned 30 minutes later as his girlfriend.
But I didn’t say anything back then. I was too timid and too much of a people-pleaser. I don’t know what changed, but now I don’t seem to have a problem kicking Colson’s desk across the room and telling him to get bent. Once I recall a few mortifying memories from middle school, it’s not too difficult to ignore Colson’s message.
I assume that’s the end of it, for the time being. But when Barrett and I arrive at the front door of our apartment, there’s a plastic shopping bag hanging from the knob. She sets down her bags of groceries, looks inside, and lifts out a book—the first edition of Carrie—and looks over her shoulder at me, eyes wide.
“Girl,” she chuckles, “he brought this back here for you.”
“How does he even know where we live?” I hiss, grabbing the book from her.
Barrett shrugs, “I guess he could’ve just asked someone we know. It’s not like it’s a secret.”
Her words aren’t very comforting. But before I can respond, I notice there’s a bookmark stuck in the front cover that wasn’t there before.
When I open it, my jaw actually does fall open this time, “What the—”
The title page is signed by Stephen King, himself. I’m no expert, but it looks like it’s real. On the back of the front cover, I recognize Colson’s handwriting in black ballpoint pen.
You’re right, the book is better than the movie.
“Is it signed?” Barrett leans over my shoulder, peering at the page, “Is that for real?”
The bookmark also isn’t actually a bookmark. It’s an index card with a phone number written on it—Colson’s phone number.
Barrett jerks her head up, eyes still bulging, “Are you going to respond to him now?”
I might’ve been rendered speechless at our front door, but if I need to make an important decision, standing under a showerhead and soaking myself in scalding water usually does the trick.
My phone sits on the edge of the sink, the volume turned all the way up so my playlist reverberates through my impromptu sauna. After five minutes of standing in front of the mirror, staring at the screen while towel scrunching, I pick up the phone and text him.
ME (8:32PM): Fine. When and where?
I’m still not about to engage in some lengthy, overly emotional exchange with Colson. A few minutes later, as I’m pulling a t-shirt over my head, my phone vibrates.
COLSON (8:39PM): Friday at the library. I get off work at 6. I’ll text you when I’m on the way.
Again, with the library. And on a Friday night? He’s either really lame or has something else in mind. Either way, I still want to find out.
On Friday, at exactly 5:00, there’s a knock at the door. Katie and Emma don’t wait for anyone to answer before strolling into the apartment with tote bags full of curling irons, clothes, and makeup bags to prepare for a routine Friday night of dinner and bar crawling.
“Brett!” Emma calls from the bathroom in the hallway, “What are you wearing?”
I glance up from the sofa, my feet propped up on the coffee table, and then look down at myself, still wearing black leggings and a grey Columbus Clippers V-neck t-shirt.
“I’m not going,” I call toward the bathroom.
“Why not?” Katie emerges from the kitchen, peeling a banana.
Suddenly, Barrett leans out of her bedroom doorway like a snake slinking around a tree, “Tell them where you’re going,” she smirks, “who you’re going with,” her mouth slowly stretches into a toothy grin, “and why.”
Goddamnit…
Emma eyes me from the bathroom doorway, holding a curling iron to her honey blonde hair. Katie props her knee up on the arm of the sofa, chewing a mouthful of banana.
I clear my throat, “I’m going to the library.”
They both glance at one another in confusion and then stare at me in silence. Emma looks at Barrett for an explanation, but she’s busy eyeing me mischievously.
“What?” Katie scoffs.
I avert my eyes, “With Colson.” I glance up quickly and then pretend to check my phone.
“What?” Katie repeats, struggling to speak through her mouthful of banana, “You’re going to go out with him after what happened last week?”
Barrett raises her fingers into air quotes, “Going out…” she chortles from the hallway.
“So…” I sigh, trying to think of how to explain the situation without sounding like a desperate idiot with nothing better to do, “after I ignored him for most of the week, he gave me a first edition of Carrie signed by Stephen King.”
Katie and Emma go silent again, eyes darting back and forth between one another.
“He left it at our door,” Barrett croons from the bathroom.
“Holy shit,” Emma finally blurts out.
Katie swallows her mouthful of banana and straightens up, “You know,” she narrows her eyes with a coy smile, “I didn’t tell you this, but I knew about Colson before we went to that party.”
